Hereinafter called the Author

As I told you in my very first ever Big Words and Made Up Stories blog on 5^th November last year (https://bigwordsandmadeupstories.blogspot.com/2019/11/how-i-became-writer.html), I’ve never wanted to be anything except a writer. And for the last twelve years, I’ve been one. I even get paid.

I’m a freelancer, which means that someone gets in touch, asks me for six hundred words or so on a topic in three weeks and I do it. I’ve got a roster of clients ranging from charities to florists to builders to radio stations and I write blogs, articles and content for them as required. It’s taught me how to write succinctly, clearly and to a brief and I’ve learned loads along the way.

My life since we moved to Suffolk in 2006 has been centred around children (mine), school and work. And Mr Leigh, of course, who is a wonderful and deserving man, without whom Ruth the Writer would not be the woman she is today. I picked up my first freelance writing contact in the summer of 2008 when I was gigantically pregnant with child number three. Slowly, very slowly, I got a few more. I tootled along with three for many years until there was a sudden burst of activity a couple of years ago. Then I started my own content writing business, Contentability, and I got some more.

Picture me then in March this year, just as lock down hit. I had so many clients that I decided to start a waiting list. Hooray! And then, just like that, about 75% of them disappeared. This was no surprise as many of them were small businesses, just like me, and had to put all non-essential work on hold. Others, like The Highbury Centre in London (a guest house) had to close. The long and the short of it was that I was left with about three clients again.

I’m an optimist. At this point, I had two choices.

1.    Wail, rend my garments and plead for sympathy.

2.    Get on with it and come up with a Plan B.

I went for option two.

Lock down for me meant not having to get up for the school run, dash about from pillar to post and try to cram a quart into a pint pot. Suddenly, endless days stretched ahead of me. One day, halfway through “Pride and Prejudice” (always a go-to book), I had a thought. I wrote my thought down and it turned into a short story. I wrote six more. Creative writing. Hold that thought.

As well as this blog, I write for More Than Writers, the blog for the Association of Christian Writers. It’s a great group which has taught me huge amounts and introduced me to some delightful people. For my April blog, I decided to write a funny piece about a very annoying smug writer who brags about her success on social media (I bet you can all think of someone like that). Staring out of the window, I tried to think what this woman was called. She had to be smug, so her first name would need to start with an I. And so, Isabella M Smugge (I Am Smug) was born. If you want to read that blog, you can click here: https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2020/04/the-utter-joy-of-ones-craft.html.

People seemed to like it. I didn’t give Isabella another thought until it was time for my May blog. It was a more serious piece, but I thought I’d put her in there again. That was on 7^th May, a day I’ll never forget.

I was sitting up in bed with Mr Leigh sipping tea and reading the comments. Quite a number of people said they’d love to know more about Isabella. A couple suggested that I might write a book about her. I laughed. She was just a fun, throwaway character – I wasn’t going to take her any further than that. 

Suddenly, in came a message. It was from a fellow ACW member who works as a literary agent. He agreed with the comments and asked if I would like to send him two sample chapters and a story arc. He would then pitch my book to publishers for me. I nearly choked on my tea while nearly falling out of bed. All my Christmases had come at once. Tea cooling on the bedside table, I replied that of course I would be delighted to do this.

So, I did. I sat there and wrote the first sentence. And I wrote and wrote until I’d written those two chapters which was at tea time the next day. My jokey, annoying character had turned into a real person with a back story, a family and a story arc. I was as surprised as anyone.

After a few rejections, which are only to be expected, Tony emailed me to let me know that my book had found a home with Instant Apostle, a small independent publisher which specialises in new authors. People talk about dreams coming true, don’t they? I never understood that, but now I do.

Isabella M Smugge (as in Bruges), her husband Johnnie, her three children, her au pair Sofija, her awful mother, horsey Davina, her hideous agent Mimi Stanhope and a cast of supporting characters have sprung into life. I’ve got three more chapters to write and I’m done.

