Red (and Blue)

Last month, 10th September to be exact, I filled the time that child number two was at a trampolining party by shopping for ingredients for one of child number one’s GCSE Food Tech practicals. As I stood motionless in the aisle, scanning the supermarket shelves for pecan nuts, a tiny elderly woman shuffled right up to me. I gave her what I hoped was a friendly smile, as I stepped slightly away from her to regain my personal space. She took another step towards me, gripped my arm and in an excitable stage whisper blurted out ‘are you a Red or a Blue?’

As the mother of Manchester City fans, I knew immediately of course that it was Manchester Derby day and that her question used the local shorthand to gauge my allegiance. I laughingly told her that I was neither, but I had some ardent Blues at home waiting for me to get back with the shopping. She shuffled off again, looking slightly disappointed; I can only suppose she was a Red trawling the shop for comrades.

Child number three was eagerly awaiting kick-off at home. Earlier that morning, he had agreed to do some final practice for his 11+ exam, due the following Monday, before the match, if he could be allowed to watch it in its entirety. This is a well-rehearsed negotiation by him, generally involving trade-offs between homework, football and screen-time. He did not need to negotiate very hard on this occasion, as we know how much being a City fan means to him. It means, for example, that he refuses to wear red clothes (with the honourable exception of his own under 11s football strip); it means that he has tiny stickers of City players, old and new, lovingly stuck next to the bed in his blue-walled, blue-carpeted bedroom; it means that he employs theatrical, self-conscious hisses and boos when we drive past the United stadium; it means that, on the day he was told that he had not passed the 11+ exam after all, he took comfort in wrapping himself in a City flag and curling up in abject, profound disappointment on the couch next to me.

As much as he loves watching football on the television or in the stadium, he loves playing it even more. He is animated, skilful, fast and beautiful. His face lights up with joy, as he throws himself into it heart and soul, determined to win the ball, delighted to run with it, ecstatic if he manages to get it past the keeper into the back of the net. I often find myself watching him from the touchline with a group of dads who cannot resist shouting out to the players on the field and who appear to invest so much of their own emotional energy in the outcome of the game, feeling every kick and flinching at every miss through their sons.   I love to see my boy with the wind in his hair and a grin on his face, but I often lose track of the score in my focus on my son as poetry in motion. The dads don’t lose focus for a single second: they live and breathe each ball, bemoan each perceived injustice by the young referees and discuss the strategies of the under 11 coaches with more gravity and criticism than that levelled against the Premiership managers on Match of the Day.

Much like the woman in the supermarket, they also use a shorthand for their in-match interjections which has taken me years to understand. It’s important, I have come to realise, to concentrate on the manner of delivery – just listening to the words does not always clarify to me what is being said. ‘Tackle!’, for example, can, depending on the tone and pitch, mean either ‘get in there and tackle their number seven immediately or you’re no son of mine!’ or ‘my word, what a superb tackle that was’. ‘Pass!’ can be either an anguished instruction, or an approving recognition of a skilful move. As can ‘feet!’ and ‘pace’. ‘Shot!’ can mean ‘what a try, shame it missed, but you gave me a bit of excitement there!’ or ‘hurray, we scored’ (generally the whooping and clapping helps me distinguish that one if I happen to be distracted watching my boy whilst the goal flies in).

In a week when my sensitive, hilarious, clever, capable boy has been left feeling worthless and stupid, I am very grateful to those touchline dads and to the gruff sports teacher at his school. I know he has heard their terse, economical yet enthusiastic and heartfelt commentary and I know when he hears it, he understands them and he feels he is doing something well.   Long may it continue. Respect.


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The photographs stand side by side,

one faded colour, one black and white,

two classes of schoolchildren a generation apart,

traditionally arranged, tallest at the back

and in each sits a girl in the short-child chairs,

one fringed and dark, one plaited and fair,

both staring ahead, hands on laps, sombre-faced

following instructions with fingers laced,

but with one small thumb in unconscious rebellion,

poking proudly aloft to break the standardised vision.

Across the years a mirrored gesture

linking mother with daughter.


Sometimes -not when looking directly –

but in a shop window, obliquely,

or in an angled wing mirror, viewed quickly,

by the clench of my jaw

by my wary eye

by the set of my hands on the steering wheel

I see my mother reflected in me.


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It was a day of warmth and wonder,

rightfully Autumn’s, stolen back by Summer

for one last brilliant burst

of sunshine, as we trekked the Anglesey coast.

We three walking together in deep conversation,

cementing friendships in nature’s contemplation.


Stepping along striated limestone boulders

we see the lifeboat station fling its boat asunder;

a brief breathless ascent to a quiet copse

to find ancient stones our world forgot,

then down to feast at variegated brambles

of unready reds and glistening purples.


Last back through gentle green undulations

to watch twilight birds swoop in secret formations,

to rest, to think, to pause

in the salty air and listen to the noise

of the ceaseless rhythmic incoming waves,

a giant yellow moon rising over the bay.



