Septimus Appleby's Lesson in Flight

Well, we're rapidly drawing to the end of another year, and I have achieved my customary level of controlled chaos in preparing for the festivities. The Christmas tree (this year we're calling him Fred. What do you mean, you never give your Christmas tree a name?) is sitting in a bucket of water on the patio waiting to come indoors.

Incidentally, I had an interesting chat with the man at our lovely, family-owned garden centre yesterday. I asked him whether he was sure the tree would be happy outside until we were ready to put it up, before realising that trees usually live outdoors, rather than in centrally-heated houses, and that bringing trees indoors is actually quite a bizarre thing to do, if you stop and think about it. So, let's not stop and think about it.

There is snow falling as I type this, and I have a Ted Heath album of Christmas carols playing on iTunes - talk about Nostalgia - so I'm starting to feel a bit Christmassy now. I would like to take this opportunity to thank you for visiting my blog during its first year, and to say that I hope you'll return in the New Year, when I hope to be able to post more frequently.

Wherever you are, and whatever you're doing this Christmas, I hope you'll be safe and happy. And may 2012 bring with it a host of good things for you and yours.

Now, in a spirit of looking forward to a new year, and new beginnings, here is a short story, which I hope you'll enjoy.

Merry Christmas!  

Septimus Appleby's Lesson in Flight

That New Year's Eve, over his customary glass of sherry, Septimus Appleby made two resolutions. Firstly, he would build the first pair of truly functioning wings in the history of human endeavour, and then attempt flight in its purest form. Secondly, he would teach himself Spanish. He was painfully aware that one of these projects would be much more challenging than the other: he had never had a natural aptitude for languages.
    The next morning, he pinned an invitation to witness his maiden flight, to the parish notice board at the edge of the village green. It was a bright, frosty morning, and his slender fingers prickled with cold as he pushed in the drawing pins, one at each corner of the neat piece of card.
    'Good morning, Mr Septimus Appleby. Happy New Year.'
    Septimus Appleby looked down at the familiar, earnest face, with its big brown eyes framed by thick lashes.
    'Happy New Year, Kevin.'
    They shook hands, and he noticed that the little boy had fastened his duffle coat unevenly, so that there was a spare toggle at the top, without a loop to accommodate it.
    Kevin stood on tip-toe to read the notice on the board, his lips lightly shaping the words he found there. His breath hung on the cold air in a visible cloud, and Septimus Appleby pictured a happy dragon, full of youthful curiosity.
    'Where are you going to fly to, Mr Septimus Appleby?'
    'Spain, I think. Eventually. I shall buy a little house and live out the rest of my days there.'
    'Couldn't you go in an aeroplane?'
    'Yes, I could do. But where would be the challenge in that?'
    The smile on Kevin's face seemed to say that he could appreciate that point of view entirely, and his eyes were bright with imagination.
    'May I help you build your wings?'
    'It will be a pleasure to have your company.'


As he walked home, Septimus Appleby pondered on how people would react to his announcement. They would think he was mad. Of course they would. Some of the villagers might even worry about him. Mrs Robinson, Kevin's mother, for instance. It couldn't be done, could it? The scientists said so. If it could be done, someone would have done it by now.
    But 'the scientists', some of them, had claimed that the bumblebee should be incapable of flight, hadn't they? And look how wrong they had been on that one. He would ignore what everyone else might think. All it would take was imagination, hard work and a little faith. 'Where there's a will, there's a way.' That's what Molly had always said, and Septimus Appleby was determined to prove her right.


