tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18565099753363511082024-03-05T07:28:01.049+00:00Resistant But PersistentPlaying with letters, dabbling in wordsSharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-35273349381998652692021-02-10T14:00:00.004+00:002021-02-10T14:00:44.604+00:00Just a week<p> A week ago, I was feeling anxious. I know that's not rare. Like so many other people across the world, trapped at home, cut off from our usual lives, my mind had started to question and fret. Last week, it seemed, there was a reason beyond all others to worry. My daughter Megan was having her baby.</p><p>I should have been full of excited anticipation; the arrival of her third child, my eighth grandchild, it should have been something to celebrate and enjoy. But somehow the world had got to me.Too much sadness, suffering and anger, affecting our friends, our families, our countries. I'd started to wonder if I'd had it too easy, if somehow I'd been pushing my luck. </p><p>We'd arranged that I could be her childcare 'bubble', that I would stay at the house, looking after the boys, while they went off to the hospital. The day passed, playing in the muddy garden, building lego houses, drawing pictures and eating pasta. It was fun, and all the lovely things it always is, but still, I watched the clock, and waited. And waited. </p><p>I told myself not to worry. I remembered the births of my own children, how long each one had taken, how wonderfully they'd worked out in the end. I reassured myself that Megan knew what she was doing, that Andrew would help and encourage her. I'd been there when Charlie and Harry were born, I knew how she well she could cope. But as the day ticked by, the clock slowed, the minutes began to take hours. I alternated between wanting time to speed up and praying for it to stop. If I could freeze the world now, then we'd all still be ok. If nothing moved forward then nothing would change and nothing bad could possibly happen.</p><p>I dozed and woke, unsettled and disorientated, until just after midnight, my phone buzzed with a message 'She's here!' Matilda Elizabeth, born at 11.56, weighing 6lbs 12ozs.</p><p>A week has passed since then. </p><p>Megan is home with beautiful Matilda and my phone keeps buzzing as she sends me picture after picture. In each of them I see how the family are adjusting to the new baby; Andrew getting to know his daughter, the boys working out what it means to have a sister, and Megan cherishing every minute.</p><p>In some of the pictures, Matilda's eyes are open. I wonder what she's thinking, what she makes of this world she's entered. Not yet time for her to worry about disease, inequality, or climate change. For her, the only experience she knows is to be surrounded by love. </p><p>Just a week, but a timely reminder of the power and possibility of love and the hope it brings for a kinder, more thoughtful world. </p><p>My hope for Matilda is that she grows strong and fair in that love, that she takes it and spreads it wherever she goes.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhLtPX_t7sABasiTR3vSHwyHOB6xx3-ZK9ABOAEfwwviiOi-uBqXv3A_N95xrPKRrlb9BCPs4U0sCyxK0-RFyQXHjdGx8jzDqwrKw7gHolYeGcKzKajGn21BRy3WQsu24sByQvQdY-nrp/s1600/IMG-20210205-WA0007.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZhLtPX_t7sABasiTR3vSHwyHOB6xx3-ZK9ABOAEfwwviiOi-uBqXv3A_N95xrPKRrlb9BCPs4U0sCyxK0-RFyQXHjdGx8jzDqwrKw7gHolYeGcKzKajGn21BRy3WQsu24sByQvQdY-nrp/s320/IMG-20210205-WA0007.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDbARinRPIZrvUzSv5vpDrkHq-ODJdA8dfziLauF-l1yisRFRT16y7i3bahTdczemAEK89YK3zWkMSpoS-K8pDZbfrqTaIiXUZetuEYvCn5Maa1Mo2bcNcVNNAqRP-2iCu2UIfNzVrPZI/s1600/IMG-20210210-WA0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPDbARinRPIZrvUzSv5vpDrkHq-ODJdA8dfziLauF-l1yisRFRT16y7i3bahTdczemAEK89YK3zWkMSpoS-K8pDZbfrqTaIiXUZetuEYvCn5Maa1Mo2bcNcVNNAqRP-2iCu2UIfNzVrPZI/s320/IMG-20210210-WA0002.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PNIi1T5-vCXiSY-sJHV3b71dJQf68UeJhdDD3X7Bb9SeqpDZN7fcDyRb50kfQ0nrSmuuZkZYgG1AZoUW1LyPFT8UpqP1No7kYCtU6AxEqKUUADSg0mvm0LVU1awp5D2OhelPCtZJ_Acj/s1600/IMG-20210207-WA0006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1036" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2PNIi1T5-vCXiSY-sJHV3b71dJQf68UeJhdDD3X7Bb9SeqpDZN7fcDyRb50kfQ0nrSmuuZkZYgG1AZoUW1LyPFT8UpqP1No7kYCtU6AxEqKUUADSg0mvm0LVU1awp5D2OhelPCtZJ_Acj/s320/IMG-20210207-WA0006.jpg" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fONj85_1PEuxmqKLMqX30j0Nr1ylkEBbXGYtvnfGO1GI0YzxvTXyJ1xXJwgnOZWo8yrYzS0Fia5QOYkLQtgl95KLE0UAtsp_kNGKlhQaOzrkw2S54wxCpzbqu5q2rWP4jDZEqRCB3ssQ/s1600/IMG-20210208-WA0015.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1042" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2fONj85_1PEuxmqKLMqX30j0Nr1ylkEBbXGYtvnfGO1GI0YzxvTXyJ1xXJwgnOZWo8yrYzS0Fia5QOYkLQtgl95KLE0UAtsp_kNGKlhQaOzrkw2S54wxCpzbqu5q2rWP4jDZEqRCB3ssQ/s320/IMG-20210208-WA0015.jpg" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-676441465371338242020-11-25T12:14:00.000+00:002020-11-25T12:14:07.740+00:00Workmen<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzr9wS8WlSDwAHt6eK1sfi_FCgbN8Opkv_MbsXT6gzuEOEcOc9onhXP1vLMsHMgVqdqN99ru06ZJWZMUMbEg1JJONCuniVOSSjKLpybmH2dNh9QhI2Di6uPsTho4B14f3AUDQCM3buj-0/s325/copper+pipes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="155" data-original-width="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitzr9wS8WlSDwAHt6eK1sfi_FCgbN8Opkv_MbsXT6gzuEOEcOc9onhXP1vLMsHMgVqdqN99ru06ZJWZMUMbEg1JJONCuniVOSSjKLpybmH2dNh9QhI2Di6uPsTho4B14f3AUDQCM3buj-0/s320/copper+pipes.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p>There are men in our house.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We’re having a new central heating boiler fitted. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Changing from oil to electricity feels like the
right thing to do - for us and our planet - so, the oil tank has gone from the garden
and now the boiler is being replaced. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But that means there are men in the house. There’s one in
the loft, sorting the wiring, one outside filling a hole in the wall where the
old flue has been taken out, another with his head in the cupboard under the
sink, talking about water pressure.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Philip and I sit opposite each other at the kitchen table,
wrapped up against the cold. I’m wearing my biggest jumper, a scarf, fingerless
gloves, he’s in more layers than a man from the north should ever respectably
wear.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He’s working, managing to concentrate through the noise of
drills and hammers, the sounds of strange men talking above our heads, the
blasts of cold air from doors left open.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The old boiler was here a very long time – it’s seen several
families come and go. It made everyone feel welcome and kept them all warm. It
didn’t stop because there were strange men in the house. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But me? I can’t settle to anything. <o:p></o:p></p>Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-75663941346246308602020-07-06T19:53:00.000+01:002020-07-06T19:53:11.526+01:00I should have been....At the start of the year I wrote a list, not of New Year's resolutions, but of the 60 things I'd like to do in 2020 - the year I became 60. Though I knew at the time I might not achieve them all, I didn't quite envisage the struggle I'd have to make even the first ten.<div><br /></div><div>On 23rd March, with the Corona Virus spreading, the Prime Minister announced that the country would go into lockdown. The next day, my 60th birthday, I stayed at home. </div><div><br /></div><div>I didn't run the London Marathon, I didn't go to see Paul Heaton at the Palladium or on a wine-tasting tour of the local vineyard. In May I should have been in Wales with Philip, in June I should have been watching my son running across the Yorkshire Three Peaks. Though technology helped me to see my children and grandchildren on their birthdays we all missed out on hugs and birthday teas. </div><div><br /></div><div>And so it went on.</div><div><br /></div><div>In April, my eldest daughter Claire had her fortieth birthday, and last week, in what might well have been the highlight of my year, we should have gone together to watch the tennis at Wimbledon. </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, I've been watching old matches on the BBC. I've revisited the mighty battles between Federer and Nadal, seen Murray finally beat Djokovic. I've laughed at how hairstyles and tennis kits have changed, and cringed at the old commentaries that insisted on using women's married titles, yet referred to them as girls. I've witnessed the introduction of tie-breaks and yellow tennis balls, and listened to the change in volume as the crowd moved from polite applause to raucous cheering. Seeing these matches has brought back memories of a whole lifetime, of rushing home from school, then work, for two weeks every summer, to sit in front of the TV to watch Wimbledon.