Beat me on the bottom!

Beat me on the bottom!

I’m in Woman’s Weekly this week. ‘How to Write a Short Story’. I make it sound so easy. Just follow these seven simple rules…! But it’s not. Writing – being able to write something that you can string together and call a ‘story’ is only the beginning of the battle. Fine tuning it into something you’re relatively proud of is a greater challenge – all that chipping away at words. Rewriting. Honing down. Trimming back the slack. Getting rid of the irrelevant and unnecessary. I’m never really SURE it’s as good as it gets. I just hope it’s good enough. Fingers crossed. And then there’s the awful, relentlessness of trying to find a home for the piece. A magazine, a broadcaster, a...

Daughter

Daughter

To me, she is beautiful. On the outside, a feisty warrior of a young woman, prepared and ready to take on the world. Wanting to take Life by the horns and show it what she’s made of. And on the inside, a warm, caring, considerate and compassionate human being who puts the needs of others before her own. Always. Every time. Exactly what I’d hoped and dreamed of for her. As a mother, exactly what I’d set out to achieve. And yet, I didn’t realise it would come at a cost. Today she looked at me with contempt. Everything about me irritates her. Just by ‘being’, I am in her way. She hates having to live back at home – graduated with no job and a slim immediate future. She hates the way I tidy things up in the wake of her chaos....

About now

I’ve been away a while. Busy on other things – mostly ‘being a XXX’ which, dependent on the day of the week and the time of day could have been a mum, a wife, a friend, a confidante, a shoulder, a supporter, a teacher…the list goes on. But I’ve missed you and it’s about time I put things to right. Or rather, I made time to write. Watch this space and thanks for bearing with me. Phoebe xx

Rubber

Rubber

Leaving home for University is an interesting time.  I took it reasonably seriously. And I was hopeful. I decided to go on the pill.  Clearly, being a new grown up, I needed to act responsibly. At some point I was bound to get lucky. I dutifully registered with the University medical centre, made my appointment and presented myself at the appropriate date and time. Never having used ‘proper’ contraception, I had no idea what to expect.  In fact, it was only whilst sitting in the waiting room that I began to imagine my consultation.  Would the doctor ask difficult questions?  Perhaps she might consider me too young.  Or ineligible on the grounds that I didn’t have a boyfriend and wasn’t in a serious relationship. Would she want to examine...

Anorexia – the skeleton in the family cupboard

Anorexia – the skeleton in the family cupboard

I am not a doctor, psychologist or psychiatrist but I have a unique experience of eating disorders – my little sister, Pip, suffered anorexia from the age of eleven until four days before her 40th birthday when she died weighing 4st10lbs.  In his final report, the pathologist said that her vital organs were no bigger than those of a twelve year old.  He’d never seen anything like it. Over the years I have read everything I can about the affliction in a fruitless search for help.  Where I wanted solutions and answers, I got symptoms and conjecture. There was absolutely nothing in the way of practical help or advice. Being told that an anorexic’s main motivation is a desire to ‘take control’ is no comfort when they’re out of control.  Similarly, the...

Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day

To most of you, this is the sort of thing you get for or from a granny, bought hastily from a dusty chemist on a parade of forgotten shops. To me, this is a poignant and deeply sentimental gift. It was given to me on Mothers Day by my mum, three weeks before she died. Her last and parting gesture. The fact that she had walked to the parade when she barely had any strength left is her greatest triumph. The gift is merely witness to the act. The accompanying card read, “From one Mum to another.” It was my first Mother’s Day. I’ve dutifully kept this box for seventeen years. Yes I’m sure the lotion will have seen better days, but the soap still shouts its fragrance quite robustly. “Wild Rose” it’s called. I assume...

RIP El Tel

RIP El Tel

We’ve had a dearth of death these last few weeks.  Bowie, Rickman, Glen Frey…now Sir Terry. And whilst death is a fact that we all accept – particularly as we ripen and mature as humans – I can’t help but feel a deep dark sorrow for our collective loss. I didn’t have a particular affection for Terry Wogan.  Unlike Bowie and Rickman, he doesn’t rank in my Top Ten Men.  But I did have a great fondness for him. I grew up with Terry Wogan.  He was the constant presence in the car during our morning trips to school. My father took us on his way to work in Birmingham.  Radio 2 was his preference, not mine.  As the driver, however, my father over ruled the tastes of his two daughter passengers – so we were subjected to a...