Septimus Appleby's shed, always a hive of industry, was especially lively on the following afternoon. The walls of the shed, usually bare, were now crammed with postcards of mythical birds, and pictures of old flying machines; the air was sweet with the scent of sawdust. Kevin was perched on one end of the workbench, swinging his feet to and fro, and watching attentively as Septimus Appleby sawed thin pieces of wood into precise lengths.
    'My mum says you won't be able to do it. She says if Icarus couldn't do it, why should you be able to.'
    'And what does your mother know about Icarus?'
    Kevin explained that they had 'done' Icarus at school, and that he had told the story to his mum when she got home that evening. She had found that story odd enough, but when Kevin had told her of Septimus Appleby's plans, she had just shaken her head and muttered something.
    'What do you think, Kevin?' asked Septimus Appleby. 'Do you think your mother's right?'
    'No. I don't think she has much imagination. I think you need imagination for something like this.'
    'Good lad,' said Septimus Appleby, smiling to himself. 'After all, it wasn't that Icarus was unsuccessful, was it? On the contrary, he was a victim of his own success. His wings were so effective, they enabled him to fly too close to the sun. That was his downfall - heat. Heat and hubris. Do you know what 'hubris' means, Kevin?'
    'Yes, Mr Septimus Appleby.'
    'You're a bright young chap.'
    Kevin frowned for a moment, and hesitated.
    'I think my mum's worried about you. She says maybe you're not expecting to be able to fly at all, that you'll just jump off the cliff and... well... She thinks... She thinks you never really got over... you know...'
    'It's alright, Kevin. Your mother is a wonderful woman. But you must tell her not to be concerned about me. I shall be alright. This is going to be the finest time of my life. Don't you think?'
    Kevin nodded, reassured.
    'Will you be using wax and feathers, Mr Septimus Appleby?'
    'No, Kevin.'


That evening, Septimus Appleby balanced himself on a chair against the wardrobe and pulled down a box with a faded design of antique roses on it. He was ready for the aching sense of emptiness it would bring with it, and tried to suppress it, but without success. He jumped nimbly down from the chair.
    He put the box on the floor, pulled off the lid, and removed the layers of crisp tissue paper protecting its precious contents.
    And there it was. Molly's wedding dress. The scent which rose from the fabric struck him like a physical blow, and a wave of loss and loneliness washed over him.
    He remembered Molly telling him the story of the dress. How it had been her mother's, carefully crafted from the parachute which had glided her father into occupied France in 1944. And it suddenly struck him that perhaps he should preserve the garment just as it was, as a piece of history.
    He hesitated a moment, pushing the tissue layers home again. He started chewing on his thumbnail, something he did when he was undecided. Then he realised what he was doing and gently admonished himself, just as Molly would have done.
    And the realisation struck him: his life had become like that wedding dress - preserved in layers of tissue paper, unchanging, suspended in time. Suspended. Yes. He pulled off the layers of tissue paper again, more urgently this time, hoping that a sense of purpose might extinguish his doubts.  
    'You don't mind, do you love?' he asked the face in the photograph on the bedside table. 'You do think I'm doing the right thing?'
    The face in the photograph smiled at him, the smile it had smiled forty-five years ago, across an airport departure lounge - the smile he had fallen in love with.
    'This way, you see,' he said to the smile, 'we'll be together again. And I can't do it without you, Molly. I don't want to do it without you.'
    The smile seemed to say 'You should always follow your dreams, Septimus Appleby,' and he felt the same sense of reassurance he had always felt from her.
    He pulled Molly's old sewing box from its retirement space under the bed, and took out a large pair of dress-making scissors. He had the strangest feeling that they had been waiting for him.


That weekend, Kevin watched as Septimus Appleby cut pieces of silk into the shapes he needed for his wings, adjusting his measurements from time to time, and trimming pieces of the fabric as he went along.
    Kevin was in charge of the glue pot, and had risen to this responsibility with an easy assurance surprising in a child of his tender years. As each piece of silk was cut precisely to its finished size, Kevin would carefully run the glue brush along the edges, his lips pursed in concentration. Then he would watch intently as Septimus Appleby eased the silk into place on the wooden frames.


