Real Housewife of the North

I’ve been nudged to write this evening by the comments of a lovely lady I met last weekend. In a Facebook post she talked about her new book and the difficulty she finds in selling it. What she really means is selling herself of course.

As authors we write; sometimes on a daily basis when meeting a deadline, or for hours and hours when editing a particular chapter, in which every word seems precious as we press the save button. When re-visited it is too long, too descriptive, not descriptive enough, set in the wrong tense, dialogue is too clipped or too flowery, characters aren’t authentic, don’t feel genuine, appear a little slimy or not strong enough, not as likeable as you want them to be or as nasty as they could be, the sentences are too long, not long enough, the chronology isn’t working… did I really write that?… It goes on. For many months of edit, reads, re-writes and more edits. And even when it feels right, the thought of someone else reading it can be so debilitating it stops us dead in our tracks. And the printed manuscript that took a full ream of paper and a new ink cartridge is pushed in a drawer.

Writers love to write. It is our passion. Sitting at a desk or kitchen table, it doesn’t matter, as long as we have the space to write. What is alien, is then presenting our work with all it’s faults to the world. Because it most certainly does have faults. Accept that. It most certainly is not going to be liked or even read by many. Unless you are a celebrity or your uncle is Richard Curtis. (Sorry Mr. Curtis) I feel I should say this, just in case he does by any remote chance read my book and thinks it would make the most amazing film. Of course that also applies to Danny Boyle and our South Shields local hero Ridley Scott, who would do as good a job at turning Georgie’s story into a box office blockbuster. Just in case any of you are reading this, please accept a free copy of my book which unfortunately I’m not able to give ‘the big sell’ as the very thought of you reading it has turned my stomach.

Self confidence is what we need. Something that has sort of vacated me in recent years. So Ridley Scott I am no longer inhabited by that amazing phenomenon known only to the young or inexperienced. The alien that I believe fed my ego in my youth has left me and in its place is a far more scary being. Inhibition takes up a lot of brain space as well as the stomach cramps as it kicks me, turning over and over like some overgrown baby demanding to be let out.

So how can we overcome such dreadful self doubt. If only there was a magic pill. Oh yes, there is! A legal remedy would be better. But, with any substance you put into your body, eventually it fades and you must come back down to earth. Or eat, drink, smoke or inject more of that feel good factor. The solution is not an external one. It has to come from within. And isolation for hours and hours a day is not the recipe for turning an omelette into a soufflé. (I quite like that analogy).

Ok, I’m not saying that omelettes are flat or boring, unable to inspire or encourage. We just need a bit of zuzzing. How do you make an egg into a fluffy soufle. You whisk it up. Writers in deed need a little whisking. We must take some deep breaths, get a little air into our lungs, shout out and re-connect with the world.

We can do this by mutually encouraging, provide space to mix with other writers. It doesn’t matter where as long as you connect. It doesn’t even matter if at first we don’t say anything or share our writing. Baby steps at first, help us take the giant steps we need to say ‘hello, this is me, I’m a writer… to be continued

Getting out there! Alnwick book festival with Sally Bezant, Debbie Buxton and Claire Delgarno Todd.

Since my book launch this summer many people have messaged to ask me questions about the characters. ‘Is this you? Who is Ben, or how much is real and how much fiction?’ Depending on how I feel I give different answers. ‘Well I had a teacher like… or I remember people, places and things that I observed and built into a story.’ Everyone wants Ben to be real – but he’s not. Everyone wants to know what happens next to Georgie, but I really don’t know. I love her and want everything to work out for her so can’t bring myself to put her through anything awful in a sequel. And I don’t think that living ‘happily ever after’ would sell books. What would I write? She lives happily, in the house of her dreams, fulfilled and possibly boring. No.

So what next? Well I already have the beginnings of my next novel. Several chapters beginning in 1936. The inspiration my grandmother, and some of the stories she told me as a teenager. Some of these little memories I originally incorporated in The Road to Find Out. I love nostalgia which the book has bundles of. My editor thought too much, so in one of the final edits large chunks of memorabilia were taken out. I call it memorabilia because as I read it back now it feels solid. As if I could hold it in my hands, feel it, smell it and hear the goings on in those 1960’s kitchens, back yard and lanes. The heart of the household held in my heart, written down long ago.