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, the featured match was the men's final of 1980, Bjorn Borg against John McEnroe, one of the greatest finals ever played. Watching it though, I found I couldn't remember it at all; not the amazing shots, or the rallies that turned the match first one way and then another. I couldn't recall the fourth set tie-break, or the final outcome.</div><div><br /></div><div>Forty years ago, as that final played itself out on the grass courts at Wimbledon, I was twenty and my beautiful Claire was just six weeks old. As the match wound its way through all five sets, I would have been holding her, or feeding her, or willing her to sleep. As Borg and McEnroe showed off their skills as tennis players, I was only beginning to learn what it meant to be a mother. </div><div><br /></div><div>Today, I can hardly believe how quickly forty years have passed. While the world has been changing, I've seen Claire grow from a funny, chatty, clever little girl to a strong and caring woman. If things had been different, we might have been sitting together at Wimbledon last week, but I don't need to feel sad about that. It turns out that what I should have been, is exactly what I am, her very proud Mum.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSvj8Gcurb3BDFx3mZ3sqDRvZ3rfT5nm2ljJFPDfNfC8NGaB9NA9y1a6J97yfUQA-jx93yTla9VgfM0SdJwOFEV2yf0VTlAYDJ4GVJRBRU_aBRHKEn02exYoWOPnsGqq6ZG3JH6BcMNYl/s1024/Me+%2526+Claire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrSvj8Gcurb3BDFx3mZ3sqDRvZ3rfT5nm2ljJFPDfNfC8NGaB9NA9y1a6J97yfUQA-jx93yTla9VgfM0SdJwOFEV2yf0VTlAYDJ4GVJRBRU_aBRHKEn02exYoWOPnsGqq6ZG3JH6BcMNYl/s320/Me+%2526+Claire.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div><br /></div>Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-77280047564308455102020-06-29T12:23:00.003+01:002020-06-29T12:28:29.378+01:00What is it you see first?<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">What is it you see first?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Is it the
worst, the mindless, thoughtless deed,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the violence,
the selfish greed,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the cutting
word, the slur you heard<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>the disregard
for you, your creed?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Or is there something else you see?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A vision of
humanity,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where each
and every one has worth, </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>regardless of their place of birth,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>where what
we say, and what we do, </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>is measured by a
different view,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">that sees the good and shouts it
loud<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">and spots the kindness in the
crowd<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">and looks to soothe another’s
pain.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">And tries its best. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 36pt; text-indent: 36pt;">Again, again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><br />Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-64469604828736459452020-01-31T14:27:00.001+00:002020-01-31T14:27:23.369+00:00Leaving...<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In 2011, we left Shoreham. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We didn't know for sure if we were doing the right thing, but we'd thought about it long and hard and it seemed the best option; a way to secure our future, a chance to buy a house of our own, an opportunity to feel more independent. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We'd chosen carefully, but there was no way to know how things would be once we'd actually left. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We didn't go far; everything that Shoreham had to offer was still in touching distance. We could visit whenever we wanted to, and we did, but it never felt quite the same. It was no longer our village, we were no longer part of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We'd left Shoreham, but the village never quite left us. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A few years later, we had the chance to return, our former neighbours hadn't forgotten us, they hadn't taken offence that we'd chosen to go away. They welcomed us back with open arms - they knew this was our home, just as much as we knew it ourselves.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And today, on a day when I feel so desperately sad that we are leaving the European Union, my wish for all of us, is that one day, in the not too distant future, we'll have another chance to return.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheoCAJ1aRqpGkpsMyQHIq3rCwEUxiEGYNXDggn0KRPpBuKFaJk9Jx-Fn2HmuFmFsvGo4YutlNGcLK4xfzAzi8fVOuJSZkEd0JSMTD5P_c4NnCfCA5T0LXz6Pbz0L9w8Al_Ho_-utqIlQvx/s1600/UK+and+euro+flag.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheoCAJ1aRqpGkpsMyQHIq3rCwEUxiEGYNXDggn0KRPpBuKFaJk9Jx-Fn2HmuFmFsvGo4YutlNGcLK4xfzAzi8fVOuJSZkEd0JSMTD5P_c4NnCfCA5T0LXz6Pbz0L9w8Al_Ho_-utqIlQvx/s1600/UK+and+euro+flag.png" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-59573846686792852092017-02-06T13:04:00.001+00:002019-01-31T10:01:35.654+00:00The Bee<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PycO2ibemKxhyphenhyphensJgJwWuJyRrhfVPybGrO_mo_5Q3ISGw7yNGvpBj6AMifqqGRYpiQVY2jXeLYaM5-DIsPKWx-i2xBdd_U0ly_ktqqCOrOTYzG0SHF-gSLReEbB-DC2LBAmOkl8A3Q23Y/s1600/Bee.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PycO2ibemKxhyphenhyphensJgJwWuJyRrhfVPybGrO_mo_5Q3ISGw7yNGvpBj6AMifqqGRYpiQVY2jXeLYaM5-DIsPKWx-i2xBdd_U0ly_ktqqCOrOTYzG0SHF-gSLReEbB-DC2LBAmOkl8A3Q23Y/s1600/Bee.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Philip found a bee today. It was</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> in a bucket of water
at the allotment. He didn’t know where it had come from, or what had caused it
to end up in the water, but it was in a sorry state and thoroughly soaked through, so he decided to see if he could save it. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He fixed up
a temporary cover to protect it from any passing birds who might have wished for a
different outcome, then he rushed home to make sugar syrup. Returning back to the allotment, he
went about his tasks, leaving the bee safely on a bench, with a teaspoon of sugar syrup close by. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As the weak February sun started to warm it through, Philip kept going back to check that all was ok, and every now and then</span><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> he blew gently on the bee to speed the drying process. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">He watched
and cared, doing as little, but as much, as was needed to give it back strength,
until it stirred, then buzzed, then finally flew away. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">No money changed hands. Philip didn’t worry whether the bee
would repay him or abuse his kindness with a sting. He just did what he needed to do. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A good man did what he thought was right, and only good things happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-81799858956161187942016-11-06T14:01:00.001+00:002016-11-06T14:01:43.498+00:00Just like Beatrix Potter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We leave the house and turn together to walk up Crown Road. The forecast warns of rain and another drop in temperature this afternoon, but for now the sun is bright with just enough warmth to melt the frost and warm our backs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'Up and along?' one of us says, knowing the other will understand, and we do, crossing the High Street to take the Millenium footpath up to the woods. Halfway up we clamber over a stile that seems to grow in height each time we cross it, as the earth around it gradually wears away. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 'Or how about along then up? We'll be able to stay in the sunshine a little bit longer.'</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It's a less-used route, at least by humans, but tractor tyres have flattened a pathway and either side the telltale signs of recently dug holes and small round droppings tell us there were rabbits here not long ago.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'They'll be in their burrows now, sitting by the fire with a nice cup of tea and a slice of bramble pie, wondering what those thundering footsteps are doing overhead' I suggest.