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

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

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

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

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