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

Three Degrees of Separation

Rachel keyed in her unique four-digit number, pressed ‘enter’ and waited. It was bitingly cold on this street corner, she thought, as she instinctively pulled her coat tighter, shuffling from one foot to the other. Her card was returned to her just moments before the crisp, ten pound note was dispensed from the slot above the keyboard. She hastily folded it and placed it into her purse. Then she marched herself back to the café, where her skinny cappuccino and granola slice was being prepared.

‘Sorry about that!’ Rachel smiled at the cashier and handed over her money.

‘Not a problem, madam.’ The cashier counted out her change. ‘Where will you be sitting?’

Dropping the loose coins into her purse, she looked around. The room had filled up quite a bit in her absence. ‘Oh damn, it looks like I may have to…’

‘There’s a table over there, madam,’ a waiter interrupted as he breezed passed her and into the kitchen beyond.

‘Ah, yes. Marvellous. Thank you.’  She bustled through the packed tables, trying not to knock anyone’s coats to the floor, mumbling her apologies until she reached her destination. Then, with a shoppers sigh, she took the weight off her feet and tucked into her lunch.

The waiter emerged from the kitchen with a hearty laugh,

‘Deb, we need more milk! I’m taking a tenner from the till, okay?’ He was out of the door, still wearing his pinny, before Deb, the cashier, nodded her agreement.

Come on, come on, thought the waiter. He rose himself up onto his toes to see what the hold up was. A little old man was stood behind him and was trying to get a view of the situation himself.

‘There’s never enough people on these bloody tills, lad!’

The waiter turned round and laughed, ‘No sir, there is not!’

‘Cashier number 4 please.’

Finally, he thought, strolling towards number four. His smile broadened as he recognised the pretty girl about to serve him.

‘Well, if it isn’t Callum, as I live and breath!’

‘Hello Ruth. How’s tricks?’

‘Good Cal. You? That’ll be £2.78 please.’ Cal thrust his hand into the pinny pocket and pulled out the £10 note,

‘Cheers. Yeah, it’s all good! Listen, you doing anything for New Year’s Eve?’

‘Nooo, why? That’s 2.78, 2.80, 3, 4, 5 and a fiver is 10.’ She slammed down the lid of the till.

‘Well a few of us are getting together at Po-Na-Nas. You don’t need a ticket just, well…’

‘Sure, why not! You remember where I live, Cal. Pick me up, yeah?’ Ruth smiled. Cal smiled back,

‘Yeah,’ he nodded.

‘Cashier number 4 please.’

‘Sorry, I was miles away! You’re not ‘cash only’ are you?’

‘No love. We’ll take your money any old way here!’ Ruth’s still smiling with thoughts of Callum in her head. Rachel was exhausted,

‘Only I had to draw cash out earlier for a coffee but I clean forgot I needed to buy milk too! Honestly, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on…’ Then she noticed the ‘Cash-Back’ sign, ‘Oh, do you do cash-back?’ she asked,

‘We do my love. How much?’

‘Oh, I’m not sure, um, a tenner I think. Yes, a tenner.’

‘There you go,’ Ruth’s fingers lingered a little on the crisp ten pound note that she had only moments ago taken from Callum. Rachel hastily folded it and placed it in her purse. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘and Happy New Year!’

©Lisa Lee 2014, sleeping in Elvegren Tales

Broken Trophies

Oh, I'm used to the rowing by now. The crashing, banging, shouting and screaming. I listen automatically, sub-consciously waiting for the thump that will tell me he's gone one step further than before. The thump of a defeated body slumping to the ground, via a wall. It never comes to that usually. But it does tonight.

"Help me!" 

Those two words that I suppose I've willed her to say on so many occasions now pervade my wall, pierce my ears and spring me into action. Before she can say it again, I am there, on her doorstep. The animal has left, adding drink driving to his list of tonights misdemeanours. I feel safe and courageous. I feel a womanly pride as I look down at my crumpled neighbour. How dare any man reduce a woman to this! She is sobbing as I sit her down on the dishevelled sofa. I don't say much, what is there to say? We know what to do next.

Within an hour the police arrive. I show them into the living room and they start their routine questioning. I'm filling in the gaps, you know, the ones where the abused says nothing about previous nights of horror. She looks at me and casts down her eyes. 
"You forget," I tell her, "I live right next door. I hear everything." 
The policeman doesn't stop scribbling. His female colleague looks a bit green.

"God, I'm sorry!" the young woman exclaims, struggling to her feet. Well, I didn't see that coming. The carpet is now covered in vomit, the police woman looks white (which is more alarming than the green) and her colleague looks startled, like a deer caught in headlights. My neighbour has barely noticed. "Um, look we'll get off and I'll send another officer to finish off taking your statements." Then they were gone, the police. I can't help but wonder how they will tackle the animal when they're clearly terrified of a 'techni-colour yawn'. Finding the rubber gloves, I attempt to clean it up. Though, to be fair, it makes little difference to the altered state of the room. 
"Thank you so much for doing this!" 
"It's fine. It's what neighbours do."
"Yeah but, well, after the summer, well, you know..."
"Oh that. It's forgotten. Honestly. You did it, I shouted at you and now it's over."
"Thank you."
"Don't mention it." And I mean it. Please, I think, don't bloody mention it again! 

*

It was hard to reconcile the woman in front of me with the one who wantonly ransacked my bin bags last summer. For almost a week she would wait for me to leave for work, walk around to my garden, untie the bags and start picking through my rubbish. I was flabbergasted, I still am! When I asked her what the hell she was doing? She replied, 

"I just want the trophies!" 

I told her they were all broken but she carried on lifting them out anyway. In the end I had to call the police. They didn't throw up in my house, by the way. They wouldn't have dared! 

*

I waited a while, the police returned, we finished our statements and the animal didn't come home. "Will you be okay?" I asked.
"Um, yeah, yeah. Thank you again. I can't tell you how grateful I am. Especially after..."
"Honestly, please don't mention it! I'll check in on you tomorrow." I hug her and plant a sisterhood kiss on her bruised cheek.
As I walked through the hall to the front door I couldn't help but notice the broken trophies, all in a line on a purpose built shelf. Suppressing a smile, I said, 
"Lock up behind me, won't you?"


©Lisa Lee 2013, sleeping in Elvegren Life

Loss

It's a shame you never loved me,

It's not your loss, it's all mine.

Because most my friends had 3 or 4
Who told them off,
then hugged them tight.
Who made them laugh,
with tales of plight.
And who loved their every flaw.

It's a shame you were my only one,

Yet I was one of many.

Because I always found out how

When you went away

You took the others,

But never me,

Or my brothers,

And it's bothering me now.

I have nothing to remind me,

'Cept a picture I procured.

Because you never really knew me.
Photos that I sent
You never saw,
Never opened,
Were found in a drawer.
And so that's my family.

It's a shame you never loved me,

Because I'm worth it, don't you know.

©Lisa Lee 2013, sleeping in Elvegren Life

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