Tuesday 23 October 2012

A Home Is Something More…

A house is a home when somebody loves it.
So what is it, I wonder, when somebody hates it?

A hovel, a prison, a financial strain
With no sense of warmth and an aura of pain
That seeps into your bones, making every one ache,
Coils around your heart like a venomous snake.
Injecting its darkness to kill off the light,
Wrong choices are made when you used to make right.

But everyone suffers as you become rotten
And all happy memories conveniently forgotten
Sit now in the garage in boxes stacked high,
Neglected, unwanted but then, by and by,
The house that is home, the one that is new,
Feels suddenly lonely and awfully blue.


You stop and you look,
You espy a book.
The one, the only book on the shelf
Is sitting there, lonesome, all by itself.
Your eye wanders thoughtfully to not one box but three.
Then you look at the bookshelf and finally see.

It’s not all about buildings and auras and aches.
It has nothing to do with metaphorical snakes.
When you take a step back
When you take in what you lack
You see it as plain as the quizzical looks
That what makes a home is a shelf load of books.

©Lisa Lee 2012, sleeping in Elvegren Tales

Tuesday 10 July 2012

A Moving Story


As I mull over the last 20 years, looking at the walls that have protected my entire reason for living and recalling the woodchip wallpaper that adorned each one, I find myself without any real affection for the house that became our home all those years ago. I do not find this in the least bit strange, however other people seem to. 

For all of those well meaning souls out there, here I sit, laptop in lap.

Newly married and 7 months pregnant, I fell in love with a house. We had looked at so many around the Southdown area of Bath, each time we came away feeling totally depressed. So we widened our viewing area and looked at a cottage in Peasdown St John. Well, it was perfect. There was a long, rambling garden that I could imagine my children exploring in, the cottage oozed quirkiness. It completely grabbed me and so we put in an offer. To our delight, it was accepted. I don’t remember the ins and outs but, basically, it was ‘devalued’ by the bank. This meant that either the seller had to reduce their price or we’d have to come up with 3 grand extra as a deposit. It couldn’t be done and so we let it go. I’m telling you this so that you understand that this house was never the ‘love of my life’. It was a quick purchase as I was about to give birth and as such, we’ve been extremely lucky. But, from the beginning, my soul has never really been here. It stayed in the little cottage.

“It’s going to be quite emotional leaving here.” 
“I think I’ll shed a tear or two. Especially when I pack up my room!”
“Lots of good memories eh, Lise? It’s going to be a bit of a wrench isn’t it?”

No, I think, it isn’t. I have been ready to wrench myself away from here for 11 years now. To find a new place that suits me better, that can accommodate my need for anonymity. Wrench me away, I think.

With a cup of coffee in my hand, I gaze out of the kitchen window and a smile forms as I watch the chickens amongst the poppies and dandelions. They’re a fairly recent addition to the family and very welcome too. As my mind drifts, the image drifts too, into shadows of Harry and Gabe, toddling on the uneven lawn, kicking a ball or riding a tricycle. Then I can see a young Nige, dressed as a pirate, surrounded by a dozen kids. They’re all laughing fit to burst as he throws himself from one imaginary treasure island to another. We did throw some magnificent birthday parties for our boys. They are all etched into my memory like veins of gold, ready to travel with me wherever I go.

As I dwell on these birthdays and celebrations I cannot help but recall the down side to it all too. “Lots of good memories eh, Lise?” Yes, I think, but many more not so.

I had longed to be a mum and had high expectations of myself. I believed I would be Mother Earth, surrounded with babies and cats and permanently smiling. I would bake too. Soft, perfect sponge cakes that everyone would love. After a traumatic delivery (emergency caesarean after a 26 hour labour) I remember sitting in hospital thinking, I am never doing that again! But I knew I was going to. Harry was not going to be an only child and besides, I was going to be Mother Earth.

They used to call it the ‘Baby Blues’. It wasn’t blue, though, it was a sort of messy grey. That was how I saw the world for, what, years. Words like loneliness, isolation, boredom and desperation floated around my head. I rocked back and forth for hours at a time, sometimes to get Harry to sleep, others to break the monotony of the day. Nige would get home and take over for me while I slept. To say that I let myself go is an understatement. To say that this house felt like my prison is not.
Then, just over a year after Harry was born, I fell pregnant again.

