Diet

My name is Bess. Bess May Smith and I have a tale to tell, though it isn’t really mine. It is the tale of my Granny but she is unable to tell it anymore.

Back in the black and white days, when ladies wore murky, long dresses and men were all uptight and combed their moustaches, my Gran was born. It was a rubbish time to be born, she told me. There was no colour in the world and children were not really liked by anyone, not even their own parents! That is why, she said, her mother left her in the village orchard. 

Her first memory is the smell; a gentle, soporific scent that wafted from the soft, green grass that enveloped her tiny body until she stopped crying and then lulled her into a dreamless sleep. From that first peaceful night she bloomed, protected by the canopy of the oldest tree in the orchard and nourished by the fruits it dropped beside her. She spent her first twelve years alone, my magical, beautiful Granny, toddling through the trees with an apple in each hand, then shinning up her ‘mother’ tree and weaving in and out between it’s limbs. Idyllic days, filled with innocence and an abundance of fruit. No one entered that beautiful orchard. It was a lost paradise, the railings and rusty gate overgrown with bind weed. Even the magisterial tree in the middle was viewed from afar as just part of the landscape. So she was safe, in one sense but quite lonely in another.

*

One day, so the story goes, a young man came wandering into the gated orchard and ambled purposely towards her tree! His legs were long and thin and he wore a jacket of velvet to cover his narrow back. She saw him through the boughs of her tree and her clear, bright eyes bore through his thick, curly blonde hair. He picked a fallen apple from the ground, sat himself down and leant back against the wide, gnarly trunk where he promptly fell asleep. As she held her gaze she found that she could see into his mind, his thoughts were like an open book to her, and they mirrored her own. She fell hopelessly in love that day, reading his soul through the leaves, breathless and still. She watched as his closed eyes flickered and a smile played upon his lips. Then, suddenly, one eye opened, followed quickly by the other! Granny squealed and (this is my favourite bit) fell from her branch, landing rather luckily and romantically, in his long velvet-clad arms. Now he was breathless, the only sound was the rustle of the leaves in the tree above them. Love is a magical thing you know. Really, it is.

*

That’s how my Granny met my Grampy. They built a hut in the orchard, to the left of Granny’s tree, and made a comfortable home. It wasn’t long before my mum, Rosie, came along. Never was a child more loved, never was a child so wanted. Her skin was pale, like her father’s but her cheeks were touched with the red that her mother held in hers. She fed on her mother’s milk for nearly two years - no wind-fell apples for this precious girl. 

Now the world had kept moving, the sun rose and set and progress, well, progressed. Rosie was a child of natural rebellion and so soon outgrew her orchard in the same way that we all outgrow our childhood home. The time came for her to branch out (that’s how Grampy put it, with a chuckle). But Granny was confused. She had never left the orchard, contenting herself with her beloved’s tales of ‘life beyond.’ My mum always said she was scared. You see, over the years and a diet purely of apples, Granny’s skin had taken on a slight green tinge. I think she looked beautiful but there was no denying that she looked different to other people. Grampy never pushed the issue, choosing to protect and cherish his wife wherever she wanted to be. That day, the day of Rosie leaving, everything in the orchard fell still. The tree bowed her boughs as Rosie wrapped her arms around it’s trunk, her tears soaked into the bark. They saw their precious girl to the now almost invisible gate. Granny watched as she slid through the slight opening. Grampy gave a jolly wave, put a reassuring arm around his wife’s shoulder and gave her a squeeze.

The End

The end? Of course not! All good daughters visit their parents and when you have two as special as my Granny and Grampy, well, you just try and stay away! Mum’s first visit was to introduce them to my dad. We don’t talk about that. All I can say is that, according to the tale, the tree, on seeing his face, shook her branches so ferociously, all her apples just dropped to the floor. One caught him a fine clout on the side of his head and fetched the tree a swift kick in return. Granny looked at her beloved and said, ‘Now there’s a bad apple if ever there was one.’ He nodded in agreement.

