My dad would fry kippers for breakfast some mornings. Imagine a wayward teenage girl with a big red and black smoked fish on their plate; that was me. Dad knew what he was doing; he knew how to keep me in line: Feed me a good breakfast. He used to cook his kippers in butter … Continue reading Kippers (or, A Very Fishy Memory)
Writing my post about Cricket for the ‘C’ post reminded me of another reason why I may have a mental block against the sport. His name was James, a mate of mine at school. He looked like a young Prince Charles, even down to the sticky out ears. He was very English, fantastic at sport, … Continue reading James
‘I Remember’ is a writing exercise that was taught to me by either Tim Pears or Geoff Dyer. I can’t remember which, as they were both leading writing workshops that week. It was an Arvon Foundation writing holiday in Yorkshire, which entailed workshops everyday and cosy communal living in an old house that used to … Continue reading I Remember…
The first ‘H’ I think of when I grope around for a memory is Haworth, where the Bronte’s grew up and lived in a parsonage with their father. When I was training to be an English teacher, we took a group of students up to the museum. They’d been reading Wuthering Heights with another teacher, … Continue reading Haworth Heather
I had to reblog this from Road Essays. It’s an intelligent reaction to yet another case (yawn) of journalism creating news rather than reporting it. Having done a bit of travelling myself, I couldn’t agree more with this…
This could just be a story about countries deemed dangerous for women to travel to. But it’s more than that. This is a story about our perception of danger and how we’re told time and time again that the unfamiliar and the foreign are more dangerous to us than what is on our own doorstep.
A couple of months back, British tabloid the Daily Mail ran a story in their travel section titled ‘Sex attacks, muggings, and harassment: World’s most dangerous holiday destinations for women (and some of them may surprise you)’. The top ten list declared India; Brazil; Turkey; Thailand; Egypt; Colombia; South Africa; Morocco; Mexico; and Kenya to be the most dangerous countries for female travellers.
We’ll get back to that shortly. First I want to tell you about a strange encounter I had in Medellin, Colombia in 2001.
After a hard couple of days travelling…
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I have a number of mental snapshots that feature giraffes - four memories to be precise. I’m in the back of Dad’s car and he’s driving. Mum is in the passenger seat. We’re at a wildlife park somewhere in England, but I can’t remember which. Dad has his window open. A giraffe lopes towards the … Continue reading Giraffes – four of them.
Fecund is one of my favourite words. It means: fertile, fruitful, reproduction, prolific, rich, pregnant. Juicy word, eh? I remember clearly where I found the word fecund. I was seventeen or eighteen. We were studying David Herbert Lawrence’s The Rainbow for A Level Literature at Princethorpe College, an imposing Catholic boarding school in Warwickshire. There … Continue reading Fecund (or: Falling in love with two older men from afar)
As my theme for the A to Z Challenge is Memory, slipping into narratives about the past is all too easy. Today, I thought I would take the old saying 'Elephants Never Forget' and play with it instead. With that in mind, I looked for a cute clip of an elephant not forgetting something on Youtube, … Continue reading Elephants Never Forget
We’re adopting a kitten from a wonderful cat rescue centre called The Kitten Inn next week, and it has made me think about my first cat, Dylan. I moved out of Dad’s house and purchased my first home when I was twenty-three. It was a small, two-bed terraced, with a nice but lonely view of a granite quarry. I hated … Continue reading Dylan
Australia and New Zealand played a cricket match recently and it created quite a stir. World Cup Final, I think? I don’t understand cricket. More than that, I seem to subconsciously reject it. I’m not sure why. When we were kids, we used to holiday in Dorset in Summer months – cricket months. We had … Continue reading The Caravan and Cricket