Last Monday Afternoon On A Bench Near The Oxo Tower

As a consequence of that - err

Yes I went to a party here y'know once

Careful don't go through the bars or anything (to small child)

I sort of stop myself from doing a lot - and sort of protect myself...

...because we were very Christian-based kind of...

They refuse to

Ow! (little girl who walked alongside railings and into a pillar at foot of pier)

Sounds like it was...

Second year you're doing some sort of like psychology

St Paul's Cathedral's up here innit?

So - a scoop down the middle! (laughter)

Me? I'm waiting for your instruction.

Cutting through complexity - KPMG reads the legend on the side of a river cruiser, causing me to smile as my sister works for them...

A man walks by with a little red flag on a stick

Shall we go to the beach?

No!

...and there's a little like pizza restaurant under the bridge - you need to get alongside the river and head east... tell me what street you can see? Are you on Waterloo Road at the moment, are you?

Man with fistful of pizza slices passes, followed by birds...

I'm not doing any of that but you know, obviously...

...said hello as if we didn't just spend the last two days together...

Noisy wheeled suitcase...

Rhys always sings that

Who?

Rhys

It's only a five minute walk according to that thing

She was like dead serious

...where we'll stay - just at the end of the road.

Snaps

Big green square fields, edged with dark stone walls, laid out slant in the rationed light. Cows browsing. A carved pumpkin on the windowsill.

Memory of the man with a fistful of pizza slices on the South Bank, the seagulls whirling white and noisy about his head. A bite for him, a bite for them. His bushy beard and camouflage trousers. Me still on my bench, sticking my feet out to try and stop people walking in front of me, as I gazed out at the boats, buildings and beachcombers. Recording snatches of conversation in my notebook...

City Mystery

I dance around people on dusty pavements,

avoiding the woman with the wheeled suitcase,

the three-abreast hand-in-hand family.

Whose street is this, I wonder, whose bus-stop?

The cyclist pulling into the space

ahead of the cars pedals free on empty tarmac.

The man sitting alone on a bench

in Tavistock Square has taken his jacket off

as I pass on the top deck of a 59 bus

heading for the wall of traffic on the Euston Road.

What about the homeless man you see on the steps

of the Opera House on Tuesdays, his dancer's grace

and pale lips, the pound you give him each week?

Back

You will begin to think I spend all my evenings drinking in front of the wood burner, but it's not true... and yet here I am again basking in the glow of burning logs, sipping a glass of something red and French from a bottle with a picture of a lovely old horse on the label. And, oh dear, feeling sorry for myself. I am tired and overwrought with work, and now, after the med students tomorrow, I must climb aboard a train heading south and go and visit my Ma, and thence on to visit A even further south. I love them both, but both are currently in need of my ministrations, emotional and possibly physical (well certainly my Ma), and sometimes I just don't know what I have left to give...

It seems to be taking about all I've got to keep my own little ship steady doing five different jobs. Well, two jobs, two schools where I freelance, and a little private practice. But still, five settings, five projects. Five changes of direction every week. (Though not next week as it's half term - hurrah!) It will all, of course, be fine, the train journey giving some gentle transition time, and my Ma taking me out to dinner when I get there, and unlikely really to make massive demands. And I am very glad to be seeing A for the first time since he came out of hospital, to see for myself how he's doing. I know he's having a hard time, but all in all I think he's handling it very well, considering the summer he had. Living independently and studying - things it was hard to imagine him doing only a few weeks ago... And my trip ends with a precious evening in London with dear old friend K, which will be a treat and a chance to debrief as well as catch up.

All is well. But setting out on this journey is inevitably evoking memories of the many anxious and upsetting trips I made through the summer, and being in Canterbury again is bound to bring it all back. Hopefully seeing A so much better will replace them with better ones.

City

The city is strange with droves of dark-clad people

assembled outside buildings, in car parks.

Sullen sky reflects in the puddles of recent rain.

Sirens streak the air and a silent ambulance

drives away blue lights flashing.

You climb aboard a train and sit down.

A woman unable to open the doors

swears in two languages.

People stand on the platform

hopeful, shut out, while

the carriages are coupled with a jolt.

You are leaving the city,

racing a tram for a moment,

passing graffiti-covered brick walls,

trees fiery with dying leaves,

tower blocks, signal gantries.

Head

Having five jobs is doing my head in, and I am trying to learn not to worry about A, but no success there. Well, maybe a little. Because the worry-space in my head is only so big, and mostly during the week it's full of work-related this and that, except at 4 or 5 am when it is full on a rotational basis of jobs 1-5 and A. And my tax return, my mother, my poverty etc etc.

So, Merlot and the wood burner. And no I'm not at the writing event (see previous post and comments) and I'm not writing. Well, I'm blogging in a rather self-pitying manner and drinking Merlot. So. And L is at her book group discussing The Long Song by Andrea Levy.

I wish I could say something more positive than that.

The Road To Hell?

So many good intentions about writing more here, and here we are Friday and it's almost been a week... But I must must tell you about the wonderful reading at our local library on Wednesday night with Jackie Kay who is quite without doubt one of my favourite poets, authors, women, lesbians, human beings EVER. She read a number of extracts from her Memoir Red Dust Road, in which she goes to Nigeria to meet her birth father for the first time in her forties, having tracked him down (easily) on Google. She performs with humour and tenderness, with energy and impact. She makes you laugh even while you feel keenly the pain or poignancy of the moment - her father is a religious fanatic and sees her, his illegitimate daughter, as tainted, sullied by a sin from which he has long ago been cleansed. She makes his praying and dancing, his exhortations for her to accept Jesus into marvellous theatre, whilst never letting us lose touch with the hurt, the disappointment, the sheer emotional intensity of this encounter. And she reads chillingly the section where a young fascist aims racist abuse at her on a London tube platform, and then hits her (white) friend who tries to intervene. Jackie asks a business man with briefcase and raincoat if he isn't going to do something and he replies No, we support them. Her willingness to be so open about this very personally painful incident (in which she ended up feeling guilty about her friend's injury) in order to expose and explore the horrifying mystery of racism is brave, moving, enlightening. She also read a few poems (more would have been wondrous, but she gave her all so no complaining), and answered many audience questions with great attention, thoughtfulness and clarity. She's also incredibly funny, very warm, down to earth and utterly inspiring to me as a writer, about how one can use one's life experience as material for writing, memoir or poetry, the delicacy of judgement involved in negotiating relationships with living friends and family when writing about them, the personal and creative importance of the process. OK, I could go on, but I can't, because now I am sleep-deprived at the end of a long week, and having got up at six with only a few hours sleep in the bank to go and teach my medical students. Which went well, I'm happy to say and let us hope I will sleep in future weeks as this is very hard on the body and mind. Fortunately I only teach in the morning, and the crash only comes in the afternoon - about now in fact!! The Point about Jackie Kay though, is the inspiration. And this Sunday there's an event in town called Not For The Faint Hearted, billed as

the writing workshop that will put you on the spot... You have no choice - you have to write poems or short stories for a set amount of time and you HAVE TO perform them... Yes, we're scared too. Who knows what will happen? It's an exercise in writing with adrenaline and driving out those pesky inner whining critics for an evening.

What do you think readers? It is currently my intention to go.