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I've never quite moved on from believing that the world under our feet is just as Beatrix Potter might have painted it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'Along then up' turns out to be a much steeper route, so we pause frequently, each time turning to look back at the valley behind us, never failing to absorb its simple beauty. At the top of the hill we turn into the woods. Dry fallen leaves cover the path. Thick under foot, their crunch is a delightful reminder of all our childhoods.This is what we've come for. We scuff and trample, shattering leaves into clouds of dust that will filter down into the soil and feed the trees that dropped them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I'm the first to spot the chestnuts shining between the leaves. We're never usually in time to see any more than the prickly open cases, their soft white insides turning slowly brown, but today </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">it seems we've got to them before the squirrels. Perhaps the wind last night has shaken down a new crop, or maybe, just like the rabbits, the squirrels are sitting cosy by their firesides, their cupboards already stocked for winter. Either way the chestnuts are there for the picking. W</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">e shuffle through the leaves, spotting more and more until our pockets are full, our legs misshapen and lumpy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As we turn for home, I start humming a Christmas song, imagining chestnuts roasting on the open fire we'll light a little later. Philip is already musing about collecting sprouts from the allotment to cook with them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Halfway down the hill I stop and look again at our street, nestled in the valley below. I know I'll never tire of the sight. And as we get nearer to our own burrow, I can't help thinking that down there too is just as Beatrix Potter might have painted it.</span>Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-3728693939088004822015-02-28T15:18:00.001+00:002015-02-28T15:18:27.041+00:0027th February27th February 2015. A Friday, which automatically makes it better than the preceding four days. One day before the end of the month, four days after pay day, not quite winter, not quite spring. A something and nothing sort of date. <div>
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When I was young, there were only a handful of special days each year; Christmas and my birthday stood proud at the top of the list, with the months in between punctuated by other family birthdays. Holidays were special, but never on the same days and never certain. Bonfire night had its own rhyme to help us - remember, remember the 5th of November, but the dates for Easter, and for Mothers' day and Fathers' day danced around each year, so you could never be sure when they'd fall. </div>
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As I got older, friends' birthdays were circled on the calendar and each time I started a new relationship, the date became significant for a while. Eventually there was a wedding date and then each year its anniversary, a husband's birthday, then all his family's, and in no time at all, four special days for the children. </div>
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As they grew up, it seemed like the calendar was always full; birthday parties, dancing lessons, football matches, school terms starting and ending. Then when I met Philip there came a whole new set of dates to remember, a walk in the snow, a wedding in the sun, the day we came to Shoreham and the day we left. The day, just eight weeks ago, that we came back again.</div>
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As our lives have unfolded, the dates have kept coming, people have got older, grandchildren have arrived, but amongst all those dates, all those circles on the calendar, the reminders, the anniversaries, the significant events, February 27th has never been a special day. </div>
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Until yesterday. </div>
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Annie Elizabeth Longworth. A daughter for my handsome son Ged and his lovely partner Natalie, a baby sister to Oliver, a new granddaughter for me. February 27th will never be a something and nothing date again.</div>
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Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-88327532225785406052015-02-09T22:56:00.000+00:002015-02-09T22:56:12.240+00:00Backstage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's the final performance of Robin Hood, and I'm backstage in the village hall. At any other time, this would be the play group's storage area, but this week the plastic boxes of toys and the child-size tables and chairs have been stacked to one side. With the introduction of a clothes rail, it's suddenly a dressing room for the Shoreham Village Players. <br />
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Around me, other members of the cast are waiting for their next scene. There are never enough chairs for us all, but it's no big deal; when someone gets up to go on-stage, someone else sits down. When someone needs to reach their costume on the rail we all bunch up a bit, when someone gets cold and wants a seat by the only radiator, we all shift round.<br />
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There's a speaker on the wall, for us to hear the action on the stage, but it only seems to be picking up the music from the piano, so every now and then one of us checks where we are in the script, making sure that the youngest players don't miss their entrances. Kenny brings round my stick for the auld crones scene and we go through our lines once again, too caught up in the comfort of the ritual now to dare going on stage without another practice. Next to us, Emily and Hatty quietly sing their shared song, reassuring each other that they really do know the words. Kate, our director wanders through; she knows it's too late for her to say anything now, but we all sense her unspoken determination for us all to do the very best we can.<br />
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Patsy and Janet check costumes, helping to fasten the out-of-reach buttons, pinning up an over-long skirt. Michelle is in charge of make-up; transforming Luke into a talking frog, Josh into a bat. Beth flutters her glitter-lined cats eyes, while the Shoreham Witches show off their sparkling painted nails and the Scottish Widows adjust their tartan skirts. Our Dame bemoans the discomfort of a false bust, and I'm dressed as a man, but nobody seems to find anything strange.<br />
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Every few minutes someone passes round a bag of sweets. While we're still discussing the relative merits of jelly babies and wine gums, a tin of Quality Street appears, quickly followed by a tube of Pringles, then a pack of chocolate biscuits. At the interval, just when it's most needed, a tray of tea and coffee arrives as if by magic.<br />
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We've a wide range of ages between us, but that doesn't seem to matter. People pose together for group selfies, they share games on their i-pads and mobiles. We all sit and listen as Ellie tells us about the time they staged Oliver, when it was so cold backstage that everyone sat in sleeping bags to keep warm. People share memories of other favourite shows, talk about the characters they'd most like to play, put forward suggestions for the next production. While we chat, we keep an ear open for what's going on on-stage. When we get to the point where the audience is supposed to join in with a song, everyone backstage sings loudly as well, realising for once that we don't need to keep our voices down.<br />
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Before we know it, we're all on stage for the curtain call, smiling out at the audience, standing in line to take a single bow. All that's left is one last chorus of the final song and as the applause fades away, I realise how just how aptly the words describe what it's been like to sit backstage with the Shoreham Village Players.<br />
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'<i>If there's a moral to this tale,</i><br />
<i>It's do not shut the door.</i><br />
<i>In Shoreham Forest, there is room,</i><br />
<i>For all types rich and poor'</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-65208241561000828012015-02-03T22:43:00.001+00:002015-02-03T22:43:43.376+00:00Sometimes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I was young, and there was something I really really wanted, I'd find a million reasons why I wouldn't get it, why I didn't deserve it, why it wasn't worth the wanting. And just the same last year, when I thought we might be able to come back to Shoreham, I tried to convince myself, and anyone who'd listen, that it didn't really matter.<br />
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I made myself think about the darkness in winter, the frequency of power cuts, the scarcity of parking, as though all those things might somehow be a charm against disappointment.<br />
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I tried not to think about the kindness of neighbours who offer you a home, and make you feel like it's yours. I stopped walking through the village in my mind.</div>
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I almost forgot the views from the house in Crown Road; looking out the front bedroom window, past the Chapel and across to the allotments; standing on the doorstep to see the street tipping down towards the river; feeling how the hills hold the village in on either side. </div>
