young hearts run free

Those are my legs! 1980s neon swagger.

It's Sports Day season again. Across school fields everywhere, children are wearing their team colours with pride as they hop, skip and jump into sacks carrying eggs; teachers with clipboarded results forget about the marking piling up on their desk to fret about whether they can get through the staff relay without falling in the home straight; and primary school parents pretend to not care about the parents race and just happened to have their neon swooshed trainers in their handbag.

I was a sport lover in my younger days. And although it's more of the armchair variety these days, I still love sport and am a huge believer in the good it can do.

Sport got me through school corridor racism. I was good at it. The whispers and mean stares subsided when they saw me on the track and on the field. I got picked first for teams, I represented my school, my county and my country in athletics. And when I regale my daughters about my sporting prowess whilst rummaging around in the loft for my dusty medal collection, I regret giving up my talent every time.

Sport enabled me to appreciate the benefits of hard work, way before I realised that revision was a necessary evil; it showed me how to cope with the highs and lows that go hand in hand with sport and life; it widened my peer group so when things were difficult at school I had my team mates at training with a shared experience of frosty cross country mornings and nerves on the starting line; and it took me around the country and gave me a working knowledge of what was where (do you know I once got asked in class where in Wales was Scotland??).

But it's so very easy to look back and get all misty eyed about my teenage wins. I have to be honest and remember the evenings where I didn't want to go training and the day I feigned injury, missed out on an athletic event only for my coach Dad to return and find me dancing to the opening credits of the Pink Panther in the living room. 

Now I can look back and sympathise with the sorrow, frustration and probably the anger that he must have felt when I told him I was giving it all up, aged 17. With a promising athletic career ahead of me, I imagine he probably wanted to drop kick me out of a window. all those nights training with me through the four seasons and the years of trekking me up and down the motorways of Britain. And what for? No eldest daughter on an Olympic podium. No dedicated sportsperson of the year trophy to my coaching Dad.

Except...the love of sport remains strong. The sporadic forays onto treadmills get harder as the knees get creakier. I'll splash about whilst the offspring do a million graceful laps around the pool. I'll encourage my eldest around the Race For Life 5K only to witness her sprint finish leaving me for dust.  And if it wasn't for channelling my Mum's love of the exercise DVD, I would be a professional couch potato.

Now it's me ferrying children to pitches and pools at the weekend. Now it's me commenting on the natural athletic posture all three of them have. Now it's me celebrating hanging the medals and certificates that make it home. Every time my Dad hears me blah on about my kids' sporting achievements, it must seem like groundhog day, apart from the fact that he could never boast about winning the parent's race. That three separate Mum's race wins by the way. Yep still got it.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers writing prompt no87: You and Sport

tears dry on their own

There is a massive scar on my knee.  Three neat golden lines above my kneecap; stripes standing out against my brown skin backdrop.

As all scars do, mine have their own story. A tale that transports me back to my London childhood on a sunny day in a West London school playground.

There I was. Two neat Afro plaits on my seven year old head. A 1970s sun smiling on primary kids running through lunch-break, as primary kids are wont to do.

My endless running was momentarily paused to discuss a game of run-outs. Could lunch-time get any better? Only if the teacher let me ring the massive school bell in about half an hour, but until then no, run-outs meant playtime perfection.  

A decision to take a short-cut round the back of the rose bushes in front of our classrooms, a push from behind and there I am - rose thorn in my leg. Clamped tight like wall anchor screws. Nothing but nothing was gonna get these thorns out.

Turn away if you're squeamish. I saw flesh. I bled profusely. I was mesmerized, until the pain kicked in and the tears began. Friends scurried to find dinner-lady help whilst another wrapped her arms around me in best-friend protection mode.

"Well" the dinner lady said as her shadow loomed across me; a cloud in my understanding of humanity "You shouldn't have been running around by the rose bushes should you, you silly girl?"

I limped to medical room by myself. 

My golden scars; testament to a little girl who learned to read faces and moods and attitudes and think 'Oh right, that's who you are is it?'

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net:Childhood Tears

daddy lessons

There's no hiding away from this. My Dad was a strict dad.

A 'you better get your tail back home on time' kinda Dad.

A sit down and listen to me lecture if you know what's good for you type of Dad.

A jokes that will make you groan Dad.

A never got my mates names right Dad.

There was the time he took to riding his motorbike during my athletic training runs because he couldn't keep up.

