wonky steps

train of thought

Can I sit next to you?

If you like.

How old are you?

I’m 40.

Ohhh, but you look young.

Thank you.

Do you have children?

No.

(Sad face) Do you have a husband?

No.

What no husband! But you have had boyfriends?

Yes.

Lots of boyfriends?

A few.

Lots?

Not lots, but a few. If you don’t have a husband you can have boyfriends.

You are older than my mum and my dad.

Am I? Not everyone gets married and has children and that is ok too.

(Pondering this fact, but unconvinced) You are the oldest number in the world! What would that be?

I don’t know what the biggest number in the world would be...

You look 900 million years old!

Oh, I thought you were going to say something nice to me. If I am that old then you will have to carry me off the train because I’ll not be able to walk!

Ok, I will carry you. Are we at Derby already? (slumps in seat, develops a sudden tummy ache and doesn’t want to get off the train)

Yes, we are. I used to live here years ago, long before you were born.

I am nine, ten in November.

Bye bye, go safe, nice to talk to you.

Bye bye.

violet

Violet and Jack, a proper love story. The land girl from Camden Town, the lad from Somerset, married in London and settled in Clutton. Recently I went to visit their shared grave, him dying in 1991 and her in 2006.

I have fond memories of Jack, he was kind. As a self conscious girl of 15 he told me I was pretty enough to be a manikin, I've never forgotten that. There were huge fields at the end of their long garden, a green unending expanse, we fed chickens and kicked up the dust on sun baked dirt paths. Apparently he died in the garden, dropping before Violet's eyes as she stood at the kitchen sink.

My Aunty Vi was my mum's favourite sister and in her prime an absolute knockout beauty. Jack was a lucky man.

pastwords

Currently, a large majority of my time is spent tapping away, or staring at my laptop. Like many of us I spend HOURS gazing at the screen, for work, for play, for social networking, for research, for entertainment. Occasionally the screen darkens and I’m surprised by my own reflection and become cognisant of the solitariness of my interaction in a way that I don't feel when watching TV. Is it to do with distance? Interaction with a laptop is intimate, it rests it on my knees, my stomach, I take it to bed with me.

As my online usage has increased I’ve gradually assembled a variety of usernames and passwords that allow access to my online world. Each username and password reflect where I was at the time of their invention and tapping them out takes me on a trip to past lives, for example, a romantic trip arranged by an ex for my 30th birthday, door numbers of previous homes, cities lived in and memories of a much loved deceased pet. So a simple transaction online can bring to mind the past self while accessing information relevant to the now.

Could a chronology of passwords tell a life story? Could this tumble of words become a poem? What would a stranger make of your passwords and the secrets that your online fingerprint holds?

engaged

I know of people who don’t do public transport. There is a funny scene in The Inbetweeners where the lads on an appallingly shite night out in London shout ‘bus wankers’ to people at a bus stop... wonderfully they get caught in a traffic jam a few yards down the road and get their comeuppance. A sweet victory for people choosing to be, or dependent on public transport.

Public transport has provided me with random opportunities to meet people whom I would never have encountered any other way. One such meeting occurred recently and the strangers words have stayed with me, providing food for thought and impacting on friends I’ve shared the story with.

On a beautiful summer like day in early April I was waiting for the 379 in Bristol bus station, we were informed that the bus had broken down so had half an hour until the next one. I passed the time chatting to a woman who had sat next to me, it turned out that Caroline was an ex Londoner too, had moved to Surrey and then to Glastonbury five years previously. Before the move she had worn an engagement ring for fifteen years to keep suiters away. Caroline has always known she didn’t want children and that she herself had been a mistake, none the less she had been loved and had happy memories of childhood. In Glastonbury she decided the time had come to remove the ring and see what happened.

Caroline told me she really wanted a job in the local bookshop so popped in and asked about vacancies. There were none but she left her details. The following week she was called in for a trial run, offered four days a week, then a further two days in another bookshop owned by her boss. So happy, busy and at the centre of town life she was in a great position to meet the community. In the bookshop she got chatting too a man who had recently retuned to Glastonbury and eight months later they were married in the local registry office. Marriage had never been an ambition, so at 50 to be walking down the aisle was a complete surprise. She had met her soul mate and felt free and very happy. Removing the symbol of being taken had opened Caroline up to try new things, to embrace opportunity, to see what happens if... Her advice to me was to put it out there, ask the universe, get stroppy and don’t give up.

Her words got me thinking about my own wants and if/how I name and voice them. Also to consider the invisible physiological engagement rings each of us wear, not necessarily tying us to a partner, but tying us to a past, a limiting belief, an outmoded idea of ourselves that no one in our current life would recognise. The ways of being that allow us to survive the past are no longer needed today, we (hopefully) update our hair, clothes and interiors but do we ever spring clean and challenge our belief patterns? Do they still suit us? Are they useful? Could they be limiting us in some way?