At the risk of sounding sentimental, becoming a published writer has been my dream since I was six. And now it’s here. I would say words fail me, but you know me well enough by now to know that’s not true. I’ll finish with the words of the contract which I must have read fifty times just in case they vanished into the mist.

Agreement – this contract made between Ruth Leigh (hereinafter called the Author) and Instant Apostle Ltd (hereinafter called the Publisher).

Hereinafter called the happiest woman in Suffolk. I’ll keep you posted.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, four budgies, eight chickens, six quail and a kitten. Her first novel, The Diary of Isabella M Smugge, has just been accepted for publication and she has another one on the go. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

I've Heard Worse

What a heavy few days it has been. I was going to announce Big News this week, but that can wait till next Thursday. 

I’m writing this on Claydon Ward at Ipswich Hospital. My 94-year old father is propped up in bed with a nebuliser clamped to his face. He’s eyeing up a tuna sandwich and looking longingly at his crossword. This time last night, I was sitting on the edge of my seat while he tried to get out of bed and pull off his oxygen mask. He was delirious, suffering from pneumonia and heart problems, and possibly not long for this world.

My father is made of stern stuff. A lifelong abstainer from anything harmful (unless you count cake and biscuits), he’s walked purposefully through life avoiding all the usual hurdles and hazards which trip up ordinary mortals. As he lay gasping for air on the sitting room floor on Saturday afternoon, the ambulance crew asked me for his medical history. All I could come up with was his appendectomy at fifteen and his recent diagnosis with Alzheimer’s and heart disease. Not bad going.

I’ve written before about Dad’s experience at Ipswich. Then, as now, the staff were kind, caring, gentle and compassionate. Watching them caring for a confused, weak, elderly man who had no idea where he was, I was touched beyond words. They work so hard. They deserve so much more than what they are given. They pulled Dad round on Tuesday night, giving him strong antibiotics and a sedative to help him sleep. I thought I was going to be planning his funeral. Instead, I’m bellowing at the top of my voice over the nebuliser (no hearing aids, natch) and answering his questions about Mum and the rest of the family over and over again.

Which brings us on to Saturday night. Mum came back to our house for tea and to sleep. This meant she joined us round the table for a multi-generational meal. The diners were aged between eleven and ninety. Our eldest son is growing his hair and currently sports a fine curly auburn mop. Clad in a sleeveless Mötley Crüe T-shirt, he chatted politely to his grandmother about his band and their latest songs. After some gentle encouragement, he selected a track and played it to her on his phone. When it finished, she said, “Hmmm. Well, dear, I’ve heard worse.”

We all erupted into laughter. A ringing endorsement if ever there was one. I could see the posters: “Live on stage – Black Alice on their triumphant European Tour, “I’ve Heard Worse.” I amused myself by inventing imaginary tours for other metal giants.

Alice Cooper – What Time Do You Call This?

Metallica – I Hope You Don’t Think You’re Going Out Looking Like That

Iron Maiden – You’ll Catch Your Death

Motörhead – While You’re Under My Roof

Def Leppard – Turn It Down for Goodness’ Sake

Feel free to join in – what would Anthrax, Slipknot and Led Zeppelin’s grandmothers christen their world tours?

With mum at home along with the kitten who’s taken a shine to her (“It’s because you sit still all the time, Grandma,” explained our daughter), my sister began the long journey up from Hampshire to Suffolk. The poor thing fell foul of the dreaded diversions and had a lively and unexpected journey through hitherto unknown parts of Essex and Suffolk. She arrived at 2 o’clock in the morning and we conversed in whispers over a Twix until 7 o’clock when the rattle of the tea trolley announced the beginning of the day.

Yesterday, desperate for sleep, she tried to start her car, but the battery was dead. I leapt into mine and drove around trying to buy a set of jump leads. People say our society’s in decline (Guns 'n' Roses: What’s the World Coming To?) but I don’t think it is. Lovely Nick in Tesco regretted that he didn’t have any, but suggested I tried the Apple Garage on the hospital roundabout. Sure enough, they had lots. In the meantime, my sister had struck up a conversation in the car park with Jean from Stowmarket who offered a virtual hug. A kind couple, seeing a person in distress, stopped and offered their own jump leads. It did my heart good.