So, I have re-opened some of the journal entries I wrote, during a time when I was looking for comfort. They were little romantic memories, cliched and often unfinished but I have enjoyed that walk down memory lane and the lovely warm feeling it leaves. I’ve taken some of those little stories and given them a make-over. The grammar and description were a little naive I think, looking at them thirty years on. I’ve taken the essence and tried to keep the innocence of the original work. I would love some feedback before I publish anything more in this blog. I hope you enjoy this little snippet.

Excerpts Remembering

My nana looks like the Queen’s mother. I think so anyway! She has the same permed grey hair but a nicer smile because she has lovely white false teeth. The Queen Mother has tiny teeth with gaps. Her smile isn’t as nice as nanas. I’m not sure why I have this Queenly image of nana. I think it may be because of a photograph we have of her at Uncle Paul’s wedding in 1965. She is wearing a pale blue coat and carrying a bag over her arm. Just like the Queen mother does. She is smiling generously, as if she is about to walk over to a group of admirers. Her funny little queen-like shoes nipping her toes. 

Or it might be because when she goes to work, she is in full regalia. That is not royal regalia but proper waitress gear. She works for a company that does private functions for quite rich people. They must be rich because of the left-overs she bring home for us. Usually, fresh salmon and trifle. I quite like the salmon, but the trifle is something else. The best in the whole wide world. That sounds rather childish, but I don’t care. The secret is in the chopped nuts, mixed with fresh fruit on top of the cake base. The custard layer is wonderfully silky, and the cream so thick you could slice it. More fresh fruit usually strawberries, raspberries or poached pears are used to decorate the top with an added sprinkling of chopped nuts to finish off. My brother and I eat two bowls full at a time and sneak into the pantry for more when nana isn’t looking. She doesn’t have a fridge so it’s best that we eat it as quickly as possible. When we have trifle at home mam only uses tinned orange segments. 

I sometimes help out in the kitchens where nana works, when they are really busy. They usually have me whisking egg whites for hours; to make the meringues or buttering hundreds of slices of bread. I don’t mind as I get to listen to the other women talking. They treat me like an adult and don’t whisper when they are gossiping. It’s all up front and I love to listen to the scandalous conversations they have about people I don’t know. The kitchen women look like doctors in their crisp white coats, carrying out food operations on shiny metal benches. The waitresses look even smarter as they come rushing in for the next tray of sandwiches. “Hurry up Georgie where’s the cress?’ That’s my job too. I chop the cress, rinse it in a big colander and then sprinkle it over the sandwiches. The waitresses look very smart, dressed in black with neat white aprons. They wear little white collars and stiff white caps that look like crowns. Which is my point about ‘Queenliness’.

That was another one of my jobs when I was younger helping nana with her uniform. She had one plain black crepe dress and one long black pleated skirt which she wore with a round neck flat knit jumper. For Bar Mitzva’s, Christenings or Rotary Club events the skirt and jumper were worn. Cocktail parties, Engagements and Weddings were more formal so the dress would be hung up in the front room to swing loose the day before, so that all creases dropped out. The freshly starched apron bibs were attached with little gold safety pins. The collars and caps needed much more care and attention. Some waitresses bought their collars, but my nana crocheted hers. She had five of each. It was her that taught me to crotchet when I was eight years old. Which was just as well, as the teachers in my Junior school had given up on me because I’m left handed. Not allowed to take part in ‘craft’, knitting or sewing, put to the back of the class to practice my handwriting. My teacher said it was impossible for me to learn how to stitch neatly because I was too clumsy. My stitches were not neat enough and I took too long to do anything. Of course, I now know that it wasn’t me that couldn’t do it. It was the teacher who couldn’t teach me. She insisted I stitch from the right when I needed to start at the left. The story of my life, and anyone else who happens to be left-handed. Once I got a teacher who understood my needs it all made sense. That teacher was nana. She is also left-handed.

Nana used very fine thread-like wool and very thin crotchet hooks to make her collars and caps. They were beautiful, so delicate. She didn’t use a pattern it was all in her head. Most of her caps were white but she had one special set which was made from silver thread. She also used this silver thread to edge one of my dresses. This put the finishing touch to a royal blue dress, made specially for my one and only, grand performance in the school choir.