By the time Gabe was born I did at least have a network of friends. I visited other people’s houses for coffee and even went out to the park occasionally for the day. With this new-founded support I even passed my driving test. Suddenly I could leave not just the house, but the area! It was brilliant! Although I still fell in and out of depression, I felt as if I had a handle on it. Watching my boys together, playing, arguing, just being, was the best therapy. The house was coming together too. So, that was my few years of relative tranquillity and feeling like a normal person then. They were pretty happy times but, again, I carry them with me. Those memories of car journeys and days out with friends are not triggered by the house but by the people. I never wanted to be confined to the house again!

“I think I’ll shed a tear or two. Especially when I pack up my room!”

We still have the same bed both boys were conceived in, both boys have been nursed in, comforted in and the same bed I was confined to when Gabe was about 3.
Coming up to Christmas I’d been battling with flu symptoms, upset tummy, everything it seemed. Nige had arranged for us to go on The Santa Express, in Minehead, where the boys would get to meet Santa after a short journey on a steam train. It promised to be a truly magical evening. I felt awful though. The car journey was horrific, it was bitingly cold outside when we got there and the complimentary sherry was like paint stripper. It was all a bit lame as I recall. On the way home I remember looking at the many lit up homes and thinking, why bother doing any of that? I think I was delirious but at hat point I had no idea how seriously ill I was. In fact, I spent Christmas laid out on the sofa during the day and sweating at night. I had vivid hallucinations too where a glass roof would open above me, revealing a sort of guru who talked me through my pain. Beneath me was cracked, baked earth getting hotter and hotter. On New Years Eve I decided enough was enough. I went down to Boots. I stood at the pharmacy and said, “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me but I now have this,” lifted up my shirt to reveal a large red rash. The staff collectively took a step back, one saying, “You need to get yourself to A & E.” So that’s where I went.

I left Bath RUH shortly afterwards, diagnosed with Scarlet Fever. I then spent weeks in bed, on severe antibiotics. Over the next 2 years I lost all of my skin, underwent reflexology to get my internal organs working properly again and scared the shit out of my mum.


“It’s going to be quite emotional leaving here.” 

That I cannot deny. Emotions are everywhere and seep into you when you least expect it. Positive, negative, you get them all! So, yes, of course I’ll be emotional. I don’t know yet if that will take the form of a jump and a punch into the air or a cascade of tears. I’m betting it’ll be something in between.

I have only once shed a cascade of tears in this house (or any other) and that was about 11 years ago.

To spend a day gardening with the family, laughing and smiling in the sunshine is a wonderful thing. That is what we’d done and by 10 o’clock we were curled up on the sofa, about to watch a gripping thriller (Messiah, with Ken Stott). The phone rang. The news was brief. My world fell apart.

All the wonderful memories of this house come from my boys. Watching them build their brotherhood bonds has been the most magical part of their childhood and my motherhood. Those memories can hide the previous ones of depression adequately and give strength to cope with anything. Anything, that is, except the loss of my brother. That cannot be hidden.

That is when I first wanted to move. To wrench myself away from the solid manifestation of my grief seemed to be the best way forward, the only way. I am glad I didn’t though, I’m glad we waited. Though often awful beyond compare, the last 11 years have seen me change quite dramatically. I can now deal with all my quirks and oddness, embrace them and turn them into positive energy. This is what I’m taking to our new home, along with inner tranquillity and an abundance of laughter.


©Lisa Lee 2012, sleeping in Elvegren Life

Friday 13 April 2012

Electric Vintage Tattoos


Electric Vintage Tattoos

Where All Your Inky Dreams Can Come True!


I remember the days when tattoo parlours, like betting shops, existed behind darkened doors. That tight, nervous feeling you got as, after your third unsuccessful visit, you finally pushed the door open, the relief when a smiling tattooist shook your hand and showed you their portfolio. I remember thinking, ‘What was I so worried about?’

It is very difficult to keep the wonderment of the tattoo parlour whilst making it a little less intimidating for the client, but Sara Hopson has fantastically achieved this very thing with Electric Vintage Tattoos.