And so, four months later, Septimus Appleby stood on the edge of a cliff, with a small group of people from the village assembled nearby. His white, silken wings were dazzling in the sunlight. He didn't look worried at all, Mrs Robinson was to remark a day or so later. No, quite serene, in fact.
    He looked up into the sky at one point, and his lips moved. Could it have been a prayer? they asked. But they agreed that no, it probably wasn't. He didn't believe in God, did he? They had seen him in the church occasionally, just recently, but he usually seemed to be studying the stained glass window of the Annunciation, and jotting down notes in a little book.
    So there he stood, looking up into the sky, and moving his lips. Nobody would ever know what he was thinking; nobody would ever know what he was saying, or to whom. Perhaps he was just talking to himself.
    After a moment, he closed his eyes and nodded, as if something had been settled, once and for all. He stared ahead of him, smiling softly. Smiling, why? Out of pure happiness? Out of a recognition of something suddenly understood? Out of resignation, perhaps?
    When he shifted a little in his harness, adjusting the straps ever so slightly, and slowly raised his wings, it was obvious to the villagers what would happen next. And they watched, not wanting to, transfixed in their unwilling comprehension of the disaster which lay only moments ahead.
    He would plunge to his death on the uncompromising rocks below, and they would have to wait until low tide before they could recover his poor, broken body. The retreating water would solemnly lap its last around the ragged remains of his improvised wings, the splintered wood, the silken tatters: Mr Septimus Appleby, and his wife, Molly, finally reunited - in death.
    Septimus Appleby appeared to brace himself for a moment, and take a deep breath. He flapped his suddenly flimsy-looking wings - once, twice, three times -
    and launched himself decisively off the ledge, to a sharp gasp from the crowd.
    Mrs Robinson turned her face away and screwed her eyes shut, as Septimus Appleby plummeted downwards, gravity scorning his unnatural wings. The villagers murmured, horrified, as he and the rocks came into rapidly closer proximity.


Kevin saw everything from a little further along the cliff, away from the adults, where he had been calmly feeding twenty-pence pieces into the viewing telescope.
    And it came as no surprise to him when Septimus Appleby suddenly soared away from the rocks, just in time, and up into the cloudless sky; or when, a few seconds later, he had established his wings into an assured, steady rhythm, and seemed suspended on the fresh, blue morning.
    Kevin imagined this was how an angel might look in flight, but he had never seen one, so he couldn't really know for sure. What he did know was that those silk panels seemed transformed into feathers now, softly embracing the air with each broad stroke, and that with the sun on his wings, Septimus Appleby shimmered like some mythic creature from a story book.
    The little boy watched as his friend grew smaller and smaller, flapping and gliding his way across the sparkling water, strong, free and invincible. Kevin put his hand into the pocket of his duffle coat, and pulled out a perfect square of silk, a gift from Septimus Appleby. He smiled to himself as he caressed it with his fingers.
    'Goodbye, Mr Septimus Appleby,' he whispered, not in a sad way, but with an overwhelming sense of pride. 
    He had known all along that everything would be alright. Because nothing was impossible to Kevin, just as nothing was impossible to Septimus Appleby. It never had been.
    And after today, it never would be.

As if by magic... In celebration of 'Mr Benn'

I had so much fun writing about 'Bod' on this blog a while ago, that I thought I'd also re-visit Mr Benn, one of my other childhood heroes.

Mr Benn was created by David McKee and first appeared on television in 1970. Each episode of the series, beautifully narrated by Ray Brooks, sees Mr Benn visiting a little costume shop.

As if by magic, the shopkeeper appeared...

Assisted by a shopkeeper who appears out of nowhere, he chooses an outfit to try on (it always fits), and walks through 'the door which could lead to an adventure'. It invariably does, and that adventure always relates to the costume he has chosen (which is lucky, really: I'm not sure what good a wet-suit and diving gear would have been in befriending an unhappy dragon...).

In re-watching the entire series on DVD - strictly for research purposes, of course - I've realised with a touch of sadness how cynical we can become in today's society. At the opening of the series, Mr Benn has been invited to a fancy dress party, hence his visit to the costume shop. We are told:

'Mr Benn wasn't really very fond of parties, but he did like fancy dress...'

Hmm. An asocial loner, then, with a penchant for dressing up. He also spends time watching the children in his street playing and queueing at the ice cream van. So, through today's eyes, perhaps not the sort of man you'd want hanging around your children...

But of course he is! That's just it. This series sparkles with a touching, innocent magic. One of the delicious things about watching these episodes now is that they remind us about the eyes through which we used to see as children, which is enormously refreshing for the soul.

So. Who is Mr Benn, and what are the features which make this little series so captivating?

Mr Benn lives at 52 Festive Road, a charming (Edwardian?) terrace, where everyone seems to be happy. We know little about Mr Benn's life. He wears a dark suit, smart tie and bowler hat, and has a handkerchief in his breast pocket - even on a Saturday. He looks as though he works in the City. But he never goes to work. Ever.

Festive Road - the Postman brings Mr Benn's invitation to the party.

That doesn't mean he isn't useful to his community, though. Far from it. Mr Benn's adventures generally lead to his helping people, righting wrongs or offering suggestions for ways to make things better. He helps to reconcile the King with his exiled pet dragon; he cheers up a princess who is so lonely that she refuses to eat; and he encourages the townspeople to build bigger cages for the unhappy animals in the zoo.