The collars were starched. Stiff enough to sit neatly on her neck. The caps needed extra starch to make them as stiff as card. They sat pertly at an angle on her head, held in place with four clips. This was a Sunday morning routine while lunch was cooking. Their flat had a brick wash house in the yard. It was quite large with a long lime scrubbed wooden bench running along the side wall with a slatted shelf underneath for storage. A large stone boiler sat in the back corner, lit very early, the following day – wash day. 

Sunday was pre-wash day for the waitress accessories. There were three round copper bowls lined up on the bench. Aprons, collars, and caps were washed in a small oval enamel basin filled with boiling water from the upstairs kettle brought down in two buckets. The water was so hot I couldn’t put my hands in. The small items were sloshed in the hot soapy water with a pair of wooden tongs and swirled around by me for a couple of minutes. I was then allowed to pluck them out and immerse them in a bowl of cold water to rinse. Then I would squeeze them and lie them in the copper bowls to steep. The caps went in the first copper bowl which had a generous proportion of starch added to the cold water. The collars in the next bowl. Meanwhile my nana was scrubbing the aprons, which of course were a little stained and needed a good ‘steep’ before being removed for rinsing. The aprons went in the third bowl which had the least amount of powder. They were quickly removed and hung upside down from a small line that ran twice across the wash house. I also scrubbed my granda’s shirt collars, repeating the exercise for them. One line was used for aprons and the other for my grandfather’s work trousers and two collarless shirts. 

The collars and caps lay there for the rest of the day until after tea then laid out on top of an old sheet at the end of the bench to dry overnight. The following morning while nana was waiting for the fire to heat the water in the boiler she set about ironing them all where they lay. A large white tea towel carefully placed on top of each item. The two old irons, kept specially for this job were brought down on the warming tray from the grate on the upstairs black lead oven. This meant the crotched items remained flat. Making it easier and rather more convenient than taking them upstairs to use the electric iron. Nana used to say efficiency is not always modern.

Nana’s old flat seemed amazing to me as a child. It had three bedrooms. The largest one used by my mam and dad and me when we lived with them. Later it became ‘the front room’. This meant we never really used it. Our Christmas presents were hidden there, and we had a grand treasure hunt on Christmas day to find the presents which Santa delivered in a pillow case. The room held a large grey sofa, two chairs and a china and a cocktail cabinet in each alcove. A piano stood on the near wall, where I spent many hours twinkling away. Or as mam used to say plonking. As in ‘stop that plonking now, I’ve had enough!’ I loved the room which was like a sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the flat. 

The room we all lived in, at the back was jam packed with furniture, and people at all times. An armchair and settee were pushed back against the back wall, with a large dining room table centre of the room. It’s massive bulbous legs, ballooning out like a fat old woman’s wrinkly tights. Pulled up near the open fire, which was part of the enormous Victorian black lead oven, boiler and high mantlepiece, we’re a wooden high back chair and a small ‘cracket’ used by my granda to shuffle up close to the fire. A large well rounded dark sideboard dominated the other wall.

Later, when my grandparents moved to their new council bungalow the sideboard dominated their small sitting room. The little room accommodated much of their old furniture but not the two large settees and ‘comfy’ chairs from the war years. Replaced with a little red velvet three-piece suit so nana and granda had a chair each, either side of the fireplace. The settee was placed directly in front of the fire, a spindly legged small coffee table used by us children if extra visiters arrived for meals. The dining table was squashed behind, covered with a thick felt protector mat and a soft velvet table cover, tassels dangling nearly to the floor. On Sundays a clean white tablecloth was laid on top ready for the Sunday dinner.

In the old flat, my nana always sat in the wooden chair at the fire, my grandfather’s position the small ‘cracket’ he made himself, to the left of the black lead fireplace. As was normal, the fire heated a boiler and oven. It burnt continuously and it was my granddad’s job when he was at home to keep it fired up. A large ‘bleezer’ made from a sheet of steel was used to blaze it up early in the morning or whenever it needed more coal. He was often cold and would put the bleezer up against the front of the fire, a large sheet of newspaper put across to seal the opening to help draw the flames quickly. This would immediately pull the fire up the chimney and create a blazing fire. Grandad would tilt the bleezer and allow the newspaper to be pulled inwards and upwards. He said it helped clean the chimney. I’m not sure how, but it was something he did as he lit another woodbine and held his hands over the flames. Both alcoves had fitted cupboards which held most of the household crockery. There was a very large scullery, much bigger than our small top-of-the-stairs kitchen in my parents one-bed flat. This contained a large old gas cooker standing on its own with a metal shelf above holding the pots and pans. Two wooden cupboards housed the large pottery sink under the window. In the far corner was the slop bucket. 