You can see the layout of the studio from outside, so you know exactly what to expect, which, if you are a tattoo virgin, is quite reassuring. Inside you will meet some of the most talented tattooists in the country right now, who will work with you to achieve your desired design. Then, once you’ve paid your deposit and booked a slot, you get your ink! From start to finish, the experience, for me anyway, was excellent. You couldn’t be in safer, more creative, hands.

Sara and her team also offer Laser Removal, Body Piercing and Clothing. For more details and prices, check out the newly designed website: http://www.electricvintagetattoo.com/?q=node/15

©Lisa Lee 2012, sleeping in Elvegren Reviews. Also at www.Bath.Co.Uk 

Thursday 5 April 2012

5 Minute Rambles



Invisible


The radio came on at the usual time. She rolled over, put her right arm under her pillow and her left on top. Then she sighed. Next to her the bed was cold. Typical, she thought, he could’ve woke me.

It took her less than ten minutes to get herself vertical, pull on the grey, fluffy dressing gown and clean her teeth. That done, she turned to face her morning expression in the poorly lit mirror. What the f…, she thought. She blinked and looked again. Nothing. Well, not nothing exactly. She could see the dressing gown reflected clearly enough, the watch too, on her left wrist. But that was it. She looked down at her feet. They were there, but then, so were her hands. In the mirror, however, there was nothing. Am I vampire? Not a completely stupid first thought. After all, she lived on a TV diet of True Blood and Being Human. She had an idea.

Slipping off her dressing gown and removing her watch, she called down to her husband. She could hear him in the kitchen, swearing at the cats. When he heard her shout, he came up to see what she wanted. “Yeah?” He was in the bedroom, she was still in the bathroom. “Where are you, babe?” He was on the landing now and she was intrigued to find out if he could see her. She checked her reflection once more. Nothing. No dressing gown or watch either. “Stop messing about, will you! I’ve got to get going, don’t want to catch the traffic!” She involuntarily put her hands over her ears as his voice boomed almost straight into her left lobe. She held her breath and whispered, “Steve?” The effect was alarming, he pulled back, stumbled through the doorway. 
“For fuck sake Karen! That’s not funny…”
“Am I laughing?”
“Where, where are you?” He was looking right at her now.
“In front of you. Steve, I’m a bit, well, scared.” Her small voice quivered a bit. She fought back tears, reached out for the toilet roll. “Oh. My. God!” He watched as the toilet roll unravelled a little and a small piece tore itself off. “You’re really, I mean, I can see you!”
“Really?”
“Well, no, not you exactly. The loo roll is moving though. I can see it in your hand!” She brought it up to her nose and delicately blew. “Don’t cry Karen! Please. This is cool!”
“How, Steve, can this be cool? I’m invisible and I have an interview in one hour!”
“Well, yes, but think about the fun you can have? Seriously babe, you can go anywhere!” He stepped toward where he thought she must be, “You can go in early, watch all the other interviews before yours. You’ll finally get to know what the Director wants and then the promotion is in the bag! God, babe, it’s like a gift!”

*

Well, she did go in early. She did listen in on the interviews. But how was she supposed to attend her own? No one could see her, except herself. Feeling low and a bit put out by the whole invisible thing, she made her lonely way home. No one stopped her to ask for change. No one offered her a smile that would’ve cheered her up. She just ambled along. Home to where she could relax.

As she opened the door, she could hear Steve upstairs. He was fucking the neighbour again. She sighed and someone beside her sighed too. She looked round. 
“Hello,” she said. A ghostly figure, tall, sexless yet peaceful, raised it’s hand in greeting. 
“Is this because I said that I felt invisible?” It nodded.
“Hmm. Well, that won’t solve what I already knew in my heart.”
It shook its head. 
“Well, old friend, let’s do it!”

*

By the time she had reached the landing, outside her bedroom door, she was fully restored. Standing in the doorway, naked apart from the spectral dagger now clasped in her right hand, she whispered his name again, “Oh Steve…”







©Lisa Lee 2012, sleeping in Tea Break

Tuesday 27 March 2012

Dear Me...


Look at you, with your long black hair,
 White streak down the right hand side.
Your kohl lined eyes matching your black lips and rosary beads,
 Anything that helps you to hide.

