Tag Archives: story

If Carlsberg did overtime…

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This weekend we’re recording a short film with some of our young people which will be shown at the charity’s annual supporter event in November. Tonight was the first stage; getting everyone together to rehearse their stories so they feel comfortable in front of the camera when we shoot for real tomorrow.

I knew it would be a powerful experience but in reality it blew me away. Even though they’ve all faced so many challenges in their relatively short lives, every single one of them was able to open up and tell their story honestly and from the heart, which was testament to how much they trusted and felt supported by one another. The rapport between the group and the strength of positive feeling towards the charity – all the young people without exception attribute it to changing their lives for the better, some even said they didn’t know what would have become of them without the intervention – was so incredibly moving, my words can’t even do it justice.

The whole experience left me full of admiration for these astonishing young people, who are taking their negative experiences and turning them into positive ones – literally turning their lives around with our ongoing support and encouragement. I feel humbled to have been present as they shared their stories, and so excited to see them again tomorrow as they do it again ‘for real.’

And, most of all, I feel incredibly fortunate to have myself had such a comparatively trouble-free life. Hearing some of the young people’s stories really made me realise just how trivial some of the things I’ve been through really were, even though at the time they may have seemed horrendous (I always have been good at melodrama). That’s not to say at times I haven’t been through tough times, just that I’m so grateful to have always been supported through those times by people who loved me.

Wow, what a night. Sometimes working overtime isn’t a chore at all – it’s an honour and a privilege.

Fish out of water

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It’s just after ten thirty in the morning when two young men saunter into the French café-cum-Brazilian-restaurant in Stockwell. The usual regulars in attendance – a middle-aged couple sitting outside chain-smoking Benson and Hedges cigarettes – raise their eyebrows at the peculiar sight in their midst, but soon return to their smoke-shrouded conversation. One of the young men, dressed in a white t-shirt so tight it leaves no doubt as to the extent and intensity of his exercise regime, chooses a table and sits down. He casts a sideways glance at his reflection in the wall to wall mirror and makes a small adjustment to his carefully sculpted hair before nodding his approval. His friend, in matching t-shirt and a pair of denim shorts that look too tight for comfort if not fashion, heads over to the counter where an attractive Brazilian lady is polishing glasses. She looks about forty but could be older. Her brown hair tumbles over her shoulder in loose curls and when she turns away to open the fridge the young man steals a glance at her behind, which sits snugly inside a pair of white skinny jeans. She turns back to him and he skilfully averts his eyes to the row of optics lined up like sentries behind her. She flips the caps off the beers, adds two slices of lime and hands them to him. He re-joins his companion at the table.

Several minutes later he shouts across the room to the woman. “Don’t s’pose there’s a River Island around here somewhere is there love?” he says in a strong Essex accent. The woman’s lips spread into a bemused smile. She shakes her head, wipes her hand on a tea towel. “Brixton,” she says, “that’s the nearest place for shops.” The young men thank her and drain their beers. With a final readjustment of their hair and outfits they walk outside. “Not from ‘round here,” one of the regulars says to the other as they watch them go. “Nope,” says the other, exhaling a stream of smoke through her nose as fat splodges of rain begin to fall down from the sky.

The perennial debate of “they’re”, “there” and “their”

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As a precocious child at primary school I had labelled myself as ‘one to watch’ in the literary world by the approximate age of seven. During weekly writing classes I refused point blank to write anything other than my ‘never ending story’ – a down-the-rabbit-hole (well, mole-hole, actually, but I digress) type tale not that dissimilar to Alice in Wonderland, though I would have driven a stake through my own heart before admitting plagiarism.

In the years since then I’ve had a love affair with the many nuances of the English language and have greatly enjoyed grappling with grammar, spelling and punctuation. Which is why I sit firmly in the ‘anti-dumbing down’ camp when it comes to modern day language usage.

So you can imagine how horrified I was to read what Simon Horobin (a professor of English at Magdalen College, for goodness’ sake!) said at this week’s Hay Festival. According to Adi Bloom, who wrote this article for the Times Education Supplement Magazine, Horobin – author of a book entitled ‘Does Spelling Matter?’ (YES!!) –  suggested that the spellings of “they’re”, “there” and “their” could be standardised. “Is the apostrophe so crucial to the preservation of our society?” he asked, before concluding that “spelling is not a reliable indication of intelligence.”

On that last point I must agree with Mister Horobin – poor spelling is not necessarily a sign of low intelligence, but (and let’s exclude dyslexics from this argument for obvious reasons) it is a sign of sloppiness. In the majority of cases people have been taught how to correctly use grammar but don’t view it as important enough to master. Now I’m not archaic enough to hold the view that in this brave new digital age all language must be set in stone. But, in my humble opinion being able to demonstrate a basic grasp of when it’s appropriate to use ‘your’ versus ‘you’re’ is hardly an insurmountable challenge.

That’s why I for one am glad that the education secretary – for all his faults – has developed a new English curriculum that sets strict rules for learning correct grammar in primary school. Because if they don’t know they’re arses from there elbows then their just not going to get very far in life – and if Simon Horobin doesn’t realise that, he must be even closer to Alice in Wonderland than my never ending story.