In short, Mr Benn is gentle, compassionate, practical and diplomatic. He helps to make a difference. 

One of the joys of the series is the beauty of its illustration. Each scene is vividly set in colourful watercolours, whether it be a castle, a jungle, a park or an underwater seascape. And the people are lovely too: they have gentle, rounded features and rosy cheeks.

The animation is executed simply but effectively. When characters are walking or running, we often see them only from the waist up, their legs concealed behind hedges, rocks or jungle scenery, depending on the story. This would have saved the animator a great deal of time and effort - having to produce all those legs moving would be very time-consuming.

The elephants walk through the jungle, legs concealed by foliage.

I'm not sure I felt like this when I was a five-year-old, but now I find there is something unbearably poignant about the moment the shop-keeper reappears, signalling that Mr Benn's latest adventure is over. Without argument, Mr Benn steps through the door which takes him away from his adventure forever, and back to the fitting room. He changes back into his suit and tie. He goes home.

This bit reminds me of a scene in the film 'Field of Dreams', where Dr Graham walks over the threshold of the baseball field to save Ray's daughter, knowing that he can never rejoin his team-mates and continue to live his baseball dream. I find it heart-breaking.

Still, Mr Benn never seems to mind - he is always smiling when he's changed out of his costume and into his own clothes - so perhaps I should stop taking it so seriously and not worry too much.

At the end of each episode, Mr Benn is always left with some small memento of his adventure - a parrot's feather, a seashell, a box of matches with a picture of a dragon on it... and we feel all's right with the world.

'How nice... I'll keep them carefully, just to remind me.'

There is an informative Wikipedia page, which includes a brief synopsis of each episode, and a website devoted to the series - As If By Magic - which has some lovely images. And the DVD contains the whole series, a true nostalgia-fest if ever there was one.

In Mr Benn's own words, to the shopkeeper at the end of an adventure, 'I look forward to seeing you again. Goodbye!'

Mr Benn is copyright 1970 David McKee.

The Elves, the Shoemaker, and a pile of old... Ladybirds

In times of stress, or tiredness, when I wish simply to be soothed a little, I often find myself drawn to my small collection of Ladybird 'Well-Loved Tales', easy-reading books published from the mid-1960s onwards, on which I cut my reading teeth.

These fairy-tales were re-interpreted for Ladybird by Vera Southgate, and beautifully illustrated by Eric Winter and Robert Lumley. I remember being captivated as a child by the sumptuousness of Cinderella's ball-gowns, the menace of the ogre's face in 'Jack and the Beanstalk' and the handsome, jaunty figure of 'Puss in Boots'.

Sadly, I no longer possess the books I cherished as a youngster. I (rather too) generously handed them down to a younger cousin, assuming, I suppose, that she would care for them as I had. Huh. I think I only need say the words 'coloured' and 'crayons' and you'll be able to imagine the horror for yourself. It still makes me sad to contemplate that mindless destruction!

Happily, though, thanks to the wonders of eBay, I have rebuilt my collection, and have even added stories I never owned as a child. I find when I look through these delightful little books that they hold even more magic for me now than they did when I was a five year old. And much of this magic lies in the way these books were illustrated.

One of my favourites is 'The Elves and the Shoemaker' illustrated by Robert Lumley (this link not only includes the image from the front cover, but a synopsis and several other illustrations - well worth a look).

(This is wholly irrelevant, but compare any of the pictures of the shoemaker with this photograph of Mr Kidd, one of Ernst Stavro Blofeld's henchmen in 'Diamonds Are Forever', and tell me there's not a startling resemblance.)

When I look at this book now, I notice tiny details. For instance, the first illustration shows the shoemaker and his wife at their poor, rough table. The room is shabby. There is plaster missing from a wall and the laths show through (this is a popular motif for poverty which has been used in everything from 'Tom and Jerry' to 'The Simpsons' and 'Futurama', but no less effective for that: if it ain't broke, don't fix it!).

Later on in the book, when the couple have become prosperous, we see them in the same room. But there is now a fire burning in the grate, the furniture is of higher quality, and the couple are better dressed and have acquired a cat. The colour tone of the whole image is much warmer than the one which opened the book.