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Once she made her own blue dress,

tied ribbons in her short brown hair

to dance the night away with him.

She cannot remember it now.


Once they held hands and kissed

on the back seat of a Balham bus,

before he walked home again, penniless.

She cannot remember it now.


Once they swam naked in azure seas,

ate seafood on the beach then

walked quietly through island flowers.

She cannot remember it now.


Always she did everything for him,

entertained his friends, concocted special meals

from vegetables she grew in their garden.

She cannot remember it now.


So now he cooks some basic fare,

he slowly vacuums the floor,

helps her into her clothes, combs her snow-white hair

because he remembers everything about


his girl of seventeen,

his bride of twenty-three,

his lifelong companion.


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I first met Clara in the day room of a community hospital on a humid afternoon in late summer.   Sunlight flooded in through the floor to ceiling windows, as elderly people dotted here and there around the room dozed, mouths agape, heads lolling, curved spines wedged uncomfortably into high backed armchairs, with the unlikely high-volume background soundtrack of Judge Rinder from the TV.

Clara, however, sat alert and upright in a chair in the far corner, awaiting her visitor.  I joined her at her table, introduced myself and explained that I had come to talk to her and to listen to her views, wishes and feelings about whether she could return to her own home when she left hospital. She returned my gaze directly, her bright brown eyes in a surprisingly unlined face framed by long, straight grey hair searching my face as I spoke. If I had had to guess her age, I would have placed her at a sprightly eighty or so and yet her notes told me that she was ninety six and had been diagnosed with mixed dementias.

Clara was polite, articulate and keen to talk, but it became apparent very quickly that she could not remember many, if any, details of her life prior to her admission into hospital several weeks earlier. She could also not remember questions I had posed to her less than five minutes after I had asked them. At one stage, I asked her if she had ever been married and initially she shrugged her shoulders saying she did not know, but then lifted her left hand and stared at it intently. She looked in wonderment at the thin gold band embedded into the fourth finger, almost as if someone had just placed it there that moment without her knowledge or consent and announced rather stiffly ‘I appear to be wearing a wedding ring, don’t I, so I suppose I must have been.’

When asked what she felt about the doctors and social workers’ concerns that she would not be able to look after herself properly if she were to return home, she refuted the allegations tartly and told me that she could manage perfectly well. We discussed how she prepared her own meals, fetched her own shopping, washed and dressed herself and did not need to have carers visiting her in her house (none of which was true, according to a long suffering neighbour and the care agency who had been sending carers into her home three times a day prior to her hospital admission). I told her that I would like to come back and see her again the following week and asked if she thought she would remember me when I returned. Clara reached forward and plucked the long strand of beads I was wearing away from my chest, twirled them around her fingers and said thoughtfully ‘I like these. When you come back to see me, wear these…’. I assured her I would and asked her if she thought that it would help her to remember me and what we had talked about if I wore the beads again, to which she smiled slightly and replied only ‘it’s worth a try’. It was worth a try; I did wear them on a return visit the following week but she did not remember me (although she graciously complimented me on a pretty necklace).

On my visits to Clara, when I asked her about returning home, it became clear that, whilst she could not remember her husband or her home of the past fifty years, she could remember the home of her childhood and youth. The world she had known first was the only one still fixed into her disappearing memories. She spoke animatedly about living with her mother and father, who in her world were still alive and in need of her services helping behind the counter in their grocery shop. She told me all about the work her mother did in the house and that she was teaching her how to run her own home. She told me all about her little brother, who was away in the war and from whom they hadn’t heard for a long time. She told me about getting another job too, so she could help out her lovely mum and dad who still worked so hard.

I asked Clara if she knew how old she was. There was a long pause while she fixed her eyes on mine, arched her eyebrows and said ‘about twenty-five? Am I right?’. I told her it was not quite right but that she could be any age she wanted to be on the inside. She then asked me to tell her how old she was, confessing she had guessed at twenty-five because she had no idea, but that was how she felt. However, when I did tell her, she reacted with astonishment and rising horror: ‘ninety SIX? NINETY SIX?’. Thankfully (for me), after a minute or two she had moved on to telling me about her mother again and appeared to have forgotten everything except her desire to return to her days as a young adult living in the family home above the family shop.



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Summer of Love

It is summer 2016. My children are older now – 15, 12 and 10 – and I find it so difficult to remember my life before they changed it forever. The early, slow, can’t-tell-day-from-night phase has gone for good and the last few years have whipped by in a blur. My children are changing almost on a daily basis before my very eyes, metamorphosing into the adults they will soon be, so I wanted to use the Summer of Love project to document what I love about them today, this week, this summer, before it whizzes past me and I can no longer pin it down.