The art of procrastination

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If there’s one thing I’m brilliant at, it’s procrastinating. I can spend hours mooching around doing precious little (whilst convincing myself that the precious little I am doing is of the utmost importance) as the things I really should be doing languish at the bottom of my to do list, gathering metaphorical dust.

But now that I’ve decided Monday is, for the short term at least, to be my day of creative writing rather than commissioned freelance work, it’s more vital than ever that I rein in the part of me that is so very proficient in the art of procrastination and make every minute count. Because a day can pass incredibly quickly when you’re drifting through it, only half aware of what you’re doing.

Today I feel I have been conscious of all that I’ve been doing, though it’s only now as I sit down in my local café at half past midday I’m able to focus on my writing. I decided to start the day with a run around Clapham Common, to try and kick the sore throat that’s been plaguing me on and off for the past week into touch. On the way home I did my weekly shop and by 10.30am I was at my desk having showered and breakfasted, ready to tie up the loose ends on my last commissioned freelance job.

Now that’s done all that stands between now and 5pm is an afternoon of story and character plotting, and I can’t wait to get started on deciphering all the notes I’ve made in recent days as ideas have begun to take shape. So without further ado I must bid you adieu, for there’ll be no procrastination this afternoon, thank you! (It’s a good job I’m writing fiction and not poetry).

When I think of procrastination, I think of Koh Tao, for it was here I spent two weeks in blissful procrastination wondering whether to stay longer or continue further on my travels. Anyone who’s been there will know why I found it so hard to leave. Happy memories indeed.

A new chapter

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Something’s happening; thus far just the gentle flickering of thoughts and ideas, licking my prefrontal cortex like kindling flames that are yet to take and start a proper fire.

But I can feel it, even though it’s been so long since I last did I’d never mistake the signs: My creativity’s returning. Like a little mouse that scurried into a hole beneath the floorboard some time ago, who’s remained hidden but only just out of reach, and who is now ready to emerge, blinking in the light, and play.

A novel is brewing, the myriad components swirling around in my mind like a witch’s brew in a mystical cauldron. I can’t control them – not yet – I have to wait while they take shape, every now and then pausing to make a note when the cauldron spits something out, decreeing it ready to be consumed. But they are unmistakably, perceptibly, joyously there.

I don’t know what will come of this long-awaited phase of imagination, nor do I know what can be attributed to its generation. Has my daily blogging finally paid off and kick-started the process of creation as I hoped it would? Or was it New York with its wonderful sights and sounds, and the even more wonderful friend I visited there who is herself writing a novel (I think this option most likely, as seeing her eyes light up talking about her plot and characters reminded me of the joy of creation, which I think somehow along the way I had forgotten)?

Whatever the reason, I’m delighted this is happening, whatever ‘this’ is. I’m happy to be patient, to jot down notes – the odd key word or character trait as it comes to me – and I’m confident soon all will be revealed. The planets are aligning, the jigsaw pieces falling into place.

Soon I shall begin.

Changing Faces

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She shivered in her duffel coat as the train crawled into the platform, though the temperature for this time of year was nothing short of balmy. A tall boy in a suit (for no designer can disguise a baby face with the cut of a jacket) sidled up to her, too close for comfort, and pulled a newspaper from underneath his arm, in which he feigned interest as he stole furtive glances at her face. He smelt of cheap aftershave and adolescent sweat. She ignored him and waited for the train to come to a halt, for the little orange light to flash its assent that she may board.

The doors opened and in the rush for a seat she noticed the boy had dropped his newspaper on the platform. He looked awkward now, exposed and gawky as he stood in the centre of the carriage, hand stretched up and groping for stability, eyes casting about for some other means of focus than her face. Someone offered her a seat, and as she sat down their eyes met. He smiled a nervous smile and looked away. She looked out of the window at the passing houses, wondering idly whether anyone was still in the comforting arms of their bed instead of battling the throng of commuters like her.

When the train reached her station they both stood up, him first, then her. He stepped back to let her pass with an exaggerated wave of his hand, an act of chivalry not fitting with his age, perhaps not even with the age in which they lived. She felt the muscles in her cheeks tug at the corners of her mouth, but no smile was forthcoming.

Wordlessly, soundlessly, they disembarked the train, and for a short while walked in perfect synchronicity to the escalator. It was there he found his voice.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Oh.” His unlined brow strained to form wrinkles of confusion. “I thought that…maybe we’d met before.”

She shook her head again.

He shrugged and set off down the escalator, melting into the crowd below.

She had been pretty once, or at least that’s what they told her. There was a time when boys like this would look at her with lust instead of pity. There was a time when this boy had looked at her like that. But what good would it have done to tell him that yes, he did know her, before the accident that stripped her of her face and left behind the empty shell that had just now stood before him?

She shrugged and set off down the escalator, melting into the crowd below.

Image

To accompany this post I tried to find a picture that encapsulates the idea of things not always being what they seem. This one was taken in the Singapore Museum last year, and I remember being blown away by this walkway surrounded by thousands of television screens, the images of which combined to make bigger images that told a story. Impressive doesn’t quite cover it.