A little later, when the couple discuss how to reward the elves, there is a beautiful illustration. Crisp winter light floods in through the latticed windows, there is a robin on the windowsill - a promise of Christmas - and I swear I can smell the snow outside, so vividly is this scene illustrated:

And there is nothing more magical than the illustration of the tiny clothes and shoes which the shoemaker and his wife prepare for the threadbare elves, to thank them for their hard work. Note the Christmas decorations - Christmas is always good for a bit of extra magic:

From the late 1970s onwards, the style of illustration changed dramatically, as you can see here. It's all very subjective, of course, but the later style, to me, is more 'cartoon' than the tiny pieces of art which accompanied the stories in the earlier books, and it holds little of the same magic.  

I was lucky enough a while ago to see a handful of the original watercolour drawings for the Well-Loved Tales series, in an exhibition on fairy tales at Tullie House Museum, Carlisle. They were considerably larger than the books in which they were used, their colours glowed, and they exuded nostalgia! I was transported straight back to my childhood wonderment... These truly were artistic masterpieces in their own right.

Light Dancing on Water

Over the past few weeks, I have been re-visiting and re-working some pieces of poetry I originally wrote a while ago. They never saw the light of day: my confidence deserted me, I stopped writing altogether, and the poems have been hibernating on my hard-drive ever since.

It seemed strange to come back to them. So much time exists between me and the words I once wrote, that they feel unfamiliar, as if I have never seen them before, as if it they're not actually my words at all. But that has been useful. I can look at them much more objectively now than I could then, and it has been much easier to edit them as a result.

Light Dancing on Water was inspired by the fountain and water trough in the glass house in the walled garden at Wallington in Northumberland. The light on the water reminded me of long, carefree summers, when, as a small child, I would delight in playing with a bucketful of water. And this made me consider how powerful and potent - how visceral - a memory from childhood can be.

I'm excited to say that I should soon be recording this poem, amongst others, for Listenupnorth.com, a beautiful, imaginative spoken word website, based in Northumberland. Do visit this lovely site - it's a real treasure-trove!

Light Dancing on Water

The marble lion's head spouts water
in a steady, sparkling stream,
smooth, green-scented,
amidst the verdant planting of the orangery...

A memory - a long hot summer:
Time passing by so slowly then.
A cold-water tap, in a small suburban kitchen,
a shiny metal bucket, brimming liquid fun.

A mother's gift, not yet discerned:
How To Delight In Simple Pleasures.

Out on the sun-bleached lawn, my versatile friend
galvanises me to innocent exaltation.
I plunge my hands through crystal magic,
laugh with it as its coolness tickles my fingertips -
mischievously splashes knees, bare feet -
thrill at the dazzling sparks that
flash across its surface and
scorch themselves in ecstasy onto memory's eye:

Light dancing on water...

... plunging home to the perfect proportions
of its deep, square, marble pool.
A mellow life-force, calming, tranquil,
cooling the lush-planted greenhouse,
where dappled light dances on water.

In Bod we trust. And dandelions.

Ask any of my friends, and they'll tell you: I'm not a latest-designer-handbag-chasing sort of girl. My husband and I share a mobile phone but can rarely remember where we left it. And Jimmy Choo sounds just like someone sneezing, to me, although I believe he is a real person and has something to do with shoes.

There, that's who I am. My trusty, ageing little rucksack serves me well for walking home with the groceries, and a sturdy pair of trainers is the ideal footwear for getting me there, up a mile of pretty much unrelenting hill. And if someone phones when I'm not at home, they can leave me a message and I'll phone them back.

I often reflect on the importance of simple pleasures - at least for me - in an increasingly complicated, pressurised and stuff-led world. Surely if we can enjoy the simple things in life, we're more likely to be happy? And we're surrounded by things everyday which can delight, even astound us, if we simply take a moment to see them.

The humble dandelion, for instance. Yes, it's a 'weed'. But take a good look at a dandelion. It actually has a very beautiful flower, a gorgeous sunburst of small, delicate petals. The name 'dandelion', incidentally, is apparently of late Middle English origin, from the French dent-de-lion, meaning 'lion's tooth' (because of the jagged shape of the leaves). But to me, the petals of this big, happy daisy actually resemble the mane of a bright yellow lion.

How could anyone not take pleasure in one of these?