There were the times he told me to take down my Adam Ant / Madness / Duran Duran posters so often that when I left home, I blue-tacked wall-to-wall posters that it seemed I had a heaven of popstars watching over me like Greek Gods - Britpop style.

There were the Christmas Eves where he baked bread loaves in the shape of plaits and bread buns with our initials on, then left the kitchen looking like a flour hurricane had swept through. His work was done.

There were the nights I would sit on the stairs listening to him talk with his custom officer colleagues on their way to / back from a drug raid. For those tiny moments I was an extra on Juliet Bravo.

There was the year he turned 40 and I was the cassette DJ forced to play The Clash's 'I fought the Law' over and over again.

He was the Dad my mates' mums (and my PE teacher) fancied.

He was the Dad who tried so very hard to instill a sense of my ancestry in me.

He was the Dad who drove us the length and breadth of Britain so we would know our home country.

He was the Dad who  caught me reading my football magazine instead of revising for my Biology GCSE.

He was the Dad who bought me baby dummies for my 30th birthday as a gentle reminder of what he was waiting for.

He's the Dad who would make me tea and toast and sit for hours watching box sets of 24 when I was on my first maternity leave.

He's the Dad that will discuss politics, race, racism, parenting, aging, football and Doctor Who in just one phone call.

He's the Dad who climbs mountains, swims in oceans and still insists on jumping over walls even though he's passed the Beatles age-related hit song.

He's the Dad who is greeted by his grand-daughters, like Norm from Cheers, with a 'Grandpa!'

He's the Dad who isn't strict anymore.

He's the Dad who became the Grandpa who still tells jokes that make you groan.

This post was inspired by The Photographer's Gallery: familyphotographynow.net:My Dad

shout, shout, let it all out

Back in my early teaching days, if we were celebrating someone's birthday with the usual slab of cake in the staffroom we would give that someone carte blanche to have a rant and a rave. This was the birthday rant. About anything and to anyone, but it could only last on your birthday.

Needless to say no-one ever took up the mantle seriously but we would all have a 'giggle' at who we'd choose to unleash our birthday rant to. Usually that kid who took it upon themselves to make your Monday period 1 lesson a living hell or the suit in the office that had forgotten what a classroom looked like but insisted on telling you what you were doing wrong.

No, we all took the higher ground. Unless the birthday celebrations went on too late and got a little too messy that night. Suddenly, everyone would be claiming their birthday rant!

But doesn't age give you that right to, how shall I put it, give people a piece of your mind? I'm spending some time considering this because I still cringe at the times when, upon discovering the price of an untagged item at the till, my mum had no qualms about complaining "How much? That's ridiculous, put it back Nicola" and I'd have to skulk away with burning cheeks back along the queuing aisle. Why couldn't she just pay it and return it later? I'd think with my no-responsibility-no-damn-clue-attitude.

However, it was her money, her choice, her right to raise her voice wasn't it? Maybe. And I do find myself irked more and more about poor customer service, the behaviour of people in the street or in their cars (don't get me started on kids without seatbelts) and yes, things that are ridiculously priced.

So perhaps Mum was right to voice her consumer distaste.  Maybe we do get to a point in our lives where we think Nope I'm gong to have to say something about this. Whether it's paying a joke for a plain white t-shirt or when the shop owner in the village corner shop doesn't look you in the eye or thank you for your custom but is happy to take your money. 

I don't think ranting is in my nature but I can certainly string together a strong word or two.  And maybe I'll wait to re-enact the whole How much? scenario to embarrass my own three  daughters another time ...my day will come.

Until then, I will continue to save my tirades for the TV...I'm good at that.

too good to be forgotten

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the coffee that kick starts my writing day; that takes an age to make it just so - three spoons, no sugar, splash of milk.

I would miss the sneaky Wispa bar that I pop into my Friday morning shopping basket with the milk and bread and fresh fruit and veg before we start the start the weekend, with everyone in the home peering in cupboards for quick snacks. I wave the Change for Life sugar swap app in my family's face smug with the knowledge that I have snaffled the secret chocolate treat in my car on the way home from the supermarket. Savouring each melting mouthful at the traffic lights.

I would miss the big Sunday Roast that has our dining table groaning under the dishes laden with everyone's favourites.  This is the dinner where all plates are scraped clean and no morsel left uneaten.  We rest full bellies in front of the telly waiting for the moment that we can squeeze in dessert.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I would miss the cakes and cookies my middle daughter likes to bake on quiet Saturdays; the sweeties from my youngest daughter's party bag sweetie box that never seems to empty; the dishes that my eldest daughter presents with pride, hot from the home ec room, onto our kitchen counter.  These are their tastebud heavens and they share them with me.

