Roll on spring

The dark mornings, the shortened days. It might seem inconsequential, but it all means a slightly more gloomy time is upon us. Winter has its plus points. Snuggly jumpers, fluffy slippers, hot drinks and nights in snuggled up on the sofa. But when the daylight becomes a novelty, I know things have got too much and it’s time for spring to bounce its fresh, light-giving, heart warming way into our lives once more.

Spring means new life. Baby plants peek through the soil as if dipping their toes in the sea to check if it’s warm enough to venture in yet. I love to see the spring flowers making an appearance. It always makes me smile.

Spring means more light. The mornings leap up to greet us upon our waking rather than showing up, lethargic and tardy like a slovenly teenager, once we’ve already started our days. The nights draw out, allowing us to make the most of outside.

Spring means cool, fresh, brisk walks along the sea front. No longer do we need to dress to the hilt – hats, scarves, gloves and our winter coats. Spring allows us to venture out in just a coat and a scarf, leaving the rest behind. All we need is a couple of layers and a brisk pace to keep the chills at bay.

Spring means renewed energy. Something, I know not what, wakes from hibernation within and bursts forth to take our inner vigour by the shoulders and shakes it awake from a cold-induced slumber. “Spring is here! Wake up and smell the freshly cut grass…”

Roll on spring, we’ve missed you.

 

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A startled awakening

He started awake. What had woken him? Had there been a loud noise or had he just dreamt it? It was still dark but he could make out the familiar shadows of his bedroom. A shadow cast by the tree outside his window danced on the wall opposite his bed. Although what it had to be so happy about in the middle of the night he had no idea.

He freed his arm from the swaddling effect he’d created with his heavy duvet and fumbled blindly for his mobile. Knocking it to the floor with his disoriented fingers he cursed under his breath. Now he had to uncover more of himself, warm and cosy in his state of sleep, in order to retrieve the phone.

2:47 am.

Had he heard something downstairs or had he just imagined it? Perhaps if he just turned over and went back to sleep he’d find the answer in his dreams. But just as he was about to close his eyes and chase unconsciousness again he heard a scraping noise from downstairs. Quietly at first but becoming louder and more insistent with every passing second.

He lifted his head from the pillow in a fast, jerky movement, straining to hear where the noise was coming from. He felt his neck muscles twinge as his head snapped upright. ‘I’ll pay for that in the morning’ he thought as he struggled to pull himself quietly into a sitting position. But for now he must focus on the fact that there was someone or something in his house who shouldn’t be there. Carefully he pulled back the covers to unlock his legs. He slid them effortlessly from beneath his duvet and lowered them into his waiting slippers. The chill air enveloped his bare legs. Standing up from the bed he made his way towards the door, skillfully avoiding the loose floorboards he’d been meaning to fix since he moved in three years ago.

Out on the landing he stopped. ‘What am I doing?’ he asked himself. ‘If there is someone down there what the hell am I supposed to do about it? Call the police, let them deal with it’ he chastised himself. Never once having wanted to be the ‘have a go hero’ his gut instinct shreaked at him to crawl back into bed and dial 999. But his strong grasp on reality, his fear of making a fool of himself and his sense of duty to society not to waste police time drove him on to check out the source of the noise for himself before he dragged anyone else into this scene.

Each step in the dark drew him closer to the disturbance and he wondered, half way down the stairs and thus too late to do anything about it, whether he should have armed himself with something suitably heavy and useful before proceeding. He pressed himself against the cold wall as he turned the corner. From here he knew he’d be able to see the majority of his groundfloor; at least he would have been able to if it weren’t pitch black.

At that moment a light clicked on down the hall way. It was the kitchen light. His heart hammered as he finally realised this was an actual person in his house. Gone was the possibility that next door’s cat had made a mistake and was scratching at the wrong door to be let in, complete with a half-dead bird as a midnight feast. There was someone in his house.

He stood, rooted to the spot, indecision spiking his every thought.

Every possible scenario raced through his mind as he tried to formulate a plan. At last he realised that, if he stayed pressed up against the wall on the opposite side of the hall, he could remain in darkness long enough to get a look at his intruder and could, perhaps, even make it to the front door in order to raise the alarm before the bastard even realised he had company.

