With ‘Memory’ as my theme for the A to Z Blogging Challenge, I’ve been working my way through the alphabet this month. For each letter, I think ‘what can I recall about B or K or H’ and so on, and fairly quickly a word pops into my head. So far I’ve been able to … Continue reading ‘L’ Words…
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…
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)
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