I would miss the tiny bones that disappear in the saltfish salad, that detract me, momentarily from the sun-yellow plantain and the golden brown bakes. The food of my childhood. The meal that brings love.

I would miss cardboard boxed fries dipped in banana milkshake and the greasy wrapped chips shared on seaside seafronts and the first slurp of a cuppa getting home after dark and the silk of a rum punch in the garden, in the sun.

If I lost my sense of taste tomorrow I'd miss the way a bite or nibble or swallow or chew can take me to a moment that sparks a memory; a meal that creates a story.

This post is in response to a #Post40Bloggers : Writing Prompt no72 : Lose your sense of taste tomorrow

yesterday once more

I picture myself uncurling my toes ever so slowly out of the heavy biker boots I have been wearing since leaving England's shore. The thick, grey clouds of home are long behind me and in their stead are light wisps of white cotton spiralling across an expanse of blueness. Silence and peace and calm wrap themselves around me dampening any surge of anxiety; my mind stirs into being having slumbered for days previously.

On dry land, sand cushioning my steps momentarily soothing until the burn of the heat prickles my soles, I would search for shade and look out to the retreating vessel that has left me here to sink into my past. I find...


a bumpy journey in the back of my parent's car, lying down stretched out on the back seat with my eyes tightly shut. Remember lying in the back seat without seat-belts? Tracing each turned corner memorising the journey home. Knowing that if I kept really still on that final turn, that the engine would stop, two car doors would slam and whilst my mum would carry my baby sister, hopefully my dad would carry me up the stairs to bed; leaving me to slump in his arms before he placed me under cold bed-sheets and then I would jiggle myself warm once my bedroom door had closed, so he wouldn't know I'd really been awake.


I find...

a rainy London day, not unusual, walking beside a cousin who, in my childhood, held an older sister role. We had lost touch as family's do, drifting through their own lives before the invent of facebook. But somehow we have re-connected, filled in the years once the surprise of our adult faces has passed, shared the highs and lows that has made us who we are. Not much time passes in our re-discovery before we make the choice to walk together, as survivors, on a march through the middle of London. Through the healing laughter and plentiful tears we make vows that the pain will stop with our voices being heard and our role is to now protect us and our future us.


I find...

me dancing. Not one day in particular. Although I see my student union; a smoky, sweaty Convent Garden nightclub; a high street in West London; an ancestral cellar on my Northumberland wedding day; in my kitchen to the bemused faces of my children. I am dancing with abandon, in bliss, to any tune that can be turned up loud.


I find...

a classroom covered in poems, stories, reflections, advice, notices, cartoons, posters. And there's me talking, writing, pointing, laughing, telling someone off, asking for quiet. Always asking for quiet. To listen to me. Because I know what I'm talking about. In most cases I wouldn't always say this was true but in a classroom, yes I did, I do know what I'm talking about and they... all of those children that have sat in seats in my classrooms, should have been listening. My classrooms were a haven of learning for them and me.


I find...

three moments in one. Summed up as a weariness that saw me shuffling for weeks, then a shared panic that saw me being lovingly bundled in a car and deposited into emergency entrances, then the most terrifying moments where I locked frightened eyes with excited, calm ones being suddenly replaced by the most beautiful moments I will ever have in my entire life. The moment of motherhood.


Like the end of an old cinema reel that flickers and fades to blank, these are my memory images that I would wish to replay to my heart's content.

This post was inspired by #post40bloggers #writingprompt93 : being shipped to an island with only 5 memories

just looking

Don't panic - this isn't a how-to-make craft post (although believe it could very well be). 

I recently discovered an old battered metal container with Wall's (as in the ice cream) embossed into the side. It seems that this may have been an old ice cream container from the factories. I loved it, hammered out the dents, lovingly restored it with a coating of a vanilla-esque paint. Why? My grandparents both worked at Walls Ice Cream Factory in Acton, London in the 1950s/60s and this little bit of memorabilia which now holds my old LPs also held some sentimental meaning.

And so began my obsession. I've browsed antique shops before, a brief detour on a holiday high street. But the antique fair I visited last week was serious business. It was massive. Hanging out with a friend, we tried to be all organised and view the whole fair rank and file but like magpies, we'd dart off in search of some vintage thing or a crusty old item that we could restore back to life. (Said friend is way more creative than me but we get the same buzz digging around dilapidated stuff).