It’s Thursday now. I slept in my own bed last night. It felt pretty good. I left dad surrounded by Twix wrappers doing his Sudoku. He’s looking infinitely better but of course, we don’t know what the future holds. He’ll be 95 in October, God willing, and once again, we’ve got cause to thank our fabulous NHS. Tracey, Leena, Gincy, Roo, Collette, Amy, Alison and all of you on Claydon, plus all your colleagues – thank you, from all of us who rely on you. Because we really do.

The prognosis isn’t as bad as we were expecting. Lots of antibiotics, rest and a pacemaker. I’ve heard worse.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Diamonds, Good Eggs, Sunshine and Chocolate

Living in Britain is great. If you’re ever short of a conversational opener, you can say anything about the weather – and I mean anything – and it will keep you going for at least five minutes. Too hot? We wipe our foreheads and talk wistfully about the thunderstorm that’s forecast tomorrow. Unseasonably chilly? Well, the nights are drawing in, but they say it will be sunnier next week.

Investigating your family tree can uncover some exciting facts. My ancestors have donated a dash of French DNA, possibly some Dutch and Belgian about fifteen generations back, but mostly good old Scottish genes, which have blessed me with extremely fair skin. In winter, I’m blue. In summer, I go white. Then red. I don’t get on terribly well with extreme heat so this week has been a bit of a trial.

Realising that 2020 was the year of our sojourn in Costa del Loudham, my sainted husband got out the pool, blew it up and applied vast amounts of glue to mend the many leaks. Next, he purchased floating hammocks and some drinks holders in the shapes of doughnuts, palm trees and watermelons. On Monday, I was so incredibly hot and grumpy that I betook myself to my chamber, dug out my bathing costume and poured myself into it. Wrapped modestly in a towel, I ventured out into the garden. We live in a semi, not massively overlooked, but if our neighbours had glanced out of their bedroom window that afternoon, they would have been treated to the sight of a Rubenesque middle-aged lady lowering herself into the water while yelping. It was COLD. Good Lord, how cold it was.

After a bit, it became bearable, then blissful. Every day this week, I have galumphed over the lawn and hurled myself in. Yesterday afternoon, I found myself lying on the said hammock, cup of cold water held by the said palm tree having a lovely chat with my daughter. We lay there, gazing up at the intense blue sky and watched as two buzzards circled and swooped and cried out to each other. It was lovely. I was completely happy and relaxed. If life gets better than lying in a large paddling pool from a Spanish hypermarket on a roasting hot day, I’d like to know about it.

Wednesday was a top day all round. I went out and had brunch with four dear friends in the morning, which felt like a real adventure. Going out of the house. Entering a place of entertainment. Seeing people who are not blood-related. I think we all felt rather daring.

Well, it was the most fun ever. We haven’t seen each other all together for I don’t know how long. As with all good friends, it was as if not a moment had gone by. We laughed solidly for about the first half hour. Gales of merriment echoing around, five ladies gulping down cooling iced drinks and snorting with laughter. We certainly made our presence felt.

We covered a huge amount of ground in the two hours we spent together. We caught each other up on our lives, we listened, we encouraged, we learned. We’re all women of faith and it was so good to be able to talk about that. I hadn’t realised how much I had missed socialising, how much I miss my friends and how much I need that human contact. I left the café beaming from ear to ear and drove home in a haze of happiness.

As I drove back up Chapel Lane towards our house, a van came bowling towards me. We both slammed on our brakes, pulled into our respective passing places and waved at each other. The driver was young, with an open, smiling face. As he thanked me, he laughed and it was so infectious that I laughed too. He looked as happy as I felt and that joyous, spontaneous laughter (about what, I couldn’t tell you) lifted my spirits even more.

Let me end this week by sharing some lovely quotes about friends.

“Diamonds aren’t a girl’s best friend – friends are.”

“A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked.”

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.”

“There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate.”

Enjoy the rest of the week. I believe that rain is forecast ……………..