Some of the things I love now are:

Their senses of humour

However difficult a day I may have, there is not one that goes past without at least one of my children making me laugh at some point. I genuinely enjoy their company more and more as they mature into their personalities. My youngest child still has quite slapstick tendencies and I now suspect this may always be the case. Living with him is like living with Cato from The Pink Panther: his favourite current trick is to try to steal up behind me, noiselessly, as I, Inspector Clouseau-like, haplessly chop vegetables/brush my teeth/check my email, and leap onto my back shouting triumphantly ‘bet you didn’t know I was here!’ He still finds it hilarious to stick two oranges up his t-shirt and pretend he has breasts and is still to be found rolling around on the floor in abject mirth watching You’ve Been Framed. My daughter is altogether more sophisticated in her humour. She can speak volumes with a carefully raised eyebrow and a scathing look and is turning into a good mimic. My eldest likes a visual gag, passing his phone to me ten or twenty times a day to chortle at something or other and share the joke, often loftily hiding the screen from his siblings, declaring it ‘unsuitable’ for them or telling them they wouldn’t get it because it’s about Brexit, or Donald Trump.

Their developing engagement with the world

No one could have missed the dramatic political developments of Summer 2016 and my children are certainly all aware of Brexit, terrorism and the US election. Although it has been chiefly my oldest child who has been gripped by the unfolding events and had articulate, passionate conversations around the debate (whilst bemoaning that he and his friends were not eligible to vote in the Referendum), all of them have an awareness of the events of the world around them and ask pertinent questions. There are many stories I wish I could shield them from, like the Nice attacks, particularly when their questions reveal anxieties and inaccuracies but this is now impossible, not least because the news is beamed directly to their mobile phones.

Their hormones

Hormones are raging for two out of the three of them (not to mention me). This can sometimes lead to sulks, slammed doors, arguments and tears (including mine). However, I am really heartened and impressed by the way they are learning to deal with this and to understand my point of view. Recently, several weeks of nagging to try to get my son to tidy his bedroom resulted in a sarcastic outburst in which I was accused of being unreasonable (of course) and of having OCD. Later that evening, I received a text from him, showing a grinning selfie with a thumbs up from inside an immaculate bedroom. My daughter’s moods are becoming more erratic but a couple of weeks ago, after a prolonged bout of snippiness, she silently presented me with a beautiful drawing of an elephant (known to be my favourite animal) by way of a peace-offering.

Their bodies

They are lengthening, stretching and growing. They are lithe and lean, freckled, muscled, beautiful creatures with glossy hair and shiny eyes. I sometimes cannot stop myself from staring and marvelling at how bonny and strong they are. They all still do a lot of sport but, whilst the football, cricket and gymnastics plus the rigours of secondary school are enough to wear out the older two, who have become rather floppy, enervated and adolescent in their down time, no amount of exercise seems to exhaust my youngest child. He is, dog-like, irrepressible, continually moving and continually fiddling with anything in his vicinity. This year, I have finally had the brainwave of taping up the remote controls, to try to stop him absent-mindedly pulling their backs off so that the batteries spill down the sides of the chairs.


All of them are very engaged by music this summer, in different ways. My eldest is taking music GCSE, which he is finding more absorbing than I could have hoped. He is also developing an eclectic retro style, teaching himself Beatles and David Bowie numbers alongside his Moonlight Sonata and New Worlds Symphony and putting Nirvana and Etta James on his holiday playlist. To my great joy, he has asked me to sing along when he tries to work out his Lennon and McCartney chords on the piano (cue sarcastic comments from the others about how we should enter Britain’s Got Talent. Not.) My daughter has taken to lying on her bed, trainee teenager like, listening to the latest chart music. My youngest likes nothing better than when we are driving around the area after school, dropping and collecting from various activities, and he can enforce Capital radio in the car, to which he joyously sings along at the top of his voice. They are all learning instruments but pop music is gaining precedence.

This summer, I am also remembering with love my grandmother, who died ten years ago this month at the grand old age of 96 and my mother, who died two years ago this month. My grandmother was a tiny, charismatic Scottish woman who, despite being an extrovert through and through, was the one person who made me feel comfortable about being an introvert when I was growing up. ‘You have a stillness’, she told me, ‘that reminds me of my mother and it is a nice quality. You just be you.’ As I am writing this at the start of the long summer holidays, I will probably fail time and time again, but my heartfelt aim is to make my children feel that just being them, whatever that is, is good enough for me.


Summer of Love Series 2016

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We surged up together in the basket

Shockingly fast – un unlikely quartet –

We two, your mother and your sister’s boy,

Sudden blasts of flames shooting us into the sky.

As we drifted uneasily above English shires

You took my hand and we stood side by side

Our silence punctuated by regular fiery jets,

We would marry in a year, but did not know it yet.

Our descent impeded, giant pylons in view

We banged down sideways, balloon spreading askew,

Instructed  to fall, big catching small, one upon the other,

Thus I fell on you and the boy on your mother.

Everything and nothing has changed since our ascending,

You are still by my side, always my soft landing.


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