This was disgusting as it held all household ‘slops’. That is the liquid waste accumulated throughout the day and night. That included the morning emptying of the ‘pohs’, the pots from under my grandmother and grandfathers high Edwardian beds and the dregs from the large brown teapot which provided the constant supply of dark brown tea. Nana’s tea was always heavily laced with puro milk and heaped teaspoons of sugar. The smell from the bucket was distinctly aromatic, but as the back stairs were long, steep and very dark it was emptied only once a day by grandad. His duty before he left the house to go to work. That may be 4 in the morning or 4 in the afternoon, depending on his shifts. 

The house was full to the rafters of interesting things. Too much furniture meant a constant movement from one room to another depending on chairs needed. My nana had 3 brothers and two sisters. Also, many friends and neighbours who called for chats and to pass on vital information about the ‘goings on’ in the street. As I got older, I began to realise that people also came to borrow money. My nana had a little red book which she kept on the mantle shelf. Tea was poured and the booked pulled down from the shelf. I never saw money passing hands, usually at the point of sly cake being taken from the tin, I was given a slice of bread and butter and told to go and play in the street. If I hesitated because I was reading a book or knitting she would pour some sugar over the butter and fold it firmly ‘there you go, a little treat! ‘

It’s funny at my nana’s house, as children, we always played in the front street. At home in our old flat down by the river it was the back yard and back lane that were our playground. Maybe it was because all backdoors were open and I knew all the families that lived there. Ours was a small street only 14 flats up and down. Of course, across the back lane were another 14 and I knew everyone in those flats as well. The back lane being the common playground and place for women to chat.

My world in those days consisted of the corner shop, next street down towards the river, the chip shop higher up the other way and the Pawn shop a little further along. Every Friday I picked up Mr. Charlton’s best suit from there, ready for the weekend. Mrs. Charlton gave me 2 shillings, the green ticket and 2d for going to collect the suit. The shop was three blocks up. Not far at all, but Mrs. Charlton said her legs wouldn’t carry her there and back, and would I do her a big favour. Of course, it felt like she was doing me the favour. I never told my mam what I did. Somehow, I knew I would get wrong, and she would stop me running the message. I didn’t know why it was wrong. Was it because I was taking money from an old woman? Or was it because of the way Mrs. Charlton called me in to her yard when I returned from school, then made me knock on the front door when I returned with the parcel. Often before I even knocked, the door was opened. I soon realised she was waiting behind the net curtain at her front window, watching for me coming down the street. She would open the door take a quick look left and right before taking the brown paper packet from under my arms, give me a quick kiss on the forehead and sent me away with a ‘ta-ra pet, see you next week.’ If I ever passed by the pawn shop with my mother and dawdled at the door, she would pull me away, hissing ‘we have no need for that.’ 

I read these words on Wednesday, revisiting notes and the first two paragraphs of my second novel. I had to organise my computer and desk now that the children are back to school and life will once more have a little bit of structure to it. I began to read the first draft in order to decide if I should continue with the story or use some of my other ideas for a new book set in the 80’s. God Save the King has been the working title for the story I started last year, inspired by the words my grandmother repeated to me as a child when she told me the story of my mother’s birth. In full labour and much pain she heard the newspaper boy shouting the headlines of the Abdication of Edward VIII and the expectation that a new Monarch would soon be proclaimed. That story of my mother’s birth, and the birth of a new King has been part of our family folklore. The ascension of a new King, our Queen’s father, meant that Princess Elizabeth, as the oldest child of George VI began her own journey then, in 1936.

I have wanted to write my family history as a novel for many years, not knowing exactly how I would take it forward. I thought maybe I was being a little indulgent setting a novel at a period of time that I thought was interesting but that maybe others would not relate to. My notes include key dates of national and international events from the Abdication, the beginning of Facism and war in Europe. This international history would the backdrop to HerStory, my grandmother’s story. A story of great tragedy and hardship, yet for me an inspirational life that has given me the strength to move forward and carry on in some of my darkest hours. And then in the last twenty four hours those words ‘God Save the King’ have become more relevant with the passing of Queen Elizabeth II. Immediately I felt compelled to re-visit the feelings of loss we all have with the passing of a family member, friend, colleague or someone we know. Of course I don’t know the Queen. I’ve never met her and although I know a lot about her it is from other peoples perspective. How accurate any of those perceptions are; of her reign as Queen, the woman herself as daughter, wife, mother and grandmother cannot be judged by any of us who have never met her. We accept what we believe is true and celebrate her life and the impact she has made. Our own experiences and how we may connect them to the death of the Queen, enables us all to acknowledge and mourn her passing today.