Even as he was finalising his escape plan his legs had propelled him along the hallway, his back pushed hard against the wall, towards the illuminated room. Before he could even protest he was approaching the point of no return. ‘This is it’ he told himself. ‘Just take in as many details as you can before making a run for it. You’ll need to know what he looks like so you can describe him to the police’. He craned his neck to see into the kitchen. A man, sitting at the kitchen table, had his head in his hands and appeared to be swaying gently from side to side.

Bouyed by a confidence born of the pathetic nature of this individual, he broke contact with the wall and slipped through the doorway onto the cold, tile-lined floor. ‘He’s drunk!’ he thought, noticing the pungent stench of spirits. Whisky, he decided. And even with his back turned, it was obvious that the gentle movement, side to side, back and forth, wasn’t entirely voluntary. ‘What kind of drunken bast…’

And then he noticed the discarded jacket. He recognised the fur-lined collar and the fake airforce arm furniture. It couldn’t be…

“David? What the hell are…”

The figure stiffened and began to turn. A crumpled, tear-stained face revealed itself slowly, the man’s eyes following the motion of his head a second or two behind. Slowed by whisky.

“Oh. I’m ssso zorree Dan. I diddun mean to wake you. I found yuur zpare keey” he slurred. “It’s Maggie. She’s left me again.”

David slumped in his chair, resting his head on the table with no gentle touch.

‘Ouch,’ thought Dan. ‘It’s going to be a long night.’

 

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And a happy new year

It’s here then? 2012. It arrived just like all the other New Years I’ve experienced. One minute it wasn’t there, the next it was. Just like that.

So what does the dawning of a new year mean? For some it means a good riddance to a less than happy year previous. For some it’s a fond farewell. For others it’s merely another day ticking over, nothing special to celebrate, just another early night and a new day tomorrow.

For me it’s the start of exciting times (I hope). I’ve returned to work after maternity leave, I’ve enjoyed the first year of my daughter’s life and I’ve enthusiastically launched two new blogs during 2011. And so what’s not to look forward to in 2012. It’s a leap year this year. If I were so inclined (and my husband hadn’t already beaten me to it) I might even consider popping the question myself, such is the optimism and confidence with which I start this year.

Admittedly I need to lose some excess weight, as I have at the start of every year of my adult life so far. But what the heck. I know I can do it, it doesn’t scare me. I know January will be a hard month financially, as it will be for millions of other people around country (indeed the world). But a little bit of frugality never hurt anyone, did it?

And so, as the fireworks end and the New Year bells that marked the arrival of 2012 fade for another year, I’m grasping the nettle to commit to much love, laughter, writing, playing and enjoyment during 2012. Whatever it has to throw at me I’ll face head on and try to take the very best from every situation.

Come on 2012, while I’m still feeling brave!

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The remains of Christmas

And so the day has passed. Yet the lights keep twinkling, the tinsel continues to flutter and the baubles still hang, glinting in the subdued lamplight. Presents remain under the tree, minus their pretty wrappings. Christmas cards, bearing their good tidings and joys of the season, still decorate the mantelpiece, hang from ribbons and balance precariously on every available flat surface.

Christmas is still very much in evidence.

And yet the mad dashing to be ready for the big day is once again a distant memory. No more frantic searching for the perfect gift, no more packing the fridge with sauces, dips, vegetables and desserts to feed the five thousand. And no more endless wrapping of awkwardly shaped packages and placing them ‘neath the tree. Now the big day has passed in the blink of an eye, presents have been presented, admired and stashed away, and the fridge, still packed with food, now contains packets of left overs, dishes of unidentified mush and the last few dregs of Christmas Day’s wine.

How do I feel? Exhausted, over-fed, bloated, lethargic. And happy.

There’s no doubt about it, while Christmas steams in, heavily announced, undeniably expected and absolutely unavoidable every year, I would hate to be without it. For Christmas in my family is a time for just being. Being together, being a family and being ourselves. It’s expensive, it’s noisy, it’s messy and it’s definitely not good for the diet. But I love it.

And so the glitter-clad baubles, the shedding tinsel and hypnotic lights are here to stay, at least for a little while. I don’t want rid of Christmas in a hurry. The anticipation may have passed but I’m not ready to put it all back in its box. Besides, we’ll be eating the turkey for another few days yet…

The difference of a day

Yesterday
Morning was late, it failed to materialise until well into what would normally be mid-morning. The daylight dragged its feet and refused to join in with anyone. Like a sulky toddler, Yesterday slumped to the floor, let out a howl and stamped its feet in a filthy, moody tantrum.