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I somehow let slip the sounds of sparrows in the tree across the road, the roar of the oil-fired boiler as it starts up in the morning, the click of wood on wood as the front door closes shut. </div>
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I steeled myself against revisiting too often the other memories; of putting up the Christmas lights; of Philip chopping wood, lighting fires, clearing snow; of the day he proposed and the day we got married. </div>
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Then I found out that sometimes, the things you really really want, are the things you might deserve, and the things you end up getting. </div>
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On 6th January 2015, we moved back to our house in Shoreham. </div>
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Today, I remembered the poem we shared on our wedding day.</div>
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<br /><b>Sometimes - Sheenagh Pugh</b><br />Sometimes things don't go, after all,<br />from bad to worse. Some years, muscadel<br />faces down frost; green thrives; the crops don't fail,<br />sometimes a man aims high, and all goes well.<br /><br /><div>
A people sometimes will step back from war;<br />elect an honest man, decide they care<br />enough, that they can't leave some stranger poor.<br />Some men become what they were born for.</div>
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Sometimes our best efforts do not go</div>
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amiss, sometimes we do as we meant to.<br />The sun will sometimes melt a field of sorrow<br />that seemed hard frozen: may it happen for you.<br /></div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-46069088387093682912014-05-27T21:13:00.001+01:002014-05-27T21:13:49.796+01:00The end of the holidayWhen I was a child, holidays were magical. Every year, for the week or two that we spent away from home, I was another me; living a different life in a different world, spending time in a place that was filled with new things to do, friends to make and places to visit. Of course it was a totally artificial creation, but for the length of the holiday it was real to me. I belonged in that world and I never wanted to leave.<br />
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A couple of days ago, as I read the last few pages of a book that had completely captured me, I recognised that old feeling; a familiar sense of loss, a wistful wishing it could all carry on for just a little bit longer.<br />
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Just like arriving on holiday, whenever I begin a new book, it takes a day or two to get into it. I start off feeling a bit unsure, finding my way around, wondering how it might unfold. Bit by bit, I start to feel comfortable in my new surroundings, I see who all the people are and where they've come from, I begin to work out what they're like and what their contribution might be. As I read on, those characters stay with me, I find myself thinking about them, even when they're not right in front of me.<br />
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About three quarters of the way through, my reading slows down. I've been caught out before, thinking that there were dozens of pages left to read, only to find that they were filled with promotions for other books, guidance pages for book club readings, or an extract from the author's next novel. Now, as soon as I realise that the unread section is getting thinner, I flick to the back to find out how many pages are really left. If I have to reach the end of a book, I need to prepare for it, and if possible, put it off just a little bit longer.<br />
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When the ending comes, as it inevitably must, and even when it's the very best ending that could have possibly been written, the sense of loss is palpable. I think about what happened in the story, and wonder what might have come next for the characters that have become my companions. For a while, the thought of starting another book seems almost disloyal.<br />
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Eventually though, I remember that the very best way to get over the end of one holiday, has always been to have another one to look forward to. So then I place the finished book with all the other ones I've read, in the book pile that's gradually turning into a book wall. And I look at the stack of those I've yet to start, wondering where the next one might take me.<br />
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<br />Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-47229208343132461372014-05-20T21:03:00.000+01:002014-05-20T21:03:02.810+01:00I wonder if the Railway misses us...<i>They seemed to be hardly Railway children at all in those days, and as the days went on each had an uneasy feeling about this which Phyllis expressed one day.</i><div>
<i><br />"I wonder if the Railway misses us," she said, plaintively. "We never go to see it now."</i></div>
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<i><br />"It seems ungrateful," said Bobbie; "we loved it so when we hadn't anyone else to play with."</i><br /><br />Edith Nesbit had a way with words. I'm not sure I can find a better way to describe how I've been feeling about this blog.<div>
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I used to visit every day, but I rarely do so now, and as the days go on, I have an uneasy feeling about that. It seems ungrateful. </div>
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I used to love it so - the worlds it helped me uncover, the people it helped me meet, the conversations I used to have. </div>
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And so, a little like the Railway Children, I thought I'd come back and wave - wondering if anyone still passes by and hoping that someone out there might wave back. </div>
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Let me know how you are, tell me what you've been up to, and if you're feeling indulgent, help me come back and play. </div>
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Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-20357055025309314452013-12-01T17:02:00.000+00:002013-12-01T17:02:21.616+00:00The Itch - a storyMartin couldn't say for sure when the itching had started. There'd been a warm tingling sensation in his left arm most of the day, but he'd put that down to too many hours sat awkwardly in front of the computer, fingers hovering over the mouse. He remembered feeling more uncomfortable than usual during the Monday afternoon team meeting; he was used to the aches and pains that came with age, but as he'd sat there with the edge of the chair digging into his back, he'd felt an almost irresistible urge to writhe against the hard plastic like a horse on a rubbing post.<br /><br /> By the time he got home he felt hot, and the tingling had intensified to a pricking sensation as though he were being hit with a wire-brush. He took an antihistamine, just in case it had been an allergic reaction, and headed upstairs for a cool shower. In the bathroom, he twisted in front of the mirror and was surprised to see the rash that had formed between his shoulder blades and down his spine, the skin almost raw. <br /><br /> He didn't sleep well that night, couldn't quite get comfortable, and more than once he woke to find himself scratching furiously. In the morning he sat at the foot of the bed, slowly examining different areas of his body. It was no longer just a rash; pink angry circles had appeared on his legs, as though he'd been branded. He washed and dried as gently as he could, scared of either spreading what seemed to be an infection, or worse, rubbing it too hard and taking the skin away.<br /><br /> At work, Martin felt the skin on his arms tightening. Dreading what that might mean, and keen to avoid the judging stares of his colleagues, he kept the long sleeves of his shirt buttoned, and resisted the urge to inspect the skin beneath. As soon as he reached home again, he rushed upstairs and carefully peeled off his clothes. It had got worse; the rash had spread across his chest and up towards his chin, the circular marks had multiplied. He felt that if he stood there long enough, he'd see more and more erupting. And oh, the desire to scratch was so hard to overcome. He searched for some nail scissors in the drawer of the bedside table, and cut his fingernails as low as he could, carefully removing any jagged edges that might snag and tear his skin.<br /><br /> He was miserable. He felt dirty, almost seedy, as though the soreness was his own fault. He hated the idea that people might think he didn't wash properly, that he'd become one of those old men that people moved away from with a look of pity. He couldn't eat, he couldn't sit still. He found a pot of moisturising cream and rubbed handfuls into his arms and legs, reaching as far as he could across his back and chest. It eased the itching but the relief was only momentary, and as Martin lay down on the bed, he promised himself he'd visit the doctor the next day.