Shenstone Wood End

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The view from the room where Stella sat, dreaming, listening to Marc Bolan and wishing she was somewhere else. 

the second place she ever lived

Drives the car round the corner; whoomph of recognition driving down that familiar little street. She's never driven down it before.  A cul-de-sac, so different from the house where she spent the rest of her childhood slap bang on a main A road. 

But then, at the end of the road, where the houses are grouped in a semi-circle around the turning space, where the kids used to race round and round on their little bikes, she becomes uncertain. Which of all the oh-so-similar houses is the one that's so full of memories?

Because she didn't only live here for six months or so as a toddler, time which is gone now, just one or two ghost memories surviving. This was where Poppy lived and Stella was one of so many who passed through there. 

Poppy's grand-daughter Marta - a tight blonde ball of determined energy - was there during the week, while her mother was working. Gloria lived there intermittently, in between boyfriends or homes, or just wanting to be home again, home with Poppy's barbed comments and cups of strong tea. When there wasn't any family living there, Poppy took a lodger; tall gangly Tim with dark hair and long feet, who eventually became part of Poppy's extended family. 

last days of summer

glorious glorious morning, I walk early down to the calm blue sea. Most of the world seems to be back at work (and of course I am looking for a job); just a couple of joggers, one lone swimmer, and the usual dog-walking people who seem to be always around.

The sea is fantastic, such a lovely blue that you can almost imagine swimming (brrrr... ); small waves lap up to the beach at perfectly regular intervals. I sit on a bench and just watch the waves.

For me, this is as near as it gets to perfect happiness. I can smell a hint of autumn in the slight chill in the air and that sense that with autumn, things start to happen again, life starts to take shape.

a day out..

It's been a month of Days Out.

The day out was always a part of my English life - trips to the zoo with my parents, shivery days at the races eating our picnic bye the car; teenage days with an early boyfriend wandering around our local towns, Coventry, Lichfield, Birmingham, Sutton Coldfield; later the slightly deranged day trips to Margate and Ramsgate from university.

Even if the weather hasn't been fantastic over the last few weeks, the English day out has definitely improved over the years. Better places, better food, nicer people..

I've loved the monkey forest - monkeys! loads of them! - and charming young people only too happy to answer all your questions. I've enjoyed the Bluebell Railway - old steam train! - staffed by delightful older people, only too happy to offer information and share memories. I've been to Alfriston - mediaeval village composed entirely of tea-rooms and National Trust buildings: to Middle Farm for farm-y type goods, lovely people.... this summer has been one long Day Out and fun with it..

actually rather liking the rain

felt ill all day yesterday and went to bed early with a ginger tea and "the phantom tollbooth".

and didn't it rain in the night?! i woke and could hear it pouring, woke later and the water was almost smashing down from the sky. You wouldn't believe it could just be falling, it was as if it was being thrown at us

i slept then, and slept again, and slept again and the rain reduced to a steady dripping and splashing and I slept and slept again so in the end i woke at eight after nearly nine hours sleep, to a world of grey and umbrellas in the street and feeling rested, stomach not hurting, neck not so painful and a clear and simple world to live in today.

So much happening..

So first of all, there's the end of work next week. So relieved to have done this though of course the idea of having basically no money coming in and quite a lot going out, is a bit worrying..

Then, it's my mum's operation at the end of June and there's a lot of getting ready and getting organised around that and it makes me feel a bit scared and worried (as it does my mum too, of course.. ). Though I do think the operation will be okay - but is it time then for my mum to move down to Brighton? And if so, how do we manage this?

I'm hoping still to spend most of July in Portugal, coming back in the middle to see my mum and also for my schoolfriend's memorial service.

In August I really need to get running! I've entered a 10-mile run in October and so far I can only do four... I've been up to six but there's a lot to build up for ten miles.

If all goes well, in September, I should be starting a Creative Writing MA. It's been my dream for so long to do something like this.. I was amazed to be accepted on the course and I can't wait for it to start.

Before that though, I've a haircut today; my mum and her sister down for the weekend tomorrow; the arrival of Hass and Sarah and family on Sunday; Bulgaria on Monday and Tuesday; my mum's pre-op consultation on Wednesday; Hass and Sarah again on Thursday; last day at work on Friday; Rose for lunch on Saturday; Mike's mum's 90th on Sunday; Paris to see Lisa on Monday and Tuesday and then it's Lichfield Lichfield Lichfield for my mum's op..

the absolute bleakness of winnersh triangle

It's absolutely not unfair, in fact it's kind of me, to call this area bleak.

Bleak to me, means wide empty winter landscapes with a raw and savage beauty all of their own. Whereas, bleak here means that from my window I see a pedestrian bridge- white and empty - across a grey five-lane road - also empty. On the other side of the road I see an office block, To Let. The sky is grey. Our office is silent apart from the clacking of keyboards.