Quite coincidentally the message in my blog last week was about Gratitude and celebrating the life of someone who has passed. Writing then, I was acknowledging my own experience in 2016 when my father and a very dear friend died. I was able to be with my father, constantly at his bedside during his last weeks. This time spent with him and his wife gave me a greater sense of appreciation of the life we have and in my own way accepting his death and able to be at peace with myself. Those of my friends who know me well understand how that was achieved. I am not a great one for sharing my emotions with anyone, other than those closest to me, and even that is difficult at times being brought up to keep a stiff upper lip and ‘just get on with things’. Another tenuous connection to the Queen and what it takes to be ‘British’. Our values, whatever they may be, are sort of infused in us over time; by family and the community’s we are part of. Our stiff upper lip being one of the assets we love about the Queen. She kept going, doing her duty right up until the end. And we are grateful to her and everything she stands for.

So I am taken back to my comments about Gratitude last week and how it is important to be able to show it. Something, as a Nation we will do over the coming weeks. These weeks will give us the opportunity to take stock and think about what is precious to us and feel grateful for what we have. But also it gives us the time to reflect on those nearest and dearest to us who are not here today and feel grateful for the way they impacted on our lives. But also to be grateful for the relationships we have and need to keep. We can support each other with grand gestures or simple small acts of thoughtfulness. So maybe we need to get in touch with that friend we haven’t seen for such a long while and make sure we let them know how much they mean to us.

My last message is a deeply personal one. To a very special woman I know and love. Your strength and fortitude have been inspiring to us over the last six years since the death of our beautiful boy Ephson. The most amazing, generous and talented person we have known, who will be with us forever. Your role of father as well as mother has been difficult but you are absolutely amazing in the way you have moved forward. The evidence clear in your beautiful children. I know it is difficult and will be for many more years but we will continue to love and support you all.

If we build our lives on firm foundations we can weather the change

It’s not easy to come to terms with death. In any form whether young or old, sudden or a slow understanding that life, as we know it, will not go on forever. So how do we accept the death of someone close? Today we have a greater knowledge of how we can stay healthy. Preventing ill-health by following some fairly simple rules. We may think the professionals out there have all the solutions with break-through drugs and other medical advances. But as we know, life isn’t certain even for those who have the wealth or knowledge to fight some of the killer diseases that are still out there.

Covid, a new variant of Monkey Pox and the return of polio are three of the biggest warnings we have been presented with in recent years, yet we still have a belief that it won’t happen to us. Until it does! Some people still believe that Covid is not real and ‘they’ are simply trying to control us or even kill us. I’m not sure who ‘they’ or ‘us’ are, and I’m not sure that the people who post these slogans on their media pages or paste them on actual walls know. Of course if they do die because; they haven’t followed advice or been vaccinated they will be ‘right’. At least there are some people who will think this.

Death must be taken seriously. As inevitably it will happen to us all, and quite often as we grow older, happen to those most dearest to us. At first, it may be grandparents or even great grandparents as a lot of us are living longer. Our relationships and attachments will vary according to our age and how close we are to them at the time of death. The death of someone we know impacts significantly on us. Even if the relationship is distant. A great example of this is when someone in the public eye dies and we feel a degree of sadness depending on how they may have been part of our lives; growing up with them on the television or their values especially important to us, such as old teachers or an old neighbour who was ‘just there’.

But the death of someone close is always hard to bear, no matter what the age or circumstances. I do not intend to argue which is worse. It’s how we deal with death. A process; structures and rituals long established, are necessary to work through the grief of a loved one dying. So a funeral – burial or cremation in this country, and a ritual ceremony or a farewell appropriate to the beliefs of that particular person, are an essential part of the grieving process for many. How this is carried out must be personal to and meet the wishes of the deceased and their immediate ‘family’. These traditional ways provide some of the support necessary, but cannot be expected to provide a complete solution to the grieving process.