I’m smiling as I see you, in your blue lace petticoat,
 Your 16 hole Doctor Martin boots.
A pirate on the good ship ‘Adolescence’.
 With your gang of 4 recruits.

I guess right now you’re missing Rob still.
 I can remember the pain of the split.
But there’s a boy at college who fancies you,
 And he has his own bed-sit…

I see you at The White Hart Inn,
 Working the bar, a favourite with the men.
Open your eyes more. Notice the attention.
 Make eye contact now and then!

Oh, and remember John, with the red hair,
 Who you went out with last year?
He’ll take you skating and he’ll want to talk,
 Listen, for Christ’s sake listen. He won’t always be here.

Finally, I feel I should tell you
 That what your mother said,
About roll-ups and Guinness not being for a lady,
 Drinking alone seeming unseemly,
Speaking your mind as being foolhardy
 And dressing just so as being untidy…
Well, all I can say is you’re a long time dead!

You’re doing just fine,
 So do what you do.
Live a little more,
 Love from you xxx


©Lisa Lee 2011, sleeping in Elvegren Life

Monday 26 March 2012

What She Said, What He Said.


As they climbed into the newly changed bed, the smell of ironed cotton filled her nose.
“I love the smell of fresh sheets!” she said.
“Me too.” He laid out his right arm so she could snuggle up next to him. She did and he held her tightly.
“My hair looks cool doesn’t it?” She looks up into his pool-like eyes.
“Yeah. It’s very red.”
“It’ll be redder next time. Although this time was a happy accident.”
“Really?”
“Well, Karen wasn’t there today so Jen did it. But my usual colour wasn’t there either…”
“What, did Karen take it with her?” he laughed.
“No, of course not! No, but they had the one above it? It’s the same but has an ‘I’ next to it’s number.”
“So,” he asks, ‘what does the ‘I’ stand for?”
“I think it’s ‘intensive’. Or ‘interesting’!” She laughs, sits up and hugs her knees. “It does look lovely though?” He smiles. She loves how he bites his bottom lip when he does so. She loves how his eyes flash as they squint ever so slightly. But mostly she just loves him, bones and all.
Tracing a finger along her nose, she says, “You know I have a fairy nose?” He laughs. “No, really! You see how it’s like a ski slope?”
“Sort of, yeah.” He has to pull his head back to get a better view.
“Fairies from miles around come to my nose for their winter holidays. They don their tiny, weenie skis, stick their cocktail-stick size stick things either side and whoosh!! Off they go! Little bastards.”
“Why are they?”
“Why are they what? Little bastards?”
“Yeah!”
“Well, if they paid the going rate for a ski holiday, I could get this bloody awful nose put right!”
He kisses her turned-up nose. “I love your nose.”
She closes her eyes, smiles. “Good job then.”


©Lisa Lee 2012, sleeping in Elvegren Life

Where I Grew Up


I spent my early years on a farm, in Walnut Grove, Minnesota, running through the endless meadows, arms outstretched, feeling the warmth of the constant sunshine. I even adored school, such as it was. There were just a handful of us, sitting in a wooden hall, on simple wooden chairs using slates to write on, when we had to write. Most of the day we were outside. I learnt about every flower, plant and animal indigenous to Minnesota. I learnt about the land and what would grow well there. I loved the wild flowers that filled the meadow between the school and my little house on the Prairie, I can still feel the scratchiness of the stems, smell the subtle scents as I ran happily through them.
At home, Ma always cooked a huge dinner and Pa would sit at the head of the table, where he said Grace. At sundown my sisters and I went to bed with a lamp. We’d put on our mop caps and nighties, give each other kisses and, then, Pa would lift me up to the loft, where I slept. I loved it when he did this because the ladder used to shake when I climbed up, causing me a bit of a lurch in my tummy. As I curled up under my patchwork quilt, lovingly made for me by my Grandma, I would dream of adventures. I was always with friends and always happy.
As I grew up, I had to move on. I could feel myself growing away from the farm and it’s inhabitants. It was time to find a bit of grit. A bit of real life with all it’s grey areas as well as it’s light. So, at just 17, I sailed to England. I took a job as a servant in a small town in Cornwall. My new employer was a wealthy tin mine owner and the job came with a room in his home. It was nothing like the farm I’d left back in Minnesota. It felt cold, damp and there were pockets of gloom in every room, until Mr Poldark walked in. My teenage hormones turned virtual somersaults and although I had been warned about falling in love with an employer, I couldn’t resist him, nor him, me. If you’d been able to see us then you’d have known we were perfect together, for a while, anyway.
This is, sort of, where I grew up. I was a child, an adolescent and an adult who lived in her head. I would say, and I do believe, that we all do. But in weaving this tale, I have come to realise, that the truth is as strange, if not as romantic as the world in my head, for I grew up here, Calne, town of the pork pie.