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

Mrs America, not forgetting Ms and Miss

I’ve been watching a fantastic programme on iPlayer. Starring Cate Blanchett, Rose Byrne, Tracey Ullmann, Sarah Paulson, Jeanne Trippelhorn, Uzo Aduba, Elizabeth Banks, Margo Martindale, Kayli Carter and Ari Graynor, "Mrs America" opened my eyes to a period of history I knew shamefully little about.

In 1971, the ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) was reintroduced to Congress to be ratified. It sought to amend the United States Constitution to guarantee equal legal rights for all American citizens regardless of sex. And it was going through, being ratified by state after state. That’s until a woman called Phyllis Schlafly stepped in and started a campaign to halt the ERA in its tracks.

I’d never heard of Phyllis Schlafly. Brilliantly portrayed by Cate Blanchett in “Mrs America”, she’s a clever, articulate Republican who is violently anti feminism, communism and women’s rights. What differentiates her from other right-wing housewives is that she has a steely-eyed determination to stop the ERA and mobilise her fellow homemakers in order to do so. Schlafly calls herself a housewife, but in fact she’s no such thing. Married to a rich lawyer husband, her unmarried sister and her staff keep the house running and the children looked after, giving her time to go out on the campaign trail and run her STOP ERA campaign. What makes Phyllis stand out is her charisma, her cleverness, her ease with an off-the-cuff quip and her ever-growing mailing list. Years before Mail Chimp was even a twinkle in its inventor’s eye, Mrs Schlafly had all the names and addresses she needed neatly filed in her card index system.

Opposing the Far Right was a group of women linked by their views on equal rights for women, regardless of their colour or sexuality. These Left-Wing Libbers horrified Phyllis Schlafly and her army of homemakers. “Mrs America” tells the story of how the second-wave feminists came up against the Right and history was changed as a result. And most certainly not for the better.

In the early Seventies, Gloria Steinem was publishing, “Ms Magazine”, a feminist publication, Betty Friedan was on stages across America talking about the views expressed in her bestseller, “The Feminine Mystique” and Shirley Chisholm was campaigning to become America’s first black woman president. Change was in the air. How could the ERA fail? And yet we see it do just that, as the nine episodes unfold. Mobilising women across the country, Phyllis Schlafly succeeds in overturning the proposed amendment. She wins the battle, but the war is still being fought.

Men don’t come out too well in, “Mrs America.” There’s the odd supportive husband, but on the whole, they’re portrayed as sexist and entitled, smoking in their offices and groping their secretaries. Politics is a dirty business as both sides find out to their cost.

I loved this series. The casting is spot-on, the writers never fall into the trap of demonising anyone and the acting, music and costumes are superb. I learned a great deal and realised that not that much has changed. Women are speaking out and being listened to more in the USA, but racism, sexism and discrimination are still rife.

The ERA remains an un-passed piece of legislation, even now. The United States of America does not have it enshrined in its Constitution. I was horrified when I found this out, but not surprised. In a country where the President can use sexist, misogynistic language, treat women as playthings and survive sex scandal after sex scandal, why would they need the ERA?

I would recommend that you watch, “Mrs America.” It’s sparkling, funny, truthful and thought-provoking. It’s written by, directed by and stars mostly women. As we sit here, halfway through 2020, programmes of this quality making the points it makes, are rare creatures. As the final episode came to an end, I was left feeling angry, an emotion which didn’t leave me for several days. This is intelligent television, doing what it should do, which is to make us think and question.

I loved it. I was sorry when it was over. Let me know what you think.

It might seem crazy what I'm 'bout to say, doo-doo doo-doo dooby-doo-doo……

Which probably qualifies as one of my longer blog titles. If I had the urge, I suppose I could draw up some kind of chart or spreadsheet entitled, “Ruth’s Blog Headings” but I don’t know that I can be bothered. It doesn’t sound that thrilling, does it? Although, while we’re on the subject, “I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride my bike, I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like …… oh hang on” and “Hair toss, check my nails, baby how you feelin’?” are also fairly hefty. If you’re new here (welcome!) feel free to scroll back and see what you think.