Some talk about wanting a good death; quick or painless. A choice is not possible. Just as it is not possible to guarantee a place in the ‘afterlife’ wherever or if ever that exists. So for me, even though I am spiritual and have a strong belief in the energies of the universe, a good death has to be about the conclusion of a good life. Religious teachings or the beliefs of ‘good’ people are based on doing to others how we wish to be treated. I know this may seem too simplistic and appear that I am naive, especially when I talk about ‘truth’. But an essential part of living a good life is being truthful with yourself. Understanding ourselves and the actions in our lives that may have been a little thoughtless, or maybe we believed were right, or deserving is needed. Is it about our happiness first and foremost? The excuses can be many; ‘my family come first… charity begins at home… I will fight anyone who hurts me or my family‘. Fine. But anger gets us nowhere. I know that for myself. It hurts more than it heals. It should be a fleeting emotion that we acknowledge, accept and find a way to overcome. ‘It’s not fair’ Is something I’ve heard all my working life from young children who feel something is unjustified from their point of view. And maybe it was and a response has been unjust. But, as children, we grow to learn the rules of life. Hopefully through school, but most importantly through our own families. The argument for nature or nurture are compelling. But the society, community, environment we grow up in play an important part in forming our values and our bias.

Maybe I’ve lost you all by now with my rambling. But the rambling I choose to make is a process. Sometimes we have to work through the ramblings of our mind, listen to the underlying messages to understand what is important to us. If we don’t understand, if we disagree, that doesn’t mean the other person is wrong or that we are right. The answer is to ask more questions of them and ourselves. Find out more.

‘I’ve looked everywhere, I’ve researched that issue, I’ve read widely and believe…‘

Have we questioned our beliefs? Have we answered our own questions or listened to others with an open mind? Old beliefs, outdated attitudes and language may set us apart if we cannot recognise change in our society. If we ignore new ideas, simply putting our heads in the sand then we are left behind. But often, it’s simply because we do not have the time or space to think more deeply as we continue our daily routines. Often firefighting simple day to day issues at home or work leaves us with little time to re-imagine our changing world. Change shouldn’t make us feel anxious but should invigorate and provide opportunity. But change is not about us having to accept that things may be different to the way we have grown up, it’s about accepting that it is the natural way of things. As inevitable as death. If things remained the same then the human race as we know it would not exist. We would simply have ‘fizzled out’. Of course we have to adapt to living within a world that may be dangerous, cold or even hotter than it is now. If we don’t adapt we become extinct like the dinosaurs. Rather simplistic example? As we all know it was a disastrous changing world in which ‘they’ were unable to adapt.

Adapting to change has to be the answer, and we must all consider what is important to us and our world. To the man-made as well as the natural changes happening now. But more importantly the changes happening to our communities. Whether they are within our locality, our country, Europe or much further afield, our societies must find ways to move forward to adapt. We must stop – in our tracks. Many of us have done that. The pandemic caused us to re-assess what is worthwhile and consider what is important. And a lot of us have changed our beliefs and what we value. We have become more grateful for the simple things in life that we didn’t have time to appreciate before. Being grateful is the most important message we have learnt. Grateful for simply going for a walk, meeting friends for a drink or getting together with family. But there is a longer journey to travel. Unless we all adapt and change our ways then, the world as we know it cannot continue.

I’ve digressed – or have I? To be happy with yourself or more importantly at peace with yourself is an essential key to having a life to value. So if we value money and the material benefits it provides that may make us happy. If we enjoy being with family and friends socially when everything is fun then I’m sure that is happiness. But is that enough? What more can we do to make life worthwhile? What value do we place on the ordinary things around us? What value do others place on you? Too deep?

OK it is and it’s far more simple than that. We must prioritise; the essentials and the important things in our lives first. This will then give us some meaningful time to spend in the moment. It doesn’t matter where. But it does help if it’s free of interruption. Even if it is only for a few moments. So even sitting on the toilet with the door locked until that little voice cries ‘where are you?’ And is fine. Yes the moment has passed but have gratitude for the moment spent and the important fact that you do have someone who needs you and demands your time. We can sit amongst the chaos in our lives. Take that moment and be grateful. And if we can be grateful for what we have, then we can also be grateful for those around us. Grateful if they are different or have an alternative viewpoint to our own. Be able to consider diversity as a positive and learn to understand how confirming that may be. Living in a divergent culture is something we have done for thousands of years, whether it is here in Britain or any other part of the world; people have lived with outsiders or been outsiders through years and years of migration and immigration. Understanding difference is what makes us better people. Gratitude for the people around us. No matter who or how significant they are to us, they play a part in our lives. But often we need reminding to value them, how important they are or have been. Because when those relationships have gone; maybe because we haven’t taken care, or those people are simply no longer with us, then we will not be able to move forward. We should listen to our truth. Consider the importance of ‘difference’ and ‘change’. Make sure to find out before it is too late and be grateful for all that we have.