I was pushed along in my pushchair to the squeals of pigs being slaughtered and the river Marden running red. 
I learnt to walk in the shadow of the monstrous red-bricked abattoir that cast a shadow, no matter what time of day, along the ancient, and beautiful, Church Street. 
I met my husband in the uninviting, unattractive and unfriendly Trotters pub. 
Then, finally, I moved to King Bladud’s city of Bath. 
You know, the guy with the pigs.

©Lisa Lee 2012, sleeping in Elvegren Life

Tuesday 20 March 2012

Speed Date


DING, DING!

‘This is me then.’
‘Yep, this must be me too.’
‘My name is Rob.’
‘Susan. Call me Sue.’

‘You have great…’
‘Eyes? Mmm, so I’m told.’
‘I was gonna to say tits!’
‘Ha! You’re a bit bold.’

‘Nah, I’m kidding.’
‘Really? That’s a shame.’
‘Sorry, I’m no good at this.’
‘ It’s just like playing a game.’

‘But games, I never win.’
‘Aw, that can’t be true.’
‘Well, possibly once.’
‘Then I’ll play with you!’

‘Because you think you’ll win?’
‘I’d rather like to lose.’
‘Are you flirting with me Sue?’
‘Flirting. Playing. You choose?’

‘We’ll be moving on in a bit.’
‘I’ve already decided, ta.’
‘I’ll get my coat, shall I?’
‘And I’ll get ‘em in at the bar!’

DING, DING!


©Lisa Lee 2011 Sleeping in Elvegren Tales

Thursday 15 March 2012

The Possession of Mr Cave by Matt Haig

  First things first, this has an excellent cover, very intelligent looking and that is why I chose it! Yes, I judged this book, as I have so many times, on it’s cover and I was right to.

  It starts slowly but explosively, the fallout from Reuben’s tragic death seeping into your bones, Terence, the father, left bereft with the near perfect twin, Bryony. The pace quickens somewhat as the relationship between them spirals out of control as he becomes increasingly possessive of his daughter and then, later, possessed by the spirit of his son.

  Haig writes the part of Bryony perfectly, a typical teenage girl rebellious and self obsessed, railing against her father. Terence, too, is keenly observed as the guilt-ridden dad who has to come to terms with his treatment of Reuben whilst he was alive along with the violent death of his wife.

  Now, I know this sounds bleak and a parent’s worse nightmare but actually, it’s not. I have two sons and at the time of reading my youngest was the same age as Reuben yet, strangely, it didn’t relate at all. I cannot explain why, maybe it’s because it’s in the first person and so remains exclusively Terence’s story. I’m not sure and I certainly wouldn’t want to speak for everyone else.

For a more in depth review, please read  John Burnside for The Guardian




©Lisa Lee 2012 Sleeping in Elvegren Reviews

Tuesday 13 March 2012

And the Ass Saw the Angel by Nick Cave


  I am a die-hard Nick Cave fan and not just because of his heart-wrenching rawness. He is an astonishing lyricist, taking you to places tender, soulful and heart breaking or cruel, twisted and terrifying. With this well honed skill, is it any wonder that he’s an author for the intelligent and, dare I say it, a modern day classic?

  ‘And the Ass Saw the Angel’ is, from start to finish, relentless, relentlessly grim, sordid, sad, tragic. With its biblical feel and characters so flawed that they could spawn a book in themselves, it isn’t an easy read. I often felt as if I was dodging Cave’s inventive adjectives like bullets coming out of the page, yet I was inexplicably drawn back for more.

  That said, I was not sorry to finish it; I was damn near breathless by the end and was relieved to catch my breath back. Fantastic!



©Lisa Lee 2012 Sleeping in Elvegren Reviews