<br /><br /> When he woke, he was surprised to find the room still dark. He looked towards the window, where the early morning light should have been starting to show through the curtains, but there was nothing; no daylight, only darkness. <br /><br />He tried to reach out and lift the clock from the bedside table, but he couldn't lift his arm, it felt as though it was somehow tied to his side. Perhaps it was still night, maybe he was dreaming. Martin thought he'd get up and go to the toilet and then try to get some more sleep. He strained to swing his legs over the side of the bed, struggled to manoeuvre into a sitting position, but found he couldn't. His skin had a new tightness that was holding his joints stiff. Like rigor mortis, or maybe like a chrysalis, he thought, perhaps I’ll turn into a butterfly. The idea made him want to smile, but he realised he couldn't. <br /><br />The constriction of his skin was holding him to the bed and then he realised, that the darkness wasn't the night; it was the skin that had closed over his eyes, blocking the light, holding his eyelids shut. He lay there in the darkness, listening for the birds outside, but nothing. Had his ears closed over as well?<br /><br />Martin started to panic. He was finding it harder to breathe, his mouth was already closed, and now it seemed as though his nose was beginning to fill.<br /><br />All alone in the house, there was no one to call and even if there had been, he didn't seem able to make any sound that could be heard. Like a mummy in a coffin, he could die lying there, unable to move, to eat or drink. He had no idea how long it might be before anyone would come looking for him. He fought back the idea that nobody would. <br /><br />As he willed himself to move, to break free from the skin, he tried to understand what had happened. He'd never heard of a skin disease like this, something that could spread so quickly, so completely. He went back over the events of the last few days, wondered how and when he'd caught it. No one at work had seemed ill or in discomfort; and he hadn't really been near enough to anyone else to pick up an infection, well unless you counted other passengers on the journey to and from work. <br /><br />He thought of the woman who'd sat next to him on the tube two days ago, before all the trouble with his skin had begun. She’d been properly beautiful, with long red hair, and clear grey eyes. She'd made her way towards the empty seat next to him with a graceful elegance, that made him feel clumsy and old. But as the tube picked up speed she'd lost her balance, then she'd reached out, gripping his arm until she regained her footing. He remembered that touch on his arm, the warm tingling feeling her fingers had left. <br /><br />Martin felt a surge of self-pity. He tried to move again, but couldn't. It was pathetic, he was pathetic. And then he began to cry. He wondered what would happen to his tears; he could feel their dampness, caught inside the mask across his face. Perhaps he’d end up drowning in his own salt-water pool. But then, as quickly as the panic had come, it was gone. The tears seemed to be melting the covering on his eyes, he could blink again, he could almost see. Martin began to gather saliva in his mouth. He spat it forward, suddenly knowing there was a way out of the imprisonment of his skin. <br /><br />He spat and licked, spat and licked, until his face and then an arm were free. There was a glass of water on his bedside table, he reached out and lifted it carefully, anxious not to waste a single drop, then he poured the contents over his legs and body until he had enough freedom of movement to stand.<br /><br />The journey to the bathroom was difficult, he banged his hip on the doorway, but he’d never been happier to know there was a walk-in shower just a few steps away and soon he was standing under the warm liquid, hearing the sounds of water, sensing everything falling away.<br /><br />Martin was suddenly keen to be in the world outside. As he pulled on his clothes, he could feel the energy rushing through him. It had been a long time since he’d moved with a spring in his step, now he wanted to hear London coming to life and feel the air on his skin. He set off, looking around, determined to miss nothing. <br /><br />A group of teenagers stood at the bus-stop, as they did most days. He’d heard the snarling sarcastic way they talked to each other; normally he’d avoid making any eye contact, but today he chose to look. The tallest one stood watching him, then nudged one of the girls, and whispered in her ear. She turned to look at Martin, and then one by one each of the group turned to stare. <br /><br />On any other day, Martin would have told himself to just keep walking; head down, keep walking, they won’t bother with an old man, you’ll be ok. But today wasn't any other day and so, as he passed the group he looked at them and smiled and the strangest thing happened, they each smiled back. Not a taunting dangerous grin, nor a sly grimace, these were real smiles, broad grins, sparkling eyes. ‘Hey’ said the tallest one. Martin nodded and walked on.<br /><br />As he took the escalator down into the tube, he looked across at the people riding up. Some seemed to be looking towards him from the very bottom, others turned towards him as they drew near. And as they passed, they too began to smile. Absorbed in wondering why, Martin didn't notice that people made room for him to board the tube, he didn't see how they hung back until they were sure he'd got a seat, as though it was something he deserved. He didn't spot his reflection in the dark window opposite, the mirror image of a beautiful, smiling young man.<br /><br />As the train pulled into his station, Martin stood to get off. The train was crowded now and in front of him an old lady was struggling to make her way through the other passengers. Her quiet ‘excuse me please’ ignored by the standing commuters. The doors were already open and if she wasn't a bit quicker the train would move off before either of them got there. ‘Lady coming through,’ shouted Martin ‘let the lady off please.’ He expected someone to complain, to moan about pensioners getting in the way of people who needed to get to work, but at the sound of his voice, the passengers stepped back, leaving a clear pathway to the door. <br /><br />‘Better get going then,’ he said and grasped the old lady’s arm to steer her towards the exit. As he walked through the carriage and looked at the smiling faces of the other travellers, he didn't pause to wonder how he’d suddenly become so effective; there was something else beginning to disturb him. His fingers were touching the thin loose skin of the old lady’s left arm, and he could feel a warm tingling sensation spreading through his hand. As they stepped onto the platform, he let go quickly, wondering if she'd felt it, but hoping she hadn't noticed. ‘Thank you my dear,’ she smiled up at him and turned to walk away. <div>
<br /><div>
As Martin stood and watched her go, he realised that she was scratching her arm, just where his fingers had been.</div>
</div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-80527885045448229302013-11-29T11:17:00.000+00:002013-11-29T11:29:04.835+00:00Strawberry Fields Forever<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpFfx2FZ05_WrsdHt9RtjT5fOiGi8X4sNzDJ5rccg2M6rTn9IpRQnvcUh65MRKcngl_MOr3hEM6pqlnmlj6939ebivVcleZViaRMTtwHHzfycjpx7CfRTEVoE5K5c8F0IztBBaMd9-rFn/s1600/Strawberry+Fields+Forever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZpFfx2FZ05_WrsdHt9RtjT5fOiGi8X4sNzDJ5rccg2M6rTn9IpRQnvcUh65MRKcngl_MOr3hEM6pqlnmlj6939ebivVcleZViaRMTtwHHzfycjpx7CfRTEVoE5K5c8F0IztBBaMd9-rFn/s320/Strawberry+Fields+Forever.jpg" width="208" /></a></div>
<i><br /></i>
<i><br /></i>
<i>Strawberry Fields Forever i</i>s a play about the small things and the important things, about taking your chances, not missing the moment.<br />
<br />
As the title suggests, the play, written by Bobby Stevenson,<i> </i>has a strong link to the Beatles. The story is based around a chance encounter with John Lennon in the 1960s and his death in New York some twenty years later. As you might expect, it's a story about living and dying, but more importantly, it's about people in a small village who grow and learn to see the value in keeping promises and making others happy. Built on the idea that 'everything matters' there is something inherently right about the very first performance taking place in Shoreham, not just because Bobby lives in the village, but because Shoreham itself is a place where things matter.<br />
<br />
As I watched my fellow cast members getting into costume, looking at their lines for a final time, and pacing up and down waiting for their cues, I thought about how important the Shoreham Village Players have become to me, since the very first time Philip and I encountered them at a Cabaret night in March 2007. As we sat backstage last night, chatting about old performances and players, catching up on family stories, sharing memories and hopes for the future, I remembered once again how the village takes people into its heart, and holds them there. And that was never more obvious than last night.<br />
<br />
