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The Christmas Tree Forest

 

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We are lucky that, close to where we live, there is a forest where they produce trees for Christmas.  Traditionally, my husband would take our daughters up to the forest to choose a Christmas tree for us, while I stayed at home and raided the garden for sprigs of holly and tendrils of ivy to decorate the house with.  They would usually be gone an hour or two, spending plenty of time finding the ‘right’ tree – not too tall, not too small, good shape, with no awkward sticky out branches, and bushy right to the top, it also had to be one of the type that doesn’t drop needles all over the house, so they were pretty picky, but they’d always come home with a perfect specimen wedged in the car.  They’d demand hot chocolate to warm themselves up before we set about covering said specimen in so many baubles and lights that you could barely see it anyway.  We always, always, had Christmas music playing and would sing along in loud discordance with tinsel around our necks and baubles hanging from our ears.

The girls can’t get home to choose the tree these days, so me and my husband trek to the forest together. We went last Friday, and for some reason, just saw a tree and thought it would be ok (it is) in less than five minutes.  We came home and decorated it in wistful silence. It looks pretty, but I wonder if I’ll ever stop missing the old days?

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A Loss? – Flash Fiction

Although the walls on each side were black and sooty, she could see the light in the distance beckoning her with the promise of safety.  She expected to hear her footsteps echo, but all she could hear were her gasps of effort.

She couldn’t quite remember how she had got there, although it seemed to her that it had been quite a journey.  She knew she wouldn’t have taken public transport, she hadn’t done that in at least fifty years.  She remembered quite clearly her revulsion at having to sit on the filthy seats, pressed too close to grubby strangers when she was a student, and how, as soon as she could, she’d bought herself a little car. But she hadn’t been able to drive for a couple of years now, not since they’d taken away her licence. Bloody old age.

She’d felt ok really.  Still had her wits about her although, in general, modern life was a bit of a puzzle.  The youngest members of her extended family seemed to live on a different planet, what with all their gadgets and gizmos, and what rare communication there was with them always seemed difficult. That’s not to say she didn’t love them all, but there were just so many these days…

She wondered where they were now, and instinctively looked down at her hand where the gold band still glistened, though it’s pair had been long gone.  It had been buried with him.  His only bit of decoration against the best black suit that they’d put him in. She wondered if it was still there, in the ground, encasing his bare finger bone, and shuddered at the thought of how cold his touch would now be.

Ineluctably her thoughts turned to her son who’d made it big in the US and then came to grief with the help of chemicals and alcohol.  She’d been mystified and heartbroken that her perfect boy had gone so soon. He’d been naughty as a child. A tease, with a cheeky chuckle, but he’d grown into a handsome man, broad and muscular with long dark hair that softened him and disclosed his gentle nature. She was so sad for his wife and their twin boys who had had to get along without him all those years, but they’d diligently kept in touch with her, emailing photos of special occasions, such as the boy’s weddings, and the babies births.

Looking ahead at the light, she saw she was progressing. It was becoming dazzling, and she closed her eyes, after all, she knew the path was safe. She could feel a slight breeze just brushing her cheeks like a gentle kiss, and for a second, thought she could smell perfume, the one her daughter Lillian liked that was hugely expensive and came in a fancy bottle. Smiling, she remembered her firstborn, who hadn’t been the brightest spark in school, but whose bright eyes and curves ensured that she’d married well.  She’d lived in an impressive house, with a room for the au pair, and a paddock for the ponies, but had ‘downsized’ to an idyllic country cottage when the children left for university. They had said it came with a ‘granny annex’ but they had converted it for the cleaner to live in before they moved in. It was a shame it was so far away, she felt she barely knew her children, or their children.

And then there was Jennifer.  Her youngest daughter, scrawny little Jenny with the mousey hair and crooked teeth. Always angry at the others, she was a loner who seemed content with her own company, so it astonished them when, in her fifties, she married a man 10 years her senior.  A professor or something.  He was a ramshackle widower, with umpteen adoring grandchildren always clinging to his hands. Jenny took them all on like a trooper. She became the perfect grandma, baking cakes and biscuits, letting the hoard have run of the house. It was good to see her happy though, even if it did make her forget her own mother sometimes.

Resolutely she strode on, picking up pace and as the light penetrated her lids, she knew she was close. Opening her eyes she grew accustomed to the brilliance enough to pick out dark shapes against it. As her excitement grew, her breath got louder in her ears and turned to an uneven rattle.  She gasped her last as she saw the shadows become the two men she missed so much, waiting for her, there, as she reached the end of the tunnel.

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Dear Mr Hunt

This is a very different kind of Music on Monday for you.  It’s a missive to our current Health Minister, Jeremy Hunt, from a group of junior doctors.

