I Don't Like:

Well,

Fleas don't please, lice aren't nice and I'm not sure why we need stick insects...
A clown makes me frown, and a man in a dressing gown and I'm not too struck on over formed pects...

A glory seeking Tory with an over-privileged story,
A fame seeking wannabe with an under-privileged story,
A second rate musician with a *sob sob* story...

Engaging in small talk whilst sat in the chair
At the place where they expertly colour my hair :)
Chick-Lit too makes me feel kinda meh...

That may be unkind, 

as I don't really read 'em.

So I guess I don't mind

and we probably need 'em. 

(Just to make us feel better about our own lives...)

Oh, and,

I can't stand litter, or people who're bitter and I don't really get the point of Uggs (sorry Gem...),
Caffeine free coffees, and those flat 'Penny Toffees', actually Quality Street in general - I don't like them... 

Can't stand ignorance,
Not keen on arrogance,
And all that self-importance
Is a complete and utter farce.

Can't stand racism,
Not keen on creationism,
And you can shove your chauvinism
Right up your arse! *Ahem* (So ladylike...)





©Lisa Lee, 2014. Sleeping in Elvegren Life

Squirrel

Strolling through the woods, fallen leaves all squelchy and soggy under my wellies. One long step to get over the fast-flowing brook that's carrying twigs to the bottom of the hill. 

Silence, except for the snap of dead wood as I pass.

Looking up to the morning sun, reaching through the boughs of the naked trees, stretching her warms fingers over the strange woodland inhabitants. As the sunlight bathes the huge body of the oak, I tiny door is lit up at his base. A tiny, wooden door with a tiny holly wreath fixed to its knocker. 

Silence, except for the snap of tiny crackers being pulled behind the tiny door.

Several pairs of eyes are watching me. Looking up, I catch a glimpse of two, no, three bushy tales, spiralling up and up, to the uppermost branches. 

Giddiness, from the sunlight and the motion cause me to look away. But as I do, I notice something drop from the mouth of one of my watchers. It spins like a sycamore seed in Autumn. I catch it as it gently bounces into my hand - a tiny green stocking. For a tiny squirrel's paw.


©Lisa Lee, 2014. Sleeping in Elvegren Tales

'One Giant Leap'

One bright and starry night, on a planet far, far away from here there sat a little alien called Graham.

He was the youngest Graham on the planet and a great weight was weighing down upon his bumpy, orange shoulder-like things.

"Oh dear," he sighed, "Whatever is to become of us all?" Graham glanced at the bare 'leap patch'. Not a single leap had grown there since Graham had been made 'Watcher of the Patch' and unless one grew very, very soon, the planet would die and that would be the end of the Grahams. He sighed again and lifted one of his heads, the green one, up towards the stars. "Stars, please hear me tonight," his green head said. "Without leaps in our tummies, nothing will live and the whole planet will die!" But the stars just shone. Except one. On the right. Which seemed to throb and then fall. Graham didn't notice though as he replaced the green head and rested his red one in his hand.

The next morning, as the stars shone brighter, Graham cautiously opened his eyes. "Wow!" he gasped. Then, getting up to his foot, he hopped over to where the other Grahams were still napping. "Wake up!" he shouted.

"What's all this young Graham?" questioned the elder Graham, as he too hobbled to his foot. "Look! Look at the leap patch!" They all followed Grahams gaze and with joint amazement, started swaying backwards and forwards on their feet. There, right in the middle of the patch there was a green shoot just surfacing above the pink soil.

The Grahams all leant forward, eyes widening as the shoot carried on growing!

By the end of the day, as the sky grew even darker, the leap covered the entire patch. Little Graham watched in wonderment as it stopped growing and became still. A leap. One giant leap. Big enough for all the Grahams on the whole planet to share. He looked up into the sky once more. "Ooo," he said. "What's that?" Up in the sky, to the right there was a new star. It was bigger and brighter than all the rest. A glow grew around it and moved towards the planet. "Could this be what helped the leap grow?" he thought. All of his eyes widened as the sky lightened. He felt warmer too and a smile spread across his green head.

And so the Grahams lived. The planet lived. All thanks to a massive, glowing star and one giant leap.

©Lisa Lee 2010, edited 2014. Sleeping in Elvegren Tales

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, a market-town for porky pigs.

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

RED

She never usually wore red but today was different.

“Tis only a whore that’ll dare to wear red!”

Her granny once told her, before she was dead,

“Fur hat and no knickers!”

Was another of hers,

“Especially on Sundays!”

I think I’ll wear furs…

She takes the faux fur coat from the wardrobe and tries it.

“I’m right!” said a voice from the pot on the shelf,

And she took it off quickly in spite of herself.

“Gran?” she said nervously,

And picked up the pot.

“You look like a cheap whore!”

She replied, “I do not!”

She sat on her bed with the pot in her hands.

“You don’t understand Gran, you don’t understand!”

She sobbed to the pot that lay cold in her hand.

