Just under two years ago I met a lovely man. I asked him out and I was quite surprised and excited when he said yes. We got on really well, we went to the cinema and to a couple of gigs and out for food. One night when I got a lift home from a friend and our evening was cut a little short, he walked across the city to see me.
After the #WomensMarch for #WomensRights on Saturday and my last post ‘Streets of London’ I was reading back over old posts and found this for International Women’s Day two years ago.
This post contains some issues that may be triggers for people. Please do comment below if you would like to.
When I was 13 I was walking across the courtyard of school, just chatting to a friend and heading to a lesson. Three older boys were walking in the opposite direction, one veered towards me, groped my breasts and walked on laughing.
When I was 16 I was traveling on bus in Oxford, sitting by the window when a young man came and sat by me. When he sat down his hand brushed my leg, he apologised and I said not to worry. As the journey progressed his hand resting against the side of my leg started moving further up my thigh. I squirmed towards the window to move away but there was nowhere to move to. I got off the bus three stops early to get away from him, but he stood up followed me, pushed himself up against my bottom so that I could feel his erection. He smiled at me, shrugged and walked off.
As Nancy Kerr and the Sweet Visitor Band are on tour again, I thought I’d share this…
I moved up to Sheffield carrying with me one large suitcase of general stuff, my travelling backpack, my tent, ready for Towersey Festival, and a big Ikea blue bag filled with things to make stuff from. When thinking about what I’d need to move to a new city with, I packed clothes, a few items for the start of school, and I knew that travelling up on a train would be a pain, but I couldn’t bear to leave behind my felt, embroidery threads, needles, bits of ribbon and other odds and ends for making bits and pieces.
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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 8,300 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 3 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.
“…So they went down and they sat on the pier
He said I bet you got a boyfriend but I don’t care
I got no one to send a letter to
Would you mind if I sent one back here to you?”
“So the letters came from an army camp
In California then Vietnam
And he told her of his heart
It might be love and all of the things he was so scared of
He said when it’s getting kinda rough over here
I think of that day sittin’ down at the pier
And I close my eyes and see your pretty smile
Don’t worry but I won’t be able to write for awhile…”
When I was younger, one of my favourite things about school was being able to write in ink with a fountain pen. It was brilliant. Making the first mark on the paper, knowing that it would stay forever, blemishing the crisp white sheet in the best possible way. The scratch of the nib across the paper; the occasional blot if a hair got caught in the fine metal, dragging an extra bit of ink with it as it moved across the page. I had at least three fountain pens at any one point – one for blue or black ink as the school required and the other two with purple, pink, turquoise, red green, whatever I could get my hands on from WHSmith. I know I wasn’t the only 13 yr old to do this, but I wonder if it happens much any more.
I hated writing thank you letters, especially after Christmas, on Boxing Day, being sat down with a list of what I got to diligently copy out a seemingly endless number of letters to aunts and uncles and grandparents to thank them for their gifts. There were probably less than ten to write, but it felt like forever was being taken up, precious time that I could have been using my ‘My Little Pony’ fashion catwalk, or chemistry set or Duck piano…
Writing letters is not fashionable any more, sending things in the post often gets forgotten – my niece’s birthday card was in my bag for three days before I posted it this afternoon and her birthday is today (sorry!) – people don’t like the cost of stamps, the lack of instantaneous acknowledgement of their input into the world, the delay in response. We live in an instant world now. Who has time to wait for ink to dry? We have twitter, facebook, snapchat, instagram, wordpress and many more to get our instant fix. But what is there to leave behind with those?
I wish I could go back to college.
In college you know who you are.
You sit in the quad, and think, “Oh my God!
I am totally gonna go far!”
How do I go back to college?
I don’t know who I am anymore!
Well it’s not quite that extreme, but it is currently 19.06 on a Thursday and I’ve been home for ten minutes. This morning I woke up at 5, left for school at 7am and no matter what I do at the moment, I don’t feel like I’m getting anything right. I’m sure I am but i’d forgotten how much there is to do, how little time there is to do it and there’s loads of brand new stuff too.
I’ve not written anything for ages, I know, and I expect you may be wondering where I am. Well, if all things had gone to plan I should be in New York right now. Actually, however, I’m in Sheffield, which as you would expect is vastly different.
Whenever you are watching a film there are so many little extra things that go into it that you don’t always think about. These props from ‘The Borrowers’ are in the Film Museum in London and my Dad made some of them!
Who can spot the extra in this photo? Comment below!
Dear Barbara, Rosie, Sid, Bonnie and the rest of your family,
I am so sorry to hear of your loss at the beginning of this week. I’m not someone who normally writes to complete strangers, but I know what it’s like to lose a father, it’s something that you can’t really comprehend happening, even when faced with a terminal illness as mine was, let alone so suddenly as yours was taken.
I have been really saddened by the news of the death of Rik. I hope that you have been heartened by the out pouring of love, appreciation and profanity that the news of his death has brought. I know I certainly would be and it was nice to hear from friends of my dad that I’d never met who had kind words to say about him and how he’d helped them through difficult times.
Again, Hanoi, this time in the park, about 6 different species of monkey in cages in the rain. There were signs up telling us not to feed the animals, there were scatterings of food across the floor and none of the animals looked like they should be there or wanted to be.
I took a lot of pictures of this male, ass his expression said it all for me. He didn’t interact with the Vietnamese couple offering food, as the others did. He simply ignored all of us, staring off into space.