You may or may not know that Mr Hunt is currently trying to impose a new contract on junior doctors in England that will drastically make life worse for them and, despite his protestations to the contrary, mean they will be considerably worse off financially too.

The new contract which Mr Hunt would impose increases the doctors ‘normal’ working hours to include up to 10 p.m. (it is currently 7:00pm) and Saturdays.  Whilst promising a pay rise of 11% in one hand, he takes away the additional payment for those hours and, somewhat underhandedly, is abolishing the annual increments they are currently entitled to.

Mr Hunt seems to be forgetting a few things:

  • To qualify as doctors, young people spend five years at university accruing massive student loans, thanks to a government who keeps increasing fees. Most of them will spend the next 20 years paying those loans off. Even after all that training, their starting pay is as little as £23,000 and they rely on the unsocial hour payments to top that up to a living wage.  Not forgetting that many of them are at an age when they have young families to support on that too.
  • After uni they are required to complete a couple of foundation years, where they are expected to take on huge responsibilities – from day one they are working night shifts on their own.
  • From day one they work weekends and nights. They already provide a 24/7 service. Yes, that does include weekends and Christmas (We have to postpone our own Christmas to accommodate our daughter’s shift patterns).
  • To progress they need to take exams which cost up to £400 a pop.  To pass the exams they have to fork out for books and courses often costing in excess of £100 each.  Being a doctor is not a cheap option.
  • Being a doctor is a ‘lifelong learning’ career.The annual increments that they are currently entitled to recognise the experience gained over the previous year and the additional responsibilities that entails.
  • They are already massively understaffed and overworked.  Imposing this contract may see a huge migration of our wonderful talented young doctors to foreign parts, or alternative careers, where their dedication is appreciated.

You can maybe tell that I feel deeply angered by Mr Hunt’s cavalier attitude, and that may be coloured by my daughters both being junior doctors (though the one currently working in Wales will not be directly affected should these proposals be enforced).  But this is the tip of the iceberg. Our NHS is crumbling under the current government, who seem to have no insight into the realities of caring for the sick. I fear for it’s future, and without a caring attitude towards our doctors who will care for us?

You can find out more about the Junior Doctors Dispute here.

Anyway…. my thanks to these wonderful young ladies who have done a stirling job of putting their plight into song:

 

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Always Red?

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Can feelings show up in the blood?
The scarlet concealer of secrets
that courses through our veins
yet congeals so quickly in the air

When tested it reveals disease
and sickness of our mortal vessels
but are conditions of the soul
equally evident upon close inspection?

Do tiny ruby buds form
at a first kiss
then burst into blowsy roses
when passion grows into love?

Are verdant specks visible
when we crave what Is not ours
and do they transform to citrine
as we turn from the cause?

Will putrid organs assume a dark hue
as hatred burns in them
that precious liquid runs hot
and anger rules our hearts?

Can feelings show up in the blood?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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This one’s for my mum

Hi Mum!

Surprise!! I know you loyally read my blog even though sometimes you don’t understand it, and quite definitely ‘don’t like poetry’.  So when I came across this video this morning and knew that you’d love it, I thought I’d post it here just for you (and anyone else who might like it too of course).  The music might not be entirely to your taste, but it’s worth watching for the dancing and the incredible way all the clips are put together in perfect timing.

When I watched it, it took me back to Sunday afternoons watching Fred and Ginger, Gene Kelly, or Busby Berkeley movies on the sofa with you and nan. You always did love dancing.  I can remember, when I was very small, being told off for running about between peoples legs when you and dad took me along to one of your ballroom dancing classes, and as I got older, watching you being swept around the floor in a dazzling waltz on our annual visits to the holiday camp.

For a short while you sent me to dance classes.  I don’t remember why I couldn’t do ballet, I think I wasn’t the right shape or something, but I did a bit of tap and modern, well, until my sister refused to take me anymore because she was embarrased by my (alleged) naughtiness.

So, I’ve never been up to scratch with the dancy dancy. That’s not to say I don’t do it, blimey, I even admit to dancing about on my own on my ‘about’ page here!  But it’s probably just as well that no one is watching.

You and I both enjoy watching Strictly Come Dancing at this time of year, and I’d love to be on it. I bet in your day you could’ve beaten the pants off of any of them! Wouldn’t it be great to be all dressed up in those glittery frocks and being swished around the floor by a proper professional? Of course, this programme is the new and improved incarnation of ‘Come Dancing’ that we used to watch together years ago too.

Anyhoo, enough of the reminiscing, have a look at the video and enjoy. I hope it cheers you up as much as it did me this morning – but don’t try any of the moves, well, not unless you’re hanging on to your ‘trolley’ 😉

lots of love

k xx