On a first night, no matter how hard you've rehearsed, there's always a worry that it won't go well and a recognition that some things won't go entirely to plan. The nerves back-stage were palpable, but out front, the hall was filling with family, friends and village residents, all willing to come out on a cold Thursday night in November, all willing the play to be a success. And while there may have been a line or two that went missing, and a few props that didn't quite make it onto stage, none of that mattered as I listened to the audience laughing and falling silent in all the right places and heard them cheering at the curtain call.<br />
<br />
Last night I remembered once again that the people of Shoreham know all about the small things and the important things, and my thanks go to Bobby Stevenson, Sheila Webb, and all the cast and crew of <i>Strawberry Fields Forever,</i> for giving me another chance to experience that.Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-26693829716871671372013-11-09T19:06:00.001+00:002013-11-09T19:06:55.314+00:00Radio timesThere’s almost always a radio playing, though it’s very rarely me who turns it on. Over the years I've got used to walking from room to room, following the sounds around. Often, there’ll be something from his laptop playing through the speakers. Now and then, he’ll fetch a record from the big white cabinet upstairs, place it on the turntable and carefully lower the needle until the old familiar music fills the house, with its gentle background crackles that sound like rainfall.<br /><br />As I write this, he’s in the kitchen. I hear the sounds of the freezer opening and closing, the chopping board placed down on the worktop, the opening and closing of cupboards and drawers, all to the sound of Shirley Bassey belting out <i>Goldfinger</i>. She’s quickly followed by the sharp drumming of Django Django's <i>Life’s a Beach</i>. There's no way of predicting what will come next; his musical taste is as varied as the books he reads, as the people he talks to, as the things he knows.<br /><br />When we go for a drive he'll choose the music to come with us. The very first present he ever gave me was a mixed tape, and now every year at Christmas, we’ll each get a CD; something he’s spent hours putting together, picking the tunes that he knows we’ll appreciate, making sure to include something we've never heard before, that he’s decided we should like.<br /><br />Every so often, I wonder why I live my life to someone else's soundtrack, why he's the one who always decides what we listen to. But then I find myself singing along and see him smiling, or I walk into the room and he plays a track just because he knows it will make me dance. <br /><br />I sometimes talk about the music that will be played at my funeral; depending on my mood, I imagine the mourners shaking their heads in despair, sobbing their hearts out, grinning at a memory. It doesn't really matter anyway; I know he’ll pick the music he thinks I should have chosen. I don't talk about the songs I'd play for him, not because I'm frightened of choosing and getting it wrong, just because without him, there really is no music.Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-87903181068689493192013-10-27T07:08:00.002+00:002013-10-27T07:08:59.724+00:00After the clocks go backI could use the extra hour to write a story,<br />
or pass it penning lyrics for a song.<br />
I might count each of the seconds very slowly,<br />
to make the minutes linger on and on.<br />
<br />
I could view the extra hour as a bonus,<br />
as added time to read and think and be.<br />
Three thousand and six hundred extra moments<br />
a gift that comes from nowhere, burden-free.<br />
<br />
But I look out at the slowly lightening morning,<br />
at the windows of the houses down the street,<br />
and wonder if behind those tight-drawn curtains<br />
sits another woman wishing she could sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-23853537982074031692013-10-20T12:34:00.000+01:002013-10-20T12:34:38.394+01:00Nobody knows what Penny-Rose knows*Nobody knows what Penny-Rose knows.<br />But everyone knows that Penny-Rose shows<br />a remarkable knowing as each day she grows,<br />as her head stretches further away from her toes.<br />And the grown-ups all tap on the sides of their nose<br />to say to each other that Penny-Rose knows.<br /><br />But nobody sees what Penny-Rose sees<br />when she gazes outside at the sky and the trees.<br />There she sits, chin on hands, with elbows on knees<br />and peers through the branches that dance in the breeze.<br />They’re getting a sense of her growing unease,<br />but no-one can picture what Penny-Rose sees<br /><br />And nobody hears what Penny-Rose hears,<br />or knows why she’s frowning and holding her ears.<br />They can’t hear the noises that started her fears<br />or understand what makes her eyes fill with tears.<br />They marvel at how she seems old for her years,<br />but nobody hears what Penny-Rose hears.<br /><br />And nobody thinks to ask Penny-Rose why<br />she sits there and gazes up into the sky,<br />and watches the sparrows and pigeons pass by,<br />and peers at the aeroplane roaring on high.<br />They don’t think to ask her the cause of her sigh.<br />So she never tells them.<br /> She knows she can’t fly.<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
------------</div>
<div>
*last weekend I visited my grandchildren. While Eddie always runs to hug his Nana and is happy to sit and read books or play games, Penny-Rose always hangs back. Sometimes when I talk to her, she cries, and often when I look at her, she's just sitting there staring at me. One day, I hope she'll tell me why.</div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-165049884078145502013-10-16T21:47:00.000+01:002013-10-16T21:47:07.779+01:00Two sides of the moonAnother fitful night. Awake at 2.07, again at 3.00am. And then again. And again.<br /><br />I flip from side to side and back. I get too hot and throw aside the quilt, then turn the pillow to find its cooler face. I lie back down for what seems only minutes, before I’m up again to shed my clothes. Yet seconds later, I'm cold again and reaching for the quilt.<br /><br />I look at you, lying there unconscious. I want to wake you, shake you, haul you from your dreams. How dare you lie there, deep in sleep and peaceful?<br /><br /><div class="MsoNormal">
I listen to your breathing, try to time mine to the ins and
outs. But I can’t find the rhythm, I only
feel discomfort as I hold my breath too long, or can’t take in enough to fill
my lungs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />Then as I watch and listen, your gentle inhalation becomes a rasping snore. I tap you lightly on the shoulder, hoping that might be enough to bring me peace. But no, the grating sound continues. My push is harder, and still you don’t wake up, yet somewhere in your deep unconsciousness you hear or sense me, then you turn away.<br /> <br />And I am still awake, and lying there, and helpless, as all the crowding, rushing, scaring thoughts roll in. </div>
<div>
----<br /><br />It’s 2am and I am here awake. The room is dark but warm and reassuring; it holds me safely in the arms of night and peace. From a distance comes the faint drone of the motorway, beside me, the slightest sighing of your breath.<br /><br />My eyes adjust and focus in the darkness, the shapes become the furniture I know. Their solidity a comforting reminder, of who and where I am, that I am home. I know that, until tomorrow, there’s no harm can come to me, or you, nothing I must do or say, no solutions to be found or problems fixed.<br /><br />So I lie here and begin to count my blessings. The firm mattress that supports my back, the pillow that cradles my head. The man I love, sleeping at my side, and the night-time hours that are mine alone.</div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-51499665598891428042013-09-01T23:40:00.001+01:002013-09-01T23:40:05.402+01:00From Charing Cross to SevenoaksIt's late afternoon, the end of a summer Sunday and the train is full. We sit quietly, each a little tired, each perhaps thinking about the film we've just seen.<br />
<br />
I look out of the window, watching the jumble of office blocks give way to the backs of houses, seeing the concrete yards become gardens that gradually get longer and greener. I wonder about all the people who work in those offices, live in those houses and play in those gardens. I think about the girl from the film. So many different lives; chances taken and missed, opportunities grasped and squandered, promises made, words spoken and regretted.<br />
<br />
A woman sits opposite me, leaning against the window. Her arm is loosely draped around the daughter who's half sitting, half lying across her mother's lap . Next to the girl is a young boy, maybe six years old. He sits cross-legged, tidy, taking up hardly any space. I imagine him sitting on the carpet at school, listening closely as his teacher reads a story, trying hard not to miss a word. He's holding a small bag of sweets, slowly licking and nibbling at each one, as though trying to make them last the whole journey home.<br />
<br />