The next time mum visited, she was alone. Well, almost alone. There was me, like a little pip inside her tummy. Her parents received the news with delight and by the time I put in an appearance, mum was back in the orchard. She had a hut of her own, with a nursery for me and a tended garden roped off for my safety. That’s how I grew up! The same way my mum did and, almost, the same way Granny did. We were one very wonderful, magical  family with my exceptional grandparents holding us all together. Until Grampy died. Oh dear reader, my poor Granny. Never was a soul left so bereft. Death had never visited the orchard before, it had never even come up in their many conversations. He fell asleep one afternoon and just never woke up. 

*

In the days, weeks and months that followed, my mum and I pulled Granny through. Mum, by keeping house and organising the funeral. Me, by singing and dancing, with a smile on my face. There were many tears too but we did manage to raise the occasional chuckle from her. As she grew more peaceful and accepting of the passing of her beloved, Granny’s skin became darker. When she stood beneath the tree it was hard to tell the difference! Then one day, after mum had finished the housework and come looking for me, we found her stood there, smoothing the tree’s bark and speaking softly. ‘Mum?’ my mum called. ‘Granny?’ I added. But it was as if we weren’t there. Her body was still, as still as the tree she was caressing. We looked at her, her face was still so beautiful, still had the apple red blush on each cheek, the wide, dimpled smile that lit up her eyes, but her skin was now a deep green colour. Together we stepped forward and both put a hand on each of her arms. A flicker of recognition in her eyes, a single tear and she was gone. My Granny had become part of the orchard that had given her life, protected her, found her her soulmate and nurtured her precious family. Now it was time for her to pass on and I can think of nothing more fitting for my amazing Gran than to be forever rooted to the spot where she first cried, fell in love and said goodbye to my Grampy. 

Now, that’s an ending. 

©Lisa Lee 2013, sleeping in Elvegren Tales

My First Brush with Danger

Small and peculiar, I was content in my own company.

Introvert and singular, even I failed to notice me.

At the troublesome age of sixteen I attracted a gaze or two. The clothes became peculiar and singular, while I remained small and introvert. I should have been a worry for all concerned yet no one noticed me at all.

In a small town, as introverted as myself, I carved a me sized shape. My outgoing confidence betrayed my inward awkwardness. My two large brothers protected my cool innocence. But that couldn’t last forever.

Pubs, pubs and more pubs. What else is a girl to do? I smoked and drank like a man, dressed like a wood nymph, froze people out. Until I met the dad of a man who was a friend of a friend. I liked that friend. I thought he was cool.

A drunken night, no words exchanged just gazes. “You confuse me,” said my friend. “You have no idea what you do to men.” Hmm, and I downed my pint and rolled another. Cold and indifferent, I shrugged. The dad of the friend (who I thought was cool), said,

“Your face is exquisite. I would like to photograph you.”

“All right,” said I and got into his car.

We head out of town, this dad and I, the friend (his son) in the back with me.

We pull up to a barn, a converted barn and I’m not as impressed as I should be.

I remember little else, I was quietly drunk, though I do recall the light switch.

It was on the wrong side of the wall and it mattered to me. Much more than what could’ve happened next.

I woke up the next day, in my bed in my house with my mum making breakfast downstairs.

My recollection was vague but I knew I’d been good, my friend had been there the whole time. For months subsequent I would ask this chap, “Are the pictures done yet, are they okay?” He'd smile and look kind of sheepish.

Finally, I asked and, finally, he said, 

“Lisa, they are the pictures of a quiet beauty taken by a lecherous, drunken old bastard.” He stopped short of adding, “Who, if I hadn’t have been there, would’ve taken full advantage of your own insobriety.” 

That friend of mine remained confused about me but I became wiser that night. 

For dirty old men are there throughout life but to get into one’s car is not right.

©Lisa Lee 2013, sleeping in Elvegren Life

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

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

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 

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

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