Seven days to go!

I love this part of the coastline. It was my inspiration and became the setting for much of the action in the book.

…’the dark rim of the horizon separates the greyness of the water from an even darker, murkier sky… I love it here, standing on the edge of my world, straining to see beyond the perimeter’ to something more than, bigger than the life I lead…

This coastline with its isolated crescent preserving the beach, has given me protection and solace… but now an impending darkness inhibits that feeling. Reflecting my mood, the clouds above hang like a billowing grey parachute. Ready to descend and overwhelm me.’ (Excerpt from My Rock)

What does that mean? My husband will tell you ‘we are all on a journey’ So the Road to Find Out is Georgie’s journey. To find out what this journey entails then subscribe to my page. Today is going to be full of important steps to get this book over the line. I would love you to be part of that.

When you write a book you are totally involved with the characters, place and plot. It never occurs to you that at some point you will share it with others. That time has come and with great trepidation I am about to share! So here we go.

Georgie, a forty year old woman has a decision to make. What is it? To make a choice? No – to take control. Living a life less painful or more painful?

Ok that sounds a bit dramatic. But Georgie is that drama queen, so they all say.

A story of mid life crises? No. A story of reflection and understanding what you want from life.

We all acknowledge these dreadful January Blues and the low feeling experienced, through lack of sun or maybe lack of fun. It’s the same every year. Even though I am prepared for it and determined that it will not happen ‘this year’. I should get more light, go for more walks, drink and eat more to be merry. Why deprive ourselves of alcohol in the worst month of the year. Some people go on holiday, which I think is a brilliant idea if a) you can afford it, b) Covid restrictions don’t get in the way, or c) you can fit into a bikini just after Christmas.

Last September we made tenuous plans to book a sunshine holiday this January. Simply because, like everyone else, we haven’t taken a holiday abroad for over two years. So Tenerife was our intended destination, Covid allowing of course. It was something to look forward to, something to get us through the winter months. Then Evie was in a road accident. Evie is our cat by the way. So the NHS was not needed, but a very expensive Vet bill meant that our holiday fund was depleted to pay for operations and medication. Travel restrictions have now eased, and even testing before and after travel is simpler and less expensive. But let’s face it. The stress of organising a holiday, because of so many uncertainties is still daunting to say the least.

Now let’s address the last issue and biggest hurdle for me I’m afraid. Yes, we all over indulge over the Christmas period and yes it usually continues in to January because of the masses of food and sweets remaining. But my issues start about a fortnight before Christmas.

So the presents are bought, the food is ordered and menus planned. The house is clean, decorations up and everywhere looks festive. So I can begin to relax. I have cards to write and presents to wrap. This isn’t stressful. It’s fun! I enjoy sending cards and love giving presents.

BUT, the stress is always in the countless lists I write in case I have missed someone or something. To combat the stress and kid myself Christmas is all about fun, the eating starts. Which also comes with a festive drink or two. Firstly I must buy ‘party food’ to sustain unexpected visitors. Additional chocolate, fancy biscuits and expensive bottles of wine are bought as a contingency plan to cover any forgetfulness on my part.

BUT of course, once all this ‘umphnushment’ is in the house, then it is so easily accessible when I get the munchies. Watching a Christmas film or comedy favourite repeated to create that ‘feel good’ feeling must be accompanied by something from the Christmas store cupboard. And it’s only got worse as the years have gone on. It’s traditional! It makes me feel good! I deserve it!

I can probably come up with another half dozen excuses to appease my guilt.

BUT, none of the above helps when it comes to the slowly building pre-festive depression I get. Which is blacker than black. It starts on the 1st of December and builds each day. I know it’s coming, I know I will have a massive break down and I know I will eat and drink more to compensate.