Anyway, on to the subject of the blog, which is why we’re all here. I do love a bit of Pharrell and who can resist a quick burst of, “Happy?” As I’ve shared elsewhere, finding all this extra time has meant that Mr Leigh and I have been lavishing a lot of love and care on the garden. Yesterday, we all enjoyed our very first home-grown sweetcorn, and it was the most delicious thing ever. Picture five people with butter running down their chins, chomping on corn cobs and smacking their lips and you have the scene at tea time last night. Courgettes are doubling in size almost as we look at them, the runner beans are rampant, the pumpkins are swelling, the fruit is fruiting and the poly tunnel is alive with yummy vegetables. Every spring, we start off well, weeding, planting, watering and hoping for a good crop, but by July, we’re in the midst of the catering season and feeling terribly guilty for not spending enough time nurturing plant life. Not any more!

On Monday, I realised something amazing. I’d go so far as to say it was an epiphany. It’s only in novels that people climb mountains, or stand at the top of waterfalls, or stride along a wide golden beach gazing out to sea and murmuring, “At last! Truly, I have found the meaning of life,” or similar. I was standing at the sink looking out at the herbs and thinking, “I really must get out there and pull those thistles up.” It wasn’t even a particularly sunny day, but the greengage trees were waving in the wind, loaded with fruit, the chickens were pecking and clucking contentedly and all was right with my world. Scrubbing industriously at a tea-stained mug, I suddenly realised I was happy.

Now when I say happy, I don’t mean that fleeting feeling we all get, directly related to good things happening. I’m referring to an emotion I have never felt in nearly fifty-four years of life, that whatever happens, whatever annoyances, gripes or grievances I may have, I am content. This is new. However happy I was before (and I was. Who wouldn’t be with my lovely husband and children?) something was always there, eating away at my joy as a wasp nibbles at a perfectly ripe Victoria plum. I used to berate myself. Why couldn’t I find that elusive feeling of contentment? My deeply-loved husband and children, my wonderful friends, my faith, my life experience, where I found myself in beautiful rural Suffolk was surely enough. Something was always missing. And that made me feel sad. But now I’ve arrived at the destination, finally mooring my skiff to the jetty.

It hasn’t been easy to get here. Two and a half years of counselling, painful life lessons learned, realising that if people and situations won’t change, I must change and all that jazz. Heck, it’s hard being an adult but it does have its compensations.

On Monday, I ticked lots of things off my huge to do list, which is always good. I baked bread. I picked vegetables. I acquired a second-hand mower for my parents for the knockdown price of £10 and a lovely second-hand wooden bench for the garden. Maybe all of those things contributed to my arrival at Happy Town. A routine phone call to Utility Warehouse doesn't sound like much fun, but the lady I spoke to, Latara, made it so. Who'd have thought that talking about broadband and electricity tariffs could be so much fun? But it was. Life is, and I think should be, often, a joyous disorder. 

I’m a writer, so I like painting word pictures to illustrate my point. Let’s imagine that I’m a house. A nice, semi-detached Victorian house, for the sake of argument. A quick glance would show you curtains at the windows, flowers in the garden and veg in the veg patch. You might say to yourself, “Wow, look at that. I wish I could be like that house. My beans aren't doing too well and my flowers are choked with weeds.” If you came a bit closer, you might notice that the windows aren’t sparkling, there are nettles growing and the lawn could do with a mow. Still, that’s life, and the house looks pretty good, even close up. To extend the metaphor, while all this is going on, I’m round the back frantically underpinning, extending, re-pointing and shoring up because it doesn’t matter how many nice things people say about the house, I know it’s not right and it could be so much better.

I’ve stopped doing that now, after a lifetime of believing that I have to work harder than anyone else to be liked and valued. There are lots of things wrong with me. I’m a bit messy. I’m not very good at routine. I take on responsibilities I shouldn’t. I’m not great at character assessment. That said, I’m creative. I’m kind. I’m generous. I love helping people.