The sky remained dismal, the wind screamed through spaces large and small, whipping up misery and unwanted activity wherever it went. The raindrops threw themselves from the skies like so many tiny suicidal jumpers, propelled, screaming by the wind in a horizontal fashion, cutting, biting and pricking everyone and everything in their path, inflicting their dour, downcast temper on the world.

The weather, as a whole, was in a foul mood yesterday. I decided to stay in.

Today
Morning sprang with joy from beneath the horizon, peeking like a cheeky child, eager to play peekaboo with the early birds. Painting the sky a rosey pink, Today entered stage centre with a flourish, a courtsey and a song. Instead of being bent, twisted and hassled by the howling wind, the world was treated to a gentle brush of sunlight, a kiss from the breeze and a happy tune from the birds.

The sky shone from its boots to the tips of its fingers and brought a glad, happy feeling to the day. Today the weather inspired activity once again. Good activity. The hustle and bustle of people going about their business on a bright, sunshine drenched day. Today is good.

And that, my friends, is the difference of a day.

Photo credit – Yesterday
Today – my own

Behind her…

…the noise escalated. She squeezed her eyes tight shut and tried to block out the commotion.

Her heart drummed within her chest and she could feel her breathing becoming faster. She tried to control it but her attempts only made her heart beat even harder. A feeling of anxiety rooted itself in her stomach; she could feel it building. It crawled, clambered up her chest until she could almost taste her fear.

She turned and stared into the darkness, trying to make out a friendly, harmless shape that would mean she had been mistaken. But all she could see was darkness, stretching out before her, taunting, teasing. It closed in around her and she felt a shiver begin to form at the base of her legs. It raced at the speed of light up her spine and into her neck leaving behind it a strange tingling chill.

She closed her eyes once again and backed herself into a tight corner. She pressed herself against the cold wall as hard as she could. Her breathing slowed as she strained to make sense of the noise she’d heard seconds before. Now, all was silent, which worried her even more.

Seconds stretched into eternity as she held her breath. The only thing she could hear now was the incessant cocophany of her own body; her heart drummed, her legs jangled as the cold began to cut deeply into her skin, her back screamed with tension and her brain squealed at her “Run! Get out of here now!”. But she couldn’t run. She was rooted to the spot, paralysed.

At last she heard something moving in the distance. A door creaked open, allowing a thin sliver of light to spill out onto the floor just beyond the stairs. As the door gave way to more light she began to make out the shadow of a person. Silent and frozen in silhouette, the form turned. “There’s no-one here Gerry, she must have got away.”

His voice resounded around the space, bouncing off every wall and lingering in every corner. His accent was gruff, prickly, harsh. And who was Gerry? She trawled her memory to recall anyone she might know called Gerry. Nothing. She was at a loss to know why these men were chasing her.

The door closed again as the silhouette moved away. Darkness and pure, frigid silence was restored.

What seemed like hours passed by within the next few minutes. But she could wait no longer. Her frozen body was crying out to her: ‘move this instant or you’ll die here and now’. She could see its point.

She slid as stealthily as she could along the barren wall towards the steps she knew were there. She’d stumbled up them just a few minutes ago, breathless, petrified, in search of solice. And now they signalled her pathway to freedom, if she could only remember how far away they were. Timidly she stretched the toes of her left foot out in front of her to locate the falling away of the floor. As her hands slid along the brickwork she came across a square of plastic – a light switch.

Hesitating for just a few seconds more to make sure there were no more signals of her unwanted company, she flicked the switch and braced herself for the influx of light. When it came, sweet and sudden, she whinced against the intrusion. Her eyes, having become accustomed to the all encompassing darkness, struggled with the change.

Disorientation and relief flooded through her in equal measure as the light revealed her location. She still had no idea where she was, such was her panic during the earlier chase. She didn’t much care. She just wanted to find her way out.

The door. Old, set within a beautiful stone archway, unexpected. There is was, just metres away.

Unsteadily she set out towards her exit. Her legs, although aching with the cold and earlier activity, drove her across the room, obviously fuelled with adrenaline. Her flailing hand found the handle and with a firm twist the door relented to her wish to leave. A bitter wind burst through the open door and took her by surprise. For a second she was blinded again, this time by the shock of the icy air. She turned her head away to get her breath back. Composed once more she took a step towards the doorway and out into the biting night.