Across the aisle are three teenage boys, each wearing the football strip that betrays how they've spent their afternoon. They're talking at each other, across each other. One bites into a burger, another shovels in a fistful of thin chips. The third takes his shoes off, and rests his bare feet on the empty seat opposite. I try not to think about the trace of adolescent sweat they'll leave behind.<br />
<br />
"I want Mummy to sit in the middle" says the six-year-old, pulling my attention back to our side of the train carriage. "Then I can have a cuddle." <br />
<br />
"You can have a cuddle when we get home" his mum offers. "And I'll read you a story."<br />
<br />
She looks across at me and smiles, and I wonder if she realises how lucky she is. I glance again at the football fans, their shirts tell me they support the same team as my sons. I try to remember the last time I sat on a train with my boys, or walked along the street holding a small hand in mine.<br />
<br />
And I want to tell her to cuddle him now. I want her to know that all too soon, her tidy little boy will be six foot tall and too embarrassed to hug. I want to urge her not to miss her chances, but I don't. Instead, I look at the boy, who gives me a huge grin, and then I smile right back.Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-3226977400382404662013-08-18T22:50:00.001+01:002013-08-18T22:50:40.578+01:00Making it up<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIurrjKbLKP3P4r0dnHc1SM7VdvFY9eygfkpKTahEvKtouOiZkTaY9JItQgoEaEvdDCOjdTeV3TKigyS7pG2AEIQ7gu_FkSCSQIBGawgVnT-ShzbWZKeDzXy3x6kFBGZP-wzxQhk2ps2mB/s1600/Dad%2527s+hanky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIurrjKbLKP3P4r0dnHc1SM7VdvFY9eygfkpKTahEvKtouOiZkTaY9JItQgoEaEvdDCOjdTeV3TKigyS7pG2AEIQ7gu_FkSCSQIBGawgVnT-ShzbWZKeDzXy3x6kFBGZP-wzxQhk2ps2mB/s320/Dad%2527s+hanky.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
When the lace is torn, the elastic's gone loose and the bones of your bra stick into your sides, you know it's time to buy some new underwear. When you bring home the new lingerie and can't find anywhere to put it, you know it's time for a clear out. And so, there I was, tipping the contents of my knicker drawer onto the bed, trying to work out what was worth keeping, wondering what might fit for a little while longer.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When I was young, my mum always lined our clothes drawers with paper. Not with those scented liners you only seem to find on a bric-a-brac stall at the village fete, but with brown paper, carefully cut to size. Or at least, I think she did, though I can't remember why, and I can't remember ever asking her the reason. Part of me is certain that's what she did, part of me thinks that when she reads this she'll tut under her breath and declare, "she's making things up about us again..." Memory is a tricky beast, but if she didn't line our drawers, why would I think now that it's the proper thing to do? How would I know that you take the drawer out of the chest and mark round it on the paper to get the right size? And how could I see so clearly that when you do just that, the paper will always be a little too big, so that the sides curl up as you lay it in the drawer?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So there I stood, looking at all the underwear tipped out on the bed and, just for a moment, I thought about going downstairs to try and find some brown paper, a pen and a pair of scissors. Then, as so often happens with my vague attempts at housewifery, I decided the effort was more trouble than it was worth, especially when I still didn't understand what the paper was for. Much better to start sorting through; throwing the oldest scrappiest clothes into a plastic carrier for the bin, selecting the better ones to put back in the drawer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then I saw it, the white cotton handkerchief, roughly folded into a square, with its neatly hemmed edges not quite lined up. I opened it out, tried to smooth it flat, but the folds had been there too long. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen it open before, if I'd ever seen it used. Part of me is certain that I saw my dad pull it from his trouser pocket, just in time to catch a sneeze. Part of me thinks I'm making things up again.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In my memory, I can see a long flat box, with a paisley pattern on the bottom and a clear plastic lid. Inside the box lie three cotton handkerchiefs, each with a letter B embroidered in dark red silk. The box is sitting on some thin green wrapping paper, and I'm learning how to fold the paper over, making the ends into triangles, fastening them with sellotape. Or at least that's how I imagine it was; that I took my pocket money to Woolworths and picked out his Christmas present: that he opened it and smiled; that he put the hankies carefully away in his underwear drawer but always made sure he had a clean one in his pocket.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I carry on sorting out my undies, putting the good ones away, lining them up neatly in the drawer, at least for now. Last to go in is the hanky. The fabric is thin now, old and worn. The centre is still white, but the edges have turned yellow with age. I think about showing it to Eddie one day, telling him about his Great Granddaddy Bernard, who used to write stories and sing us songs, who used to take us for long Sunday morning walks to collect conkers and long rides into London on the no 3 bus. For a moment, I wonder if Eddie will think I'm making it up. Then I fold up the hanky, with the neatly hemmed edges not quite lined up and put it carefully away in the drawer.</div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-27210399233081854962013-07-30T22:16:00.000+01:002013-07-30T22:16:33.755+01:00Time takes a cigarette...It's been two months since my last post. I stare at the screen and the curser flashes back at me - challenging, accusing - "where have you been? How do you account for yourself?"<br />
<br />
Two months... So much and so little. An interval, an aeon, a blink of an eye.<br />
<br />
Last night, we ate cherries from our allotment; the first crop, the ones we'd managed to protect from the birds. I chanted as I lined up the stones at the side of my plate "Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor, Rich Man, Poor Man, Beggar Man, Thief", the rhyme rolled off my tongue as though I'd said it only yesterday. My delight in ending at Rich Man just as strong as the last time that happened, more than forty years ago, in the kitchen at Croxted Road.<br />
<br />
This morning, as I dressed for work, I remembered the green pleated skirt I'd bought with the first wages from my Saturday job at Woolworths. I pictured the small clothes shop in West Norwood High Street, imagined myself once again sliding the hangers along the rail, picking out the skirt and taking it into the tiny changing room. I saw my younger self trying it on, twirling and circling in front of the mirror, watching the fabric spinning out wide.<br />
<br />
A week ago, a letter arrived. Addressed to The Householder, it came from an insurance company trying to find the family of a man who'd once lived here. I wonder what that would be like, to live and die, distanced from family, leaving no mark.<br />
<br />
Two months... Birthdays, a wedding, a weekend in Reading. Formula 1, football, a Wimbledon champ. Sunshine in Greece, fields filled with lavender, working and reading and digging and weeding.<br />
<br />
On Thursday it will be five years since the day Philip and I stood side by side in a Dartford registry office, promising to love til death do us part.<br />
<br />
Time flies so quickly, and yet not at all.Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-69878894506508817612013-05-27T21:30:00.001+01:002013-05-27T21:32:31.380+01:00Saying goodbye<div class="MsoNormal">
Being English, we don’t talk about death. We moan about
getting old, about aching and forgetting things, about going to work and
wishing for retirement, but we never discuss the alternative. We just pretend that
it will all go on for ever. And we always think there’ll be more time. Time to
spend with friends and family, time to laugh and cry, time to find out a little
bit more about that man you never knew well, but who always made you smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Except that sometimes there isn't more time, and it’s only
when it’s too late that you find out that a man you admired, is really called
Keith and not Dobbin; that he liked steam trains and fishing; loved holidays in
Scotland, and that he once dressed up as a woman to play in goal for a ladies’
football team. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then you learn something more. You begin to see that sometimes
it’s possible to do so much more than work and sleep and pass a life away. That
it is possible to live a life that builds meaning around family and home; that
counts laughter and friendship as more important than money; that brings out a
whole village.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shoreham is a special place; it draws the best of people
into its heart and cherishes them. And when it’s time to let someone go, it does
so with dignity and pride; with laughter, tears, and more than a little drunkenness.