Which means that I can now give myself license to feel like a room without a roof, believe that happiness is the truth and that I finally know what happiness is to me. Here come bad news talking this and that? I think we all know what it can do with itself!

Because I’m happy.

Coming out of my shell

It’s been a funny old week. I mean that in both senses of the word. Those long, uninterrupted days of early lock down, where I could stay in bed if I liked, writing and supping tea, or amble about watering things and working out plot lines in my head are drawing to a close. We’re in the next stage. I’ve got two new clients which is brilliant. One in particular has handed me the dream job. I get to talk to lovely people, revel in gorgeous photos of their homes, then distil my notes into mellifluous prose. Some of my old clients are coming back (welcome!) People are starting to book parties again, so both halves of my old life are revving up.

I liked having time. It’s not something I had much of before the pandemic. I was always driving somewhere, ticking something off a massive to-do list, worrying about something. A bit like Road Runner. Whereas since March, I’ve been more like a tortoise, ambling about, letting the sunshine heat me up and revitalise me and spending time in my shell. Turns out it’s quite a good place to be from time to time. I can think in there.

My mum was ninety on Sunday. In spite of her protestations that it was just another day, my sister and I organised our first meal out for months, appropriately socially distanced and threw an open house in the front garden of my parents’ bungalow. Watching everyone drinking tea, eating cake, chatting and laughing did my heart good. The sun shone too, which is always helpful with outside events. Halfway through proceedings, my niece reminded me that we’d left a very important family member out. She walked down the back garden to release her from her pen and returned clutching her to her chest.

When my sister was ten, she succeeded where I had always failed in obtaining a real, live pet. This was a fine-looking tortoise, probably aged about twenty, who we called Timbo (after a male DJ on Essex Radio, since you ask). Many years later, we found out he was a she. Hey ho.

Timbo loves company. Like all tortoises, she’s got very poor eyesight but excellent hearing and a great sense of smell. “Is it alive?” asked an elderly guest, recoiling. Once everyone had realised that there was a friendly reptile in their midst, the party continued, Timbo being fed cucumber, lettuce, strawberries and raw pepper by her adoring fans. At one point, she relieved herself lavishly, alarmingly close to the birthday girl’s sandals, but a discreet flick into the hedge took care of that.

Once everyone had gone home, we tidied up and then sank into comfy chairs in the front room. I haven’t seen my sister and her family since February so there was a lot of catching up to do. Somehow, we got on to the subject of their friend Karen who has inherited her mother’s house rabbit. She has also taken in another creature, known by one and all as Gary the Psycho Tortoise.

When my brother in law mentioned Gary, I fell about laughing. Gary. I mean, Gary! Who calls a tortoise Gary? Once I’d calmed down a bit, I asked for more details. It seems that Gary is a troubled soul. Violent and obstinate, he headbutts his way out of his accommodation each morning, ignoring the door and necessitating the application of much gaffer tape. In addition, his libido knows no bounds. Visitors to Karen and Pete’s are often startled when Gary approaches at top speed and begins to – ahem – get to know their foot a little better. The moment of truth, it seems, is close by when Gary’s eyes cross.

Karen and Pete are extremely kindly and compassionate folk. They are trying to make Gary a better person/tortoise and find his softer side. Sadly, he doesn’t appear to have one. He is frequently put in the naughty corner and has even been seeing an animal behavioural psychologist. This news reduced me to helpless tears of laughter. I haven’t laughed that much since I don’t know when. So many questions. How does the psychologist communicate with Gary? Are his problems rooted in nature or nurture? Does he get given homework? Is it a talking cure? (probably not). And most of all, how can Gary be brought out of his shell?

I am nothing like Gary. That said, I have been seeing a counsellor for some time, but we speak the same language and he’s never put me in the naughty corner. I may be a bit more like Timbo, affectionate, fond of company and occasionally short-sighted when it comes to painful realisations.

I’ve been the life and soul of the party for so long (approximately since the age of nineteen, when I began to suspect that fun-loving, jolly people had a better time of it than introspective, depressed types) that I’d forgotten, if I ever knew, that retreating into a quiet place to reflect is a Very Good Thing. Lock down provided me with that opportunity and it’s done me no end of good. I’ve started to poke my head out a bit now and feel the sun on my back. I don’t know what the rest of this year holds, but I am looking forward to finding out.