She looked left; nothing but darkness. She turned to look right and felt a blinding pain ring through her skull, a deafening scream pierced her ears; perhaps it was her own? Her vision shook, blurred and faded. She slumped loosely to the floor.

He stood over her, a length of pipe swinging from his right hand, a self-satisfied smirk dancing around his lips. “Gotcha!” he said.

This is a piece of free writing using the prompt ‘Behind her the noise escalated’.

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Beating the block…

The keyboard made its familiar tip-tap sound beneath her fingers as she strained to string the first sentence together. Elsewhere in the house walls creaked, doors breathed, floor boards settled. Everyone was in bed. Except for her. Sleep evaded her once again. Her body was as tired as one that hadn’t experienced sleep for days, and yet her mind would not let her rest. On and on it whirred, throwing around ideas, creating potential scenarios. She would get this assignment finished.

A new paragraph started. And yet the words that refused to flow mocked her. She felt them, dancing in the back of her mind but refusing to come forward for inspection. Perhaps her mind was tired after all. Tired and wired. Not a good combination.

The blinking computer screen, the only source of light in the room, glowed menacingly. A comforting glow during the day, a flurry of activity with notifications flashing up endlessly, the screen was her window into the online world wherein lay her contacts, her friends, her virtual acquiantances. And she’d laugh and chat with them at various intervals in the waking hours. But at night, with no activity purring in the background, the glow seemed unfriendly, viscious almost. Her ‘friends’ were asleep and there were no reassuring words to jolly her along.

“Hopeless,” she thought as she closed the lid of the laptop, annoyed at the helplessness she was feeling. “I’m a writer. Why can’t I just write?” Her voice echoed around the cold, lifeless kitchen. She hadn’t realised she’d spoken aloud and the sound shocked her. She turned on the light and the room presented itself to her. All evidence of the hustle and bustle of the day’s activities in this, the heart of the home, had been cleared away and now it just seemed… clinical. She approached the kettle for the umpteenth time that night. Flicking the power button on, she reached blindly for a mug from the hooks above. Her hand waved helplessly in mid air as she realised all the mugs were in the dishwasher. Unable to compute a possible solution to this problem she decided that a glass of wine would have to suffice.

With wine poured and fluffy slippers pulled on to her chilled feet, she slumped down on the sofa. She reached for her trusty notebook. Its pages were worn, well-thumbed and crammed with notes, ideas, doodles. She stared blankly at page after page until all she could see was a blurry haze of black scribbles and white spaces. She closed the notebook and let her head fall back against the reassuring softness of the cushion. Perhaps sleep would help? Perhaps her mind would let her drift off into vivid dreams and, thereafter, a deep, comforting, restorative sleep. Perhaps today’s activities would…

And so she slept, dreams darting across her unconsciousness, lighting the way to breaking her block. Perhaps in the morning she would recall the dreams that would jump-start her writing. Perhaps.

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My dear washing machine

It’s come to my attention recently that you have a problem with me. I’m quite disappointed that these issues have arisen as I thought we’d reached a point in our relationship where we could sort things out amicably. Haven’t I always looked after you, treated you with respect and dignity? And yet, here we are, in an impossible position and I see no way forward other than… well, quite honestly I don’t even want to think about the only option I have.

I’ve always been more than fair with you. I thought we’d always worked well together, helped each other out in our times of need, I’ve never overloaded you. I’ve only ever provided the very best for you and given you warmth when the weather’s been bad.

Why couldn’t you let me know before things got so desperate? When I came to see you tonight you’d emptied your heart all over the floor – could we not have found some other way? Couldn’t we have found a dryer and less messy way to explore your inner feelings? All I ask is a little warning of your meltdowns so that I can try and intervene, provide some much-needed help to head off your problems.

I know you’re getting old and you’re much more fragile than you used to be. But do I really need to put you out to retirement? Just before Christmas? That’s really bad timing for both of us, wouldn’t you agree?

So here’s what I’m suggesting. A final attempt at mediation. Just you, me and a few tools to help us along the way. Let’s see if we can work this out and stay with each other for just a few more weeks. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?

