The January greys...

...in my opinion

People might call it the blues but it's not,
blue that is.
It's grey.
January is a grey month.
It infects us all with its greyness ...in my opinion.

The month begins with a bang,
literally.
Gunpowder is for wars,
or mining,
not pleasure.
Money going up in smoke.
It should be banned ...in my opinion.

As soon as the pyrotechnics cease,
the resolution-making begins;
new diet, new fitness regime, new hobby.
They never last.
You might as well make a resolution a day
(some call this a to-do list)
then at least you stand a chance of success ...in my opinion.

It's a month of long nights,
short days
unforgiving north-easterly gales.
They conspire to wear us down,
deplete our energy
dampen our mood ...in my opinion.

It's a month of coughs, colds, flu, bronchitis
and, if we're not careful,
pneumonia.
There's no magic cure,
even though health food adverts tell us otherwise.
It's all a matter of luck ...in my opinion.


Then I step out of the kitchen door.
I share a gust of biting wind
with a lone hellebore.
It's a sign,
a reminder that spring is on its way,
and though we're not yet through with the cold,
the sun is rising in the sky,
the evenings are getting lighter
and so are our spirits ...in my opinion.

Down Memory Lane...

...or to be more precise, down Leicester's Gipsy Lane.

Last week I had to go to a meeting on the other side of town. This meant driving past the street where I was born and along the road that I used to cross on my way to school (I really mean the road that Mum used to drag me across. I hated school), the same road where I used to trail after Mum from shop to shop on her daily trip to buy food (no fridges in those days). There are still shops there but the grocers and greengrocers have gone.

I used to wait for the bus to Grandma's house on Gipsy Lane. The bus stop is still there. I can remember holding Mum's hand, looking forward to being at Grandma's, trying not to turn and look at the Towers Hospital behind me.

An old photograph of The Towers Hospital
 from The Leicester Mercury archives

Last week, as I crawled along in a line of traffic, I glanced at that same Towers Hospital. It stands in its own grounds and, although it is no longer a mental institution (formerly referred to as a lunatic asylum), it is still largely unchanged from the outside. I was surprised at how close the building was to the road. In infant school, we were taken there each Spring for nature walks. I remember walking along a little piece of woodland beside an iron-railed perimeter with the scarily imposing building safely at a distance. I know a lot has changed but the iron-railed perimeter hasn't moved and the building hasn't moved. It's only my memory that has had a size-change. That 'little piece of woodland' is merely a narrow path with trees and bushes alongside it.

It's strange how we remember things from long ago as being smaller or larger, nearer or further away. Maybe our memories can't retain size proportions accurately. Have you ever returned to a childhood location and been surprised by your memory's inaccuracies?

From Little Red Riding Hood to Space Oddity

It takes someone with a very special talent for their work to live on centuries after their death. There are many obvious names that would fit into this category; Plato, Shakespeare, Dickens, but I’m referring to two names that are trending on the Internet today.

One name is, of course, David Bowie. He may well become more famous, respected and revered after his death than he was during his life. I suspect that most people in the UK today are singing one of his songs in their head. I know I am. (we know Major Tom's a junkie...) Many of us have been influenced by his creativity in fashion and lifestyle. I need say no more about him. The newspapers are full of accounts of his life and artistic contribution.

The other name is someone featured in today’s Google Doogle, Charles Perrault, born 388 years ago today. His name might not be so well known but his stories are very much a part of our country’s culture. He was an advisor in the French court of King Louis XIV, later becoming an author. He wrote Little Red Riding Hood making it much clearer than today’s version how the wolf really represents all those men who prey on young girls walking alone in woods.

He wrote a version of Sleeping Beauty that was based on a 14^th century folk tale. Today’s version is a mixture of this, Grimm’s Briar Rose which was written as an oral version of Perrault’s story, plus lashings of saccharine from the Disney writing team. Perrault also wrote such tales as Puss in Boots and Bluebeard although I’m not sure if these were adaptations of earlier versions or created by him.

The point I’m trying to make: Wouldn’t it be amazing to think that you’d created something brilliant, made a positive contribution to the world, and as a result your name would go down in history. I suspect I’ve left it too late to try to achieve that for myself but, if any younger people are reading this, then why not give it a go! No, I haven’t got a clue how you’d begin. If I knew that I’d have….

That Post-Holiday Feeling

A post-holiday rhyme

I’m trying to think of new stories to write.

It’s a new year. My mind should be brimming and bright.

But the ideas won’t come cause I have eaten too much.

Creativity’s choked by the Christmas pud starch.

The food has been constant, the dinners, the cake,

and chocolates - so many they made my gut ache. 

So I've gone on a diet of fruit and good stuff

cause I know that my tummy has had quite enough.

In a few days the goodness will reach to my brain

And then I can get back to writing again.

How do you cope with all the holiday excess?