Shoreham was exactly the right place for Dobbin to live, and, on Friday, as I stood
on the bridge over the river and watched 52 blue and white balloons soaring
into the sky and floating away down the valley, it was also exactly the right
place from which to say goodbye.</div>
<br />Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-19774250022459644952013-04-04T20:27:00.001+01:002013-04-04T20:27:36.480+01:00The watchIt's early evening, and we're side by side on the sofa, each of us at our habitual end, with just enough room for Martin the cat to sneak in between if he wants to. Tonight though, there's no cat, and it's Philip's arm that fills the space. I glance down at the pale, faintly freckled skin, and smile to myself in recollection of conversations we've had, more regularly than you might expect, about the way his arm hair shines in the sunlight or moves in the breeze. It's a long time now since I first declared them 'kindly arms', but that's what they've always seemed.<br />
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For a tall man, his wrists are surprisingly thin; small enough for me to enclose between finger and thumb, and there, just above his left wrist, is the watch he always wears. No fancy metallic timepiece, just a simple clear dial,with proper numbers and a no-nonsense leather strap. Perhaps he's seen me looking, "I got a new battery for my watch today" he says. Maybe he's realised I'm in reflective mode "I've had this watch for twenty-five years now."<br />
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Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, more than half his life. I think about the young man he must have been back then, way before I knew him. A man prepared to leave his home town to find a job, leaving behind so much but never quite shaking off his political passion or his northern accent. A man who worked his way gradually southwards, making new friends, trying new experiences, keeping James Stewart as his moral guide.<br />
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Twenty-five years, a quarter of a century, less than half my life. I think about the woman I was back then, way before I knew him. Newly pregnant with my fourth child, excitedly planning the move to our dream home, busily building castles in the air. I never left the south of England, never lived more than twenty miles from the London suburb where I was born and grew up. My journey was a different one; circular steps through love and friendship gained and lost.<br />
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It's early evening, and we're side by side on the sofa, each of us at our habitual end. I glance down at Philip's arm, at the watch he always wears. The second-hand clicks forward and time moves on. Silently, persistently, through the minutes and the hours and the years.Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-8806836623888085242013-03-21T13:25:00.000+00:002013-03-21T13:25:53.572+00:00Nicholas Nickleby - a preview<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I wasn't there for the conversation, many months ago, when the committee of the Shoreham Village Players sat down to discuss forthcoming productions, but I like to imagine it went something like this.<div>
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"So.. any ideas for our next play?"</div>
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"Well, I was thinking, perhaps Nicholas Nickleby"</div>
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"Mmm.. sounds interesting. Can't go wrong with a bit of Dickens. Anyone staged it before?"</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Oh yes, in 1980, The Royal Shakespeare Company's production became a<span style="font-family: inherit;"> theatrical legend, <span style="color: #333333;">and nearly thirty years later the Chichester Festival version took the west end by storm."</span></span></span><br />
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"So nothing much to live up to then, tell us more."</div>
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"Well, it's got a cast of over 70 characters; all ages from malnourished children through to doddering theatricals; heartbroken Nicklebys, heartbreaking Smike, the evil Squeers and the frighteningly bad Crummles Theatre Company."</div>
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"oh...."</div>
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"And 36 scenes that range from London to Yorkshire and on to Portsmouth; including a roadside inn, a run-down school, a gentleman's parlour, a milliner's showroom, the open countryside, and a travelling theatre stage."</div>
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"I see..."</div>
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"And you were thinking we could put this on in the village hall?"</div>
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"Oh yes, we can have it ready for March."</div>
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And now, suddenly, it is March. And tonight Nicholas Nickleby Part One will open in the village hall.</div>
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Scheduling the rehearsals, to bring a huge cast to the hall for the right scenes on the right day, would have baffled even the logistics specialists at Eddie Stobart. Creating the costumes that could take us from Dickensian London to Shakespearean Verona, would have had even the wardrobe ladies of Strictly Come Dancing quaking in their sparkling boots. Sourcing the props and assembling the sets, a design challenge that no Sixty-Minute-Makeover could ever have achieved. Above all that, casting 40 people and steering them through from faltering incoherence to confident eloquence, with only encouragement and support to keep them on track, was something that only the bravest director would have attempted, or achieved.</div>
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Never can it be said that the Shoreham Village Players lack heart. For those of you lucky enough to be there tonight, you will see what happens when a brave woman decides to take that heart and send it beating through the village. If you don't yet have tickets, get down to the village shop and snap up the last few, not only will you get to experience a fine night at the theatre, you'll get to see what makes Shoreham the very best village in the world. </div>
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Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1856509975336351108.post-75654657501610399122013-02-23T17:13:00.002+00:002013-02-23T17:13:55.156+00:00Fish and chips on a FridayFish and chips on a Friday. Feeling grown up as you leave the house, clasping the money and trying to remember what everyone wants. Climbing over the brick wall to cut across the green, staying away from the busy main road. Following the scuffed-grass path, but slowing down to peer through the iron railings into the small back gardens of the ground-floor flats. Waiting for a moment by the pink plastic windmill, watching it spin wildly in the slightest breeze, then carrying on along the pavement, with its faded markings from the last game of hopscotch. Up the hill to Rosendale Road, past the huge metal gate that was always shut, knowing it was there to keep the cars out but let the fire engines in. Waiting to cross the busy road, peering out between the parked cars and then dashing across to the chip shop. Staring through the glass front of the counter, past the pieces of fish lined up in a row and down into the bubbling churning cooking oil, where the dancing chips were trapped in a deep wire basket. <div>
<br />Fish and chips on a Friday. Always eaten straight from the paper, but with the paper set down on a plate, so you could balance it on your lap as you watched the tv in the corner. Too many chips, always too many chips, soaked in vinegar and too much salt. Small fingers picking between the sharp thin edges to grasp the softer thicker ones. Breaking off the tail of the cod first, with all its crunchy batter, then biting into the thicker part, realising too late it was still piping hot. Sucking in cold air, trying to cool the fish down. Holding your hand over your open mouth so nobody else could see as you moved it from side to side, hoping it wouldn't burn. <br /><br />Fish and chips on a Friday. Forty years later and a different part of town. A five minute trip in the car, to bring back the Styrofoam packages and tip them out on a plate. We sit at the big wooden table, the tv screen high on the wall. I still eat the crunchy tail end of the cod first, but the brightly-coloured plate next to mine has a sausage neatly sliced and there's no salt or vinegar on the chips. Too many chips, always too many chips. Small fingers pick between the sharp thin edges to grasp at the softer thicker ones. Eddie looks up at me as we both blow gently to cool them down, “I like chips Nana.” </div>
Sharon Longworthhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18120227975152565893noreply@blogger.com13