“No, indeed I do not,”

Said Gran with a sigh.

“You’re a beautiful girl,

Explain to me why?”

She sniffed back her tears and started to talk.

“Remember Tom, Gran, with the dark floppy hair?

He told me he loved me then ran off with Claire!”

“He never, the bastard!”

“He did Gran, he did,

Now they’re getting married

And having a kid.”

She stopped her tears and looked down at her dress.

“I’m wearing this dress Gran, I’m making a stand,

I may look like a whore but it’s already planned.”

“Well, it’s not too bad.”

“I should be in that,

“That hideous peach dress,”

“What, and the peach hat?”

She looked at the peach mess that hung on the door.

“A bridesmaid? His bridesmaid?? You gullible fool!”

“I know Gran, I know but I knew Claire from school.

That’s how she met my Tom.”

“You stay dressed in red,

Bugger up her big day

And knock ‘em all dead!”

She loved her Gran, she did, though she couldn’t always talk to the pot.

“We’re scattering you next week. With Grandad.”

“Aw, well, that’s nice dear. Now, where’s your coat?”

©Lisa Lee, 2014. Sleeping in Elvegren Tales

NURL

In a land of cats,

Far, far away,

There stands the angophora tree,

Where the kobold flits

From leaf to leaf,

Salchows from branch to higher branch,

Whispering her ancient plea:

“Oh almighty Nurl, I ask of thee,

Show me the sphendrone of this tree!

For these tresses of mine,

So gold and fine,

Are alas, too wild and free!”

A clowder of cats,

On this cold day,

Observed the King's own jabberknowl,

‘Twas a sight to see,

The gunsel here,

Moved by our kobold’s earnest words,

He offers his Nurlish soul:

“Oh what kind of mana is this, pray,

That I see before me today?

The angophora there,

Holds a maiden fair,

For my Nurlish heart to slay!”

The mew of the cats,

Did not once stay,

The himbo’s now much heightened lust,

As their eyes first met,

Hers first, then his,

For a moment she thought it Him,

“A Nurl? Oh surely it must!”

“Oh sweet thing I implore you be,

Mine forever then you will see,

What a love I can give,

If you’d only live,

In the King’s castle with me!”

The eyes of the cats,

Fixed their wry gaze,

Trying to see her intentions

She looked at our chap,

Ozena filled nose,

Knew then this was doomed and did cry,

“A fico to your attentions!”

©Lisa Lee, 2014, sleeping in Elvegren Tales. Illustration ©Belinda Allen

Scribbles

So, there's a little black notebook that lives in my bag. It's full of colourful scribbles about a little black cat...

 ... and colourful people who live in the woods.

©Lisa Lee, 2014. Sleeping in Elvegren's Scribbles

The Birds in Haiku.

Back in 2010 I decided to Haiku The Birds in Tweets. 

This is them:

"Two leaning love birds, in Tippi Hedren's front seat, I'm watching 'The Birds'"

"Cold wintery day, snuggled up on my sofa, drinking Earl Grey tea"

"Old films. Stunning film stars. Impossibly gorgeous. I wish I was alive back then. Ah well."

"Bodega Bay School. Cathy is singing a song. Watch the climbing frame."

"Boo Annie is dead. Cathy is safe but still sad. Mitch is a bit of a dick."

"Lydia is odd. Cathy is sick and crying. Melanie is scared."

"Oh God. It's getting bad. Now all the lights have failed. Oh no Mitch, they have not 'gone' yet. No Mel!"

"She cannot get out. She's overwhelmed by the birds. Melanie looks dead."

"Carefully does it. Get her to the hospital. DON'T BRING THE LOVE BIRDS!"

"The end. Not very clear. Why did the birds attack? Were they just heavily pissed off? Who knows?"

"Now, should I haiku 'The Mummy' or take advantage of the absence of my children and close proximity of husband? No contest - tweet later xxx"

©Lisa Lee, 2014, sleeping in Elvegren Reviews

It's All Over

That's it then, Christmas, 2013 is over. I know this because not only has all the crap, beige food gone but so has my youngest son. Back to Guildford and his alternative life of not enough food, more than enough alcohol, university lectures and freedom from his mother. 

I always believed that Christmas was about small children. It's something that is often said, isn't it, 'Christmas is for the children'. But that sort of implies that couples who choose not to have kids, by definition, are missing out. Well, we proved last year that that just isn't the case. I loved last Christmas so much that I was determined to achieve the same this year (last year, you know what I mean). Now our boys are adults, there's no 7am wake up call, no squealing, shouting and then the inevitable tears and (over-tired) tantrums. Everything is very civilised. We all gradually emerge. I cook a very adult breakfast of eggs and salmon or bacon. We open the Bucks Fizz and toast the day. Then, once we all have our second cup of tea, we start on the presents. Nobody rushes, everybody waits. It's the very epitome of relaxed. Last year was the first time it occurred to me that this was the kind of Christmas my brother and his wife enjoyed most years. Like a bolt out of the blue I thought, 'Hang on, it's not them that's been missing out. It's us! This is cool!!'