Happy Dandelion 

And a cat's fur. Strictly speaking, our cat is black and white. But in bright sunlight, if you look closely, each 'black' hair reflects a dazzling array of colours - purple, green, turquoise, russet... Clever cat. Another simple pleasure, and for free, too. Well, maybe not quite for free, but, like me, she doesn't have designer tastes either: she is perfectly happy with Go-Cat, so that's something.

Happy Hattie 

And Bod. Ah, Bod. This was one of the television programmes I grew up with, and I feel so lucky I did.

For anyone who has never met him, Bod is a follically-challenged cartoon boy in a yellow dress and leggings (bear with me) who has an infectiously jaunty walk and an aunt called Flo. His friends are Farmer Barleymow, PC Copper and Frank the Postman (Oh! Ha! I just got that...).

Bod began life in 1963, when Michael and Joanne Cole created him for the entertainment of their own children. He enjoyed his first outing on television in a series of 13 five-minute animated shorts in 1974, and he is still going strong on DVD. His simple, sometimes surreal, adventures are complemented by warm and lovely narrative from John Le Mesurier and catchy incidental music by the much-loved Derek Griffiths.

Bod's adventures can be sampled for free online and I would strongly recommend you begin with the Official Bod Website. Here, you can witness the ramifications of 'Bod's Dream' about strawberries and cream, complete with joyously bizarre ending.

Also here is the story of 'Bod and the Apple', where the law of gravity is tested in time-honoured fashion, and there are, temporarily, red-faces all round. In fact, I just have to share this bit of dialogue with you:

Flo:   Hello Bod. What are you doing here?

Bod:  I'm waiting for an apple I threw up in the air. It hasn't come down.

Flo:   Oh, it will. They always do.

Gorgeous!

Today, this delightful programme feels like a celebration of simplicity itself. In these days of computer rendered special effects and the burgeoning of expensive 3D productions, what could be more heartening or reassuring than a little slice of hand-drawn, primary-coloured, two-dimensional animation?

Three cheers for Bod!

The Happy Meal

I had always imagined that my blog would be a place where I would mainly post pieces of short fiction, and perhaps a poem or two. Well, like a lot of creative endeavours, it seems to have taken on a life of its own, and become a place for my musings on writing, music, art and life generally. 

Nothing wrong with that, I suppose, and I am enjoying it all immensely. But I thought it was high time that I started posting the occasional piece of short fiction, and that's what I'm here to do today. 

'The Happy Meal' came about as a result of a casual remark I heard on the radio, which made me reflect on the huge potential for melancholy of the humble Happy Meal. This was one of those happy occasions when something just clicked, and I sat down and wrote the first draft of the piece almost on automatic pilot - a fabulous, if elusive, sensation which comes highly recommended!  

The Happy Meal

As if a flabby hamburger and a plastic dinosaur could possibly nourish body or soul, he muses sadly as he watches his son across the table. The colourful cardboard box promises much, but delivers little. A bit like life, he thinks, before he has time to stop himself.

How can a ‘Happy Meal’ ever mend the damage that’s been done? I’m a useless father. She was right. He’ll never be able to forgive me. It’s me he’ll blame, not her. Probably for the rest of his life.

He stares, awe-struck, at his little boy, and marvels at his innocent perfection: the unblemished softness of his rosy cheeks, the neat back-to-school haircut, the fingers with their clipped nails, sinking into the burger bun. And the love that surges through him promises to break his heart, and he wonders if he hasn’t been punished enough already.

He picks up the plastic toy between finger and thumb, and prowls it across the table, trying to distract himself from the tears prickling at him. Deep breath. Triceratops. He remembers it from his own childhood, his fascination with these strange creatures, his need to learn the long names, to list, to categorise. Just like his son.

The boy watches as the dinosaur furtively approaches his bag of chips. The hint of a smile plays across his lips, moist with grease from the burger. He picks out a chip, twists it in his tub of ketchup, and holds it to the dinosaur’s open mouth, his beautiful fresh face level with the monster’s.

‘He’s a herbivore. So he likes chips. But not hamburgers.’

The man smiles. He makes the sort of low, satisfied growling noise he imagines a triceratops might make, in demolishing its favourite meal of French fries doused in ketchup.

‘Daddy?’

‘Yes, love?’

The little boy fixes him with big blue eyes as clear as a sunny winter’s morning.