Once I got past the ooh I used to have one of these when I was a kid moments and start to really look among the tables and boxes it can be quite a reflective experience. I'm not a fan of jewellrey or fine lace so tended to skip past these but would slow to a pensive halt at spaces filled with suitcases, storage containers, kitchen ware and photo albums.

Some of these items throw their tales out with glorious abandon. Suitcases with faded labels of far-flung places or a regimental history scrawled inside. Or the photo albums, which I have become obsessed by, that lie dustily concealing a whole life for us to peruse the whys and wherefores about the many faces smiling in familial tableaux. 

Then there are the objects that need a little more attention. I wonder what all the battered canisters and containers with scratched off logos may have held at one time. Was it once stashed with love letters to a young romantic or a youngsters collections of nik-naks that were thrown away once adulthood arrived?

When we buy all our bits n bobs that clutter our homes for decades or just for a short while before it's deposited in charity shops, is it likely that in forty years time people will be walking around car parks speculating the life we lived and how quaint or quirky our household objects were? Will it bring back a memory of an old abode or will the excess of the millennial generation pass on to become a desire for minimalism and all things only new? Will our future great-great grandchildren shun their virtual kitchenware and furniture for pine tables and Scandi dinner sets?

I tend to get overly-excited when I see art deco paraphernalia that I can't afford. Then get all whimsical over sixties and seventies kitchenalia with bright oranges emblazoned on plastic cups or Pyrex dishes. Many the time has been when I could have happily laden my Mini Cooper with bounty from yesteryear to add to all the 'projects' already clogging my house up.  

So I step on the breaks and I content myself with just a browse and a brood whilst pondering what I'll buy...next time. 

yesterday once more

See I did smile sometimes!

I attended a great @post40bloggers.com twitter party last week discussing what we would tell our 16 year old selves. As to be expected from a gaggle of forty-somethings we had plenty to say.

And it got me to thinking.

Sixteen. It actually made me quite sad. It's okay put the hankies away I'm not going to sob-story here. I thought about what 43 year old me could possibly offer 16 year old me if 16 year old me would actually stop listening to Duran Duran and listen to what anyone had to say.

1. I would congratulate me on being strong and brave. Stepping out into teenage world with my brown face in a sea of white Essex faces that weren't ready for multi-culturalism wasn't easy. But I smiled, worked hard, told jokes and found a group of brilliant friends who buffered me from everyday ignorance. I loved school. Despite my spirit being broken at times I found myself able to speak up and not lose myself in a fog of blame. That was all me.

2. I would show me how to love my face. Now that I see adverts with black families, presenters with brown faces on my telly everyday and see successful people of colour from my generation it's a blessed relief . But 1980s me didn't like the girl in the mirror at all. I hated the hair that sat in two neat plaits instead of golden flowing tresses; the two protruding teeth that were capped due to a collision with a classroom door; the bottom that wouldn't fit in jeans without leaving a gaping chasm at the waist, even with a belt; the way I would get stared at when meeting new people; the incessant chorus that told me I would have to work harder than everyone else because of my colour, The unfairness of it all.  So many people haven't let any of the above stop their progress but I think I did. And for why? My sixteen year old face was beautiful, smiley (most of the time - come on people I was 16 - sixteen year olds are moody) and glowing with all the promise of a life ahead. My hair was strong and thick and washed and plaited by my mother's hands every Saturday night. But I looked around me and saw that I was different but didn't have the courage to relish that difference.

3. I would demand that my talents were not to be given up and instead to take some risks. Writing, athletics and music. By 16 I was writing almost every day, training most of the week with race meetings at the weekend, and I was pretty mean on the piano too. I would go back and kick that stubborn streak out of me and keep up all three. To enter story competitions; to understand how important athletics was to my life and that I would miss it everyday if I gave it up - plus losing the chance to marry Roger Black, who was obviously going to wait for little ole me to grow up; to not be afraid of singing at piano exams. To tell me that the crippling fear felt at 16 would only diminish if confronted otherwise it will remain well into adulthood.

4. And lastly I would remind me that family do prevail. That through all the crappy stuff, life changes, house moves, that there are people that you share blood and bonds with who are also going through their crappy stuff too but manage to make it to the odd birth, marriage, death event and remember you when it was a long yesterday ago. That I should take pride in where my place is in that family because when it's my turn I would want my children to feel pride in their position too.

Being 16 was sometimes a bit miserable, usually a lot of fun, often misguided, occasionally getting it right but most of the time it was just me making it up as I was going along. Some things never change.