Yours, with great fondness,
Helen

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I went outside and…

…immediately slipped on the hard packed, unrelenting ice formed from rain upon snow upon hail and freezing temperatures. As I regained my balance I took in my surroundings. All around was a blanket of glistening crispness, indented in places by foot, push chair and car tyres leaving an array of patterns and textures as far as the eye could see.

A strange hush hung in the air, undisturbed by breathy wind or the familiar calling of garden birds and gulls. Everywhere around families filled each house to celebrate Christmas and the feast of St Stephen, visible to the eye but hidden from the ear by distance, double glazing and insulation.

People celebrate behind closed doors, barred against the cold but watched from the street, enjoying games, food and conversation as if with the sound turned down.

Standing on the hard, frozen ground my toes begin to feel the cold seeping through the rubber soles of my boots. My new Christmas socks and the thick, opaque tights beneath do nothing to slow the approach. As if in protest at my lack of motion they begin to call to me in the familiar, tingling and slightly painful way to get moving. Now is not the time to be standing around. Move.

This is a piece of freewriting. I was given a prompt and told to write for five minutes on whatever came into my head.

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Stirrings in the darkness

And so it hits her. Wham! Right between the sleep-infested eyes. Her heart tightens and her brain explodes with a million different thoughts. All this happens in a split second. Never time to anticipate it, it just floors her. Barely awake and back with the world, she knows the familiar power that is racing through her veins as she begins to piece her existence back together after the blinding veil of sleep has dropped away.

This is how it’s been for months now. And as the months have passed, sleep has become less adept at obliterating this feeling from her body. Even her sleeping hours are invaded by this all-encompassing emotion.

And as sleep fades away and she finds her waking bearings again, she sheepishly pulls back the covers of her superking and emerges into the cold, pinching air of a winter morning. She curses her inefficient heating system and makes a mental note to get someone in to have a tinker with the radiators.

In the half light of the frigid bedroom she stubs her toe on something. What, she has no idea. She doesn’t care what it is. Stumbling, limping, hopping, she reaches for her dressing gown to bundle around her ample form. Her glasses settle on her face, her rampant hair is tamed behind her ears. She’s ready. Ready to face the onslaught that awaits. Ready to face the day in the knowledge that life will never be the same. Deep breaths. Oxygen makes its way through her body, to her brain, enabling her to banish the final fogginess of sleep that lingers around her head.

She reaches for the light switch. Click. The dull light from the energy saving bulb does nothing to brighten the room. And yet, still the invasion of some kind of artificial light into her eyes causes her to squint, shy away from the source, shade her eyes against the intrusion. “I hate daylight saving,” she mumbles to herself. “Why does it have to be so dark at this time?”

Out onto the landing she ventures, dodging her way around the vacuum cleaner that she knows is laying in wait for her, eagerly anticipating her journey past, hoping to trip her with its winding wire. She foils it. “Ha!” she cries, a small victory under her belt. But her celebrations are short lived as she hurtles head long into the airing cupboard door, left slightly ajar from the night before. A startled “ooph” issues from her barely parted lips as her hand involuntarily reaches up to her forehead to inspect the potential damage caused by the collision. No blood, no throbbing of an egg. All is well, if a little sore.

She reaches the door of the small room. The door is slightly open and a faint slip of light is visible around the edge of the blackout blind. She hesitates, listening out for signs of activity within. Nothing. She edges forward, nudging the door inwards as she goes. Enough room to peek her head around the door but the light is too poor to make out the shapes. She senses movement, holds her breath and immobilises her limbs. She waits.

The silence is broken by a snuffling. A tiny movement to her left side catches her attention and she thrusts the door open fully, allowing a weak, watery light, overflowing from the bedroom, to enter and afford her a little more visibility. This influx causes more movement from her left and the snuffling builds into an insistent murmur. She tiptoes forwards to inspect the writhing mass. Two tiny, glinting eyes meet hers as she leans over. Confusion fleetingly inhabits the eyes but as reality dawns on the tiny bundle a smile of pure joy explodes from within.

“Mama.”

And there it is. The feeling she experienced the second she woke, magnified one hundred fold.

Love. That’s what it is. No holds barred, absolute, limitless love.

She moves in to scoop up her little girl with a rush of gratitude. Another morning delivered safely, another night conquered without mishap or drama.

Today will be a good day. She can feel it already.