‘Dad, what’s the matter?’

‘… Oh look. He’s covered in ketchup now.’

But the boy just gazes at him.

‘How d’you mean? Nothing. Nothing’s the matter.’

He takes another deep breath, ragged this time, not quite within his control. He picks up a paper napkin and busies himself in wiping the sticky tomato sauce from the dinosaur’s vacant face.

‘You look sad.’

Oh, no. He’s noticed. No. Every other weekend. That’s all you have. You promised yourself you’d make the most of it. You promised. And you’ve screwed it up. Loser.

‘I’m a bit… tired, that’s all. I’m… I’m sorry.’

He tries a smile, but is unconvinced by it himself. Then he tries a yawn instead, grabbing at the opportunity to rub his eyes as well.

‘Dad?’

‘Yes?’

The little boy frowns and bites his lip.

‘… What is it, son?’

‘We will always do things together, won’t we? You will always want to?’

The sweet, sharp unexpectedness of the question catches at his breath.

He suddenly feels the need to blow his nose. He reaches into one jacket pocket, then another, but there’s no handkerchief there – he knows there isn’t, and the reason why: he hasn’t done his ironing. She told him he was hopeless, the day she left. Maybe she was right.

He is aware of his son watching him, concerned, his sweet head tilted slightly to one side. He dares to meet his eye. But he doesn’t find what he’s expecting there - no derision, no intolerance, no bitter, crushing disillusionment. Because he’s nothing like his mother. Those wise blue eyes are gleaming at him, understanding him better, more deeply, than they should ever have been allowed to do. Loving him.

The boy licks ketchup from his fingers and gently hands his father a fresh paper napkin. The man swallows hard, takes the napkin as calmly as he can and blows his nose into it.

‘I hope so. I’d like to. That’d be great, wouldn’t it?’

His son seems relieved, as if an unbearable weight has been lifted from his tiny shoulders, and he beams at him, a big, sunny life-raft of a smile. 

‘Now. I think I could eat some ice-cream. How about you?’

Family likeness

I’ll be honest, I know very little about sheep.

I know even less about lambs. I always assumed all lambs looked alike: disproportionately long legs and knobbly knees, and out-sized feet that resemble neat little platform shoes. Oh, and pretty faces, obviously.

But I was stunned yesterday when walking in Weardale to come across a Blue Faced Leicester ewe and her two new lambs. Now, I may know very little about sheep, but I can recognise a Blue Faced Leicester when I see one – its distinctive Roman nose, bluish face and elegant, upright ears make it unmistakeable.

The noble profile of a Blue Faced Leicester!

What struck me was how well-developed the character of the lambs, which can only have been a few days old, already was. They had the distinctive face shape of their mother, although soft and sweet in a baby animal way, and the ears already had their attractive curve.*

I eventually had to be physically removed from this scene by my long-suffering husband. This was, after all, a work day for him – he needed to do some photography – and I suspect he was worried he might lose the light altogether if we didn’t get a move on.

Never mind. That image will stay with me and remind me that, after a long and difficult winter, spring must finally be here.


* In a moment of mental abberation while I was watching the lambs, I temporarily forgot my husband was a photographer. If I'd asked him politely, I might now have been able to post a nice photograph of the lambs themselves. Ahem.

The sand-box approach

My husband informed me over lunch today that what I'm engaged in with my blog at present - it is only two days old - is known as the 'sand-box approach'. I had never heard of this concept, but immediately I said, 'So I just play around with it and see what happens?' And apparently that's exactly what that means.

The words 'sand-box' immediately brought to mind an old photograph my parents have. It shows a toddler in a pair of pink dungarees, playing earnestly in a cardboard sand-box (we really knew how to have fun in the 70's), on the rather barren patio of a brand new Wimpey bungalow.

The garden and patio are a beautiful, lush little haven now, without a whisper of the childhood or the sand-box (though I can still recall the pleasant mustiness of the box and the grittiness of the sand between my fingers). Perhaps the blog is my replacement sand-box, a safe new place to play and experiment, but with words this time, instead of a spade and a blue plastic saucepan.

I'm having fun behind the scenes, adding and adjusting elements, asking myself 'What happens if I click on this...?' and trying out things generally, so I can make this work just as I'd like it to. I hope I'll get into my stride pretty quickly.

Sophie.