Boxing day brought the family together. My nephew provided the children; Grace, who is 4, Jack who's 10 (ish) and Cam, 15 (ish). Now, Grace was the child we all talk about at Christmas. Whimsical, funny, excited and full of wonder. She played for ages with my dolls house, she chatted endlessly about her presents. She did remind me of Christmases past, when Harry and Gabe would almost burst with excitement at the sight of their presents, take delight in the smallest effort made by anyone to include them in party games. But then I looked at Cam and Jack. They were brilliant, of course, but that was largely due to Harry providing them with an XBox to play on! Watching them reminded me of even more Christmases past and I felt a pang of sympathy for my nephew and his wife. You see, once they get to the age where they no longer believe in the jolly red-suited man and they know that it's down to mum and dad having enough money whether they get their desired gift or not, things change. It's sad! Sad because that day seems to arrive earlier and earlier now and because there are too many years between the age of wonderment and the age of legally being able to consume alcohol. Too many years of uncomfortable family visits and sulky poses for pictures. I do have to say again, though, Cam and Jack are not like this. Yet. 

So this year (or last year...) was an eye opener then. Not only because I got to see the three ages of childhood at Christmas but because I also fulfilled that other tradition; family get togethers. Firstly, Gabe had to get to us from Guildford. I experienced all the motherly feelings and deep joy at seeing him all matured and confident. Then, today I completed that circle by hugging him goodbye, experiencing all the motherly feelings of pride and sadness. Knowing that Easter will be here soon and his return. Also , I got to do the mother of all get togethers; everyone at mine for Boxing Day! It was fabulous. Grown up, with a hint of wonderment - Perfect really. Happy New Year. Or Old Year. Oh, you know what I mean.



©Lisa Lee, 2014, sleeping in Elvegren Life

The egg and Horse +Bamboo present Tove Jansson’s Moominland Midwinter

Now, it is fair to say that I am one of The egg theatre’s biggest fans; from their always ‘left of centre’ productions to the amount of creativity and effort they put into Bath’s school children, they never fail to impress. So it was with proper excitement (and no trepidation) that the husband and I took our seats on the balcony for this telling of a wonderfully eccentric tale.

Moomintroll was a firm favourite in my childhood and has definitely enjoyed a new popularity in recent years with a new generation. In fact, it’s more popular than ever if all the merchandise is anything to go by! As I looked over from my seat I couldn’t fail to notice the little girl cuddling her Moominpapa and Moominmama dolls, wearing her Moomintroll dress.

“Look, you can see Moomintroll’s ears! There, see, see?”

One of the things The egg has over the main house is its intimacy. Before the play had started, children had already noticed the ears of the three Moomin puppets in their bed, my husband spotted the teapot, floating over-head. When we finally met the stars (expertly operated by the Horse + Bamboo Puppet Company), they were already in our hearts and very much alive. We watched as Moomintroll overcame his anxieties about being alone with the help of a new friend, Too-Ticky and his magical Shrews who are so shy they are invisible. Little My was an audience winner as the voice of mischief and mayhem was brought to us in the form of the Hemulen, skier extraordinaire. The Groke (a creature of ‘wet misery who just looks’) was especially impressive, dwarfed only by the ethereal Lady of the Cold. But it was the little absent minded squirrel with the fantastic tail that really stole the show, at least that’s what the two children next to me said.

For me though, the triumph of this unique Christmas production was the scenery and the incredible animation as the back-drop. Along with the magical music score, this quirky, thoughtful production captured my imagination and beguiled every child in the auditorium. I especially noticed the little girl hug her Moomin dolls tighter as her mum fastened up her Moomin bobble hat. And my husband bought me a Moomin mug.

Moominland Midwinter is on at The egg until January, 12^th 2014. Book now and let a little beauty into your hearts.

©Lisa Lee 2014, sleeping in Elvegren Reviews

I Like:

Coffee in the morning, loud music whilst I’m tidying, old Jimmy Stewart films, cuddles from my cats, 

The hoot of an owl, art that makes me smile, a starry night sky, various hats, 

Books all around me, a pot of Earl Grey tea, a cold bed to climb into, mother/son talks,

Doors that go nowhere, the smell of my clean hair, a freshly laundered nightdress, woodland walks,

stretching, singing, dancing, Spring, reading,

Old ladies jewellery, my husband’s arms around me, a 'real ale' pub, phone calls from Grace, 

The sound of my old albums, Sunday roasts at my mum's, half terms from uni, Bath at night is ace,

bonfires, Hallowe’en, fairytales, writing, Christmas,

Driving somewhere I don't know, walking hand in hand through snow, dressing up for pleasure, poking around in old junk shops,

The smell of old and new books, the hoodlum look of rooks, pie and mash lunch, a Nick Cave song that never stops.

©Lisa Lee 2014, sleeping in Elvegren Life