Season of the Witch...

365 years ago today, 23 women from Essex stood trial at the Chelmsford Assizes for the crime of witchcraft. All 23 were convicted and sentenced to death by hanging. Each of them had been arrested by the self-styled 'Witch-finder General' Matthew Hopkins, who was one of the most horrifying people ever to walk the face of the earth, and who is believed to have sent more people to the gallows during his short reign of terror than had been hanged as witches in the previous century. Working throughout the English Civil War, when the poplace was already stirred up, nervy and living on a knife edge, Hopkins exploited the ignorance, superstition and religious fervour of the people of that time and sent approximately 300 innocent men and women to their deaths. Just think about that number for a few moments, would you? Three hundred people, all innocent, who paid with their lives thanks to a mixture of fear, superstition, ignorance and sheer spite. There are many, many things that Britain can be proud of throughout its long and gloried history, but there are equally as many dark and terrible deeds and the 'witch trials', sadly (and not exclusive to this country by a long shot), is one of them.

I'm not going to sully my blog with any more talk of Hopkins; he makes me feel nauseous as it is and besides, you can go and google him if you want to find out more. No, my sympathies - and my interest - lie firmly with the men and women who were tried and executed for this supposed 'crime'. And it's not just because of my pagan beliefs; all of the people who were killed in those days were, like everyone else, Christian, but when you read the testimonies it's just heartbreaking. This is taken from the evidence of Anne Leech, one of the 'Manningtree witches' whose trial ended 345 years ago today...

"And this Examinant also confesseth, that she sent her gray Imp to Elizabeth, the daughter of Robert Kirk of Mannyntree, about three yeers since, to destroy her; and upon the sending of the said Imp, the said Elizabeth languished by the space of one whole yeer, untill shee dyed, and that the occasion of offence this Examinant took against her the said Elizabeth was, for that she had asked a Coife of the said Elizabeth, which shee refused to give to this Examinant. And further, this Examinant saith, that long since, but the exact time she cannot remember, she sent her gray Imp to kill the daughter of the widow Rawlyns of Misley aforesaid; and the reason was, because this Examinant was put out of her Farm, and the said widow Rawlyns put in, where shee dwelleth at this present..." - from www.witchtrials.co.uk

Bear in mind that Anne, like so many others, had been locked up in a cell, given very little food, deprived of sleep for 2 or 3 days, subjected to personal and intrusive 'tests' and cut with a blunt knife, which were just some of the methods used by Hopkins to extract his 'confessions'. Having been subjected to these ordeals, I think I'd probably confess to consorting with the Devil as well...

There are no exact figures for the number of men, women and even children who were murdered throughout the so-called 'witchcraze', but every single one of them was guilty of nothing more than being old, or disabled, or different, or had done something to cause another person to hold a grudge against them. They had not consorted with the Devil, or conjured imps and demons to mischief and maim others. They were innocent human beings, and it's high time that they and their reputations were reclaimed from the stigma currently associated with them.

And, of course, it is also important to realise that the practice of executing people for witchcraft hasn't vanished into the mists of time. In some countries, especially in Africa, chidren in particular are ostracised, tortured and murdered for being witches even as you read this. I can freely and proudly stand up and proclaim that I am a Pagan, a witch, like many other people throughout the world. This statement makes some people look at me a bit strangely, but I am not in fear of my life wen I make it. And yet in some countries, if I was branded with this label by a neighbour or family member, I would be dead. We like to think that the horrors of the past - the witch trials, torture, plague, religious oppression, the oppression of women and other things - remain in the past. They do not.

Remember Anne Leech and the other men and women falsely accused as witches and murdered. But remember, too, that the false accusations and murders continue to this day. Nothing can bring back the dead now, but only when we have fully conquered the darkness at the heart of humanity can we truly claim to have finally left the Dark Ages behind us...

It's time to reclaim the word 'witch'. It's time to the let the innocent rest in peace...

The first rule of Book Club...

I love books. No, I mean I actually love them. My books are my friends, and they have been ever since I was a child and my parents read stories to me; once I started reading by myself, I developed a voracious appetite for all things literary. I've read the great classics of literature, I've read light and fluffy chick-lit and (thanks to my somewhat disturbing fascination with criminal and abnormal psychology) I've read many gruesome serial killer books. My bookshelves groan under the weight of cookbooks, poetry books and magical encyclopedias; I worship Neil Gaiman, JRR Tolkien and Sylvia Plath (among many others) as my own personal pantheon of deities, and if you want a book about any subject at all, come and see me - I'll probably have something in stock. You name it, I'll read it.

I mean it; I'll try almost any book once. The only things I tend to steer away from these days are the 'real life' trauma books (you know, the ones with titles like 'The Girl Whose Father Whipped Her Daily With Linguine' - I don't mean to be flippant here but you know the ones I mean); Mills and Boon; Catherine Cookson and her ilk; and anything that has been written and published because it's 'like Twilight'. And I paid money for all 4 of those bloody Twilight books and read every single one, vainly hoping they'd get better. That's both money and nanoseconds of my life that I'll never get back again. Ah well...c'est la vie. And since I joined my book club at the end of last year, I've read things that I'd never have even considered before. Some of them have been fabulous and I have completely adored them, others I've hated, but new books means new worlds to discover and new friends to encounter.

I write this having come back from my monthly book club meet. We occasionally talk about the books, too...no, seriously, we do discuss them; it may not be very scientific or literary, but they are definitely talked about. This one was 'Papillon'; I'd seen bits of the film but had no idea it was a book. And not just a book, a true story! Just...wow. It was amazing; it took a while to get going, almost as if Papillon had to find his 'voice' as an author, but when he did it was just intoxicating. You can see it all so clearly - the camps, the prisoners, the escapes...it was amazing, and I would never have read it if it wasn't on our list. Next up is 'Lolita', which I picked - I've started it so many times but never finished it because I kept getting sidetracked, but Book Club disciplines me to actually finish them even if I hate them. Oh, with the exception of 'The Fraction of the Whole', which I hated beyond belief and so did everyone else - none of us finished that one! So now I will finally finish 'Lolita' and will have expanded my horizons yet further, and at least made some new acquaintances even if we don't become friends.

And that's the weird thing about books. They really do become your friends, and some of the friendships that I made in childhood endure to this day. I wasn't even five when I first met Fancy Nancy, Heidi, Ramona Quimby and Katy Carr (and became almost hysterical with delight when presented with a copy of 'What Katy Did' because I thought it was about me); over the years, I may have got older and more widely read, but there is still a very special place in my heart for these friends from my childhood. Others have come to join them over the years and our little circle of friendship has widened, but I've never lost the desire to get to know more of them and to keep reading. Goddess help me if they ever make it illegal...I'll end up forming a Resistance movement or something...

New hobby...

I know it's been a few days since I last wrote, but my mobile broadband has been playing up. Typical, eh? Still, being away from the lure of the laptop has allowed me to actually get out of an evening...shock horror. And not only did I get out on Saturday night, I ended up doing something totally out of my comfort zone...it's that year of living dangerously again! And this is dangerous. This is roller derby.



I suppose I should probably clarify something for the incredulous. I haven't actually signed up to take part as a derby girl, although one of my friends has and the members of the Seaside Sirens, our local team, are seriously awesome ladies. Nope, I've decided my talents lie elsewhere, and so when the Sirens start officially bouting, I'm going to be there as a fearleader. And if I can