Christmas brings a heap of emotion, built up every year. The pressure is stacked up on women to make a better Christmas than the previous year. If this just meant more presents and food, then it’s easily sorted. And many people do that. They spend more than they can afford on children’s and partners presents, they buy too much food, that goes to waste and they make sure they go out for meals or have parties with anyone and everyone; friends, neighbours, work colleagues and family they haven’t seen all year.

WHY? I don’t have the answer. I can’t blame women. We can’t help it. It makes use feel important – without us Christmas simply wouldn’t happen.

BUT of course it would, just not the way we want it to be. We want Christmas to be the same as the memories we have. How magical our mothers made it. Hence the same old feeling. Christmas is not as good as it used to be.

Our memories are tricky. We can’t rely on them to tell the truth. Maybe we did have fun, maybe the television or games were better. Maybe it all comes down to something much more important to us.

LOSS. The loss of people, no longer with us, grannies, grandads, old aunts and uncles. Worse still, people who died or left before they should. Accepting that loss is not easy. We don’t want to forget. But of course we must move on. Yes we can have fond memories, yes we can wish things remained the same, BUT life just isn’t like that. Things have to change, people move on and life moves on.

So. I’m going to stop feeling sorry for myself and follow the advice that I give out.

Live for the moment, enjoy what you have. Never mind wishing for something else. One thing many of us have learnt over the past two years is the value of the simple things around us. Never mind a big fancy present or luxury holiday I can see the sun straining through the clouds, patches of pale blue sky and a cup of coffee and Christmas cake waiting.

Sunday morning, a time to relax, enjoy the time to do what you want to do. So last week after sharing breakfast with about fifty other people here in Wetheral at the Crown, we headed to a garden centre. Then, back up into Scotland to visit a fantastic museum just over the border. I think I’ve taken this same road at least once a year, for over thirty years. The scenic route to Arran where my father and step-mother lived. But never knew about

‘The Devils Porridge’. Stanfield, Annan Road, Eastriggs, DG12 6TF. devilsporridge.org.uk

This museum tells the story of the building of a munitions factory and the massive development of a community to house the women who went to work there in 1916. In response to a desperate need for ammunition in 1915 the factory, or should I say factories, stretched nearly nine miles from Eastriggs and Gretna, down through the Solway Firth into England. Without them who knows what would have happened on the Western front.

So this morning a week on, we watched the memorial to the fallen in the two World Wars and recent conflicts. In respect and thanks to all of those service personnel who have given their lives so that we would continue our lives safely.

Lest we Forget has become a phrase used to mark this day of Remembrance. It has grown to epitomise our loss, their service and courage in wars that we believe were for the greater good.

I am not here today to argue the rights or wrongs of war. Far more people are willing to do that.

No, for today I want to talk about HerStory. That of the 30,000 women who gave service to ensure the ammunition supply to the soldiers fighting in 1916 onwards was maintained. Without them the war would have been lost.

Women and girls from all over Scotland and Northern England went to Eastriggs and Gretna to do this dangerous work. Wages, three times as much as could be earned in service, was the main reason they chose to do this extremely dangerous job.

This vast site held separate buildings to minimise risk of explosions and fire. Buildings were erected within nine months of the War Ministry chosing the site for it’s relative safety. Located in the North West border area of Scotland and England meant it was hidden from enemy detection and away from large urban areas.

This led to a greater development of housing and services for the communities surrounding the site which can still be seen today. Hostels, houses, shops, dentist, hospital, bakeries, canteens, bowling greens, cinemas, dance halls and laundries, ensured that the factory workers and staff managing the site were well cared for.

Read in-between the lines of this short description, or visit the museum and you will come to realise that life was certainly not rosy. The hostels and houses employed Matron’s to look after the girls, making sure they conformed to an expected standard of propriety and a 10 pm curfew. Rules and regulations controlled their lives. This included women police officers, employed to patrol the site and towns in the surrounding areas for drunken behaviour and petty theft.

The work was at the very least dangerous for the health. Breathing in chemical fumes and mixing the sulphuric acid and cotton by hand to make the Cordite left the women with many ailments. This included continual fainting, itchiness, burns and a discolouration of the skin. This yellow tinge earned them the name ‘Canary girls’.

The sheer enormity of the service of these women and girls, their commitment and contribution to the war effort lost. Not even forgotten. Unsung heroines, never referred to.

‘Lest we Forget’

is an important message to use on this Anniversary of Remembrance.

Please Let us Include

the many hidden from History because Herstory was never told.