Images by Pixabay

Ruth is a freelance writer and speaker. She is married with three children, runs a catering company and keeps chickens and quail. She has her first novel in the editing stage, another two on the go, writes poetry as the mood takes her, writes for a number of Christian charities and has her own business writing blogs for small Suffolk businesses. She is a recovering over-achiever who is now able to do the school run in her onesie most days. She blogs at @bigwordsandmadeupstories, covering topics as diverse as King Zog of Albania, a Christingle plagued by punch-ups and tummy upsets, and the inevitable decline of elderly parents. She has abnormally narrow sinuses and a morbid fear of raw tomatoes, but has decided not to let this get in the way of a meaningful life.

It's the end of the world as we know it....

..... a slight exaggeration. It is the end of a huge part of our family life this week, however. Our youngest child will be leaving primary school on Friday and with her ends nearly fourteen years of a long and devoted relationship with Wickham Market Primary School. I remember sitting at toddlers holding her, a tiny windy baby in my arms, and calculating, to my alarm, that I would be in the playground until 2020. In 2008, this seemed an endless stretch of time. I had a little boy in Year 1 and another in nursery and was firmly embedded in school life.

Writing this, I’m aware that no little voice is shouting, “Mummy!” I am not being interrupted by indignant re-tellings of who did what to whom and no-one needs me to join them in the toilet for urgent wiping enhancement. Peace reigns. My first little boy is now nearly 17, 6-foot tall with a growly voice and big muscles. My nursery child is staring his first year of GCSE work in the face and trawling through all his homework on Teams. My daughter is crashed out on the sofa, exhausted after the toils of school.

Covid-19 took Year 6, screwed it up into a ball and hurled it out into the stratosphere. No SATS (hooray!) but also, no Year 6 production. No summer term of hormonally-driven drama (yay!) but also, no leavers’ assembly, at least not in the traditional way.

Thrice-blessed Head of Wickham, Helen Murray and her team have come up with a genius idea to help the Year 6 parents experience the last assembly. We will be in our cars on the playground, listening to our children singing the leavers’ song and no doubt wiping tears from our eyes.

There will be no anxious queue snaking up to the hall doors, no PTA raffle, no hugging and saying goodbye afterwards. This year group will look back on their final days at primary school in a very different way to everyone else. Writing this, I feel tears welling up in my eyes, and I’m not a crier.

It’s important to focus on the good and the encouraging, however. Learning has continued, albeit in a different way. There are many happy memories to treasure. The children are going on to high school, a whole new adventure for which their years at Wickham have prepared them.

Over the years, there have been times when I dreaded and even feared the playground. Tears, bullying, mean behaviour – and that was just the parents. For the past two weeks, I’ve been walking in and savouring the huge expanse of green, the play equipment bought with the blood, sweat and tears of many PTAs over the years, the trees, the bushes and the atmosphere. So many last times. It’s sad. I’m sad, if I’m honest. I didn’t want it to be this way. Like all the other Year 6 parents, I wanted to sit in the audience cheering on our children up on the stage and agreeing that they all looked ready for high school. I was so looking forward to the leavers’ assembly, with the heady mix of emotion. We won’t have that, but we have so many other things to be grateful for.

I’ve been a Wickham parent for so long that I’m as much part of the furniture as the out of reach football in the gutter and the benches by the grass. From a practical point of view, life will be easier in the next academic year. 2019/2020 was the year of three children at three educational establishments. By September, we’ll be back down to two.

We’ll write thank you cards, of course, and I will bring my present to the front office so as not to embarrass my daughter. Actually, though, this blog is my thank you to all the people who work so hard to make Wickham Market Primary School a great place to be.

Thank you all. I’ve loved being part of your community.

Images from Pixabay

Ruth Leigh blogs at Big Words and Made Up Stories. You can also find her on Instagram: ruththewriter1.