CRIKES MAN!

I’m warming up to Haslingden. Oh Has, you cute, little, quaint place where tesco is hated for ruining local trade. What’s wrong with me?! I loved being so close to the city and now I love the quietness of Has. Losingit.com. Off on the bus today to find out where it takes me. It goes on the motorway to get anywhere. Excite! Need some books and maybe an embroidery kit. Ohhh so I’m turning into an old lady. Fabulous. Next stop Cat City. And maybe talks of my iffy hip and ‘those pesky yobs’. 

Dooms day on Thursday. Day of Thurs. Bearer of bad/good news. Who’s to know. Well my school probably already knows, that’s who! Yet they keep us in the dark, building up all my nerves resulting in a massive amount of dancing round the kitchen. Oh please put me out of my misery. Or maybe I’ll be put in even more misery when I realise I’ve failed with no back up plan.

Oh well I’ll still have my Has. Hooray! 

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My Rock

Locks by Neil Gaiman

We owe it to each other to tell stories,

as people simply, not as father and daughter.

I tell it to you for the hundredth time:

“There was a little girl, called Goldilocks,

for her hair was long and golden,

and she was walking in the Wood and she saw — “

“— cows.” You say it with certainty,

remembering the strayed heifers we saw in the woods

behind the house, last month.

“Well, yes, perhaps she saw cows,

but also she saw a house.”

“— a great big house,” you tell me.

“No, a little house, all painted, neat and tidy.”

“A great big house.”

You have the conviction of all two-year-olds.

I wish I had such certitude.

“Ah. Yes. A great big house.

And she went in . . .”

I remember, as I tell it, that the locks

Of Southey’s heroine had silvered with age.

The Old Woman and the Three Bears . . .

Perhaps they had been golden once, when she was a child.

And now, we are already up to the porridge,

“And it was too— “

“— hot!”

“And it was too— ”

— cold!”

And then it was, we chorus, “just right.”

The porridge is eaten, the baby’s chair is shattered,

Goldilocks goes upstairs, examines beds, and sleeps,

unwisely.

But then the bears return.

Remembering Southey still, I do the voices:

Father Bear’s gruff boom scares you, and you delight in it.

When I was a small child and heard the tale,

if I was anyone I was Baby Bear,

my porridge eaten, and my chair destroyed,

my bed inhabited by some strange girl.

You giggle when I do the baby’s wail,

“Someone’s been eating my prridge, and they’ve eaten it —”

“All up,” you say. A response it is,

Or an amen.

The bears go upstairs hesitantly,

their house now feels desecrated. They realize

what locks are for. They reach the bedroom.

“Someone’s been sleeping in my bed.”

And here I hesitate, echoes of old jokes,

soft-core cartoons, crude headlines, in my head.

One day your mouth will curl at that line.

A loss of interest, later, innocence.

Innocence; as if it were a commodity.

“And if I could,” my father wrote to me,

huge as a bear himself, when I was younger,

“I would dower you with experience, without experience.”

and I, in my turn, would pass that on to you.

But we make our own mistakes. We sleep

unwisely.

It is our right. It is our madness and our glory.

The repetition echoes down the years.

When your children grow; when your dark locks begin to silver,

when you are an old woman, alone with your three bears,

what will you see? What stories will you tell?

“And then Goldilicks jumped out of the window and she ran —

Together, now: “All the way home.”

And then you say, “Again. Again. Again.”

We owe it to each other to tell stories.

These days my sympathy’s with Father Bear.

Before I leave my house I lock the door,

and check each bed and chair on my return.

Again.

Again.

Again..

I really like this because it makes me think of my dad who is really my everything right now as it is just us two. We are struggling and both down but if I had to be alone with anyone when feeling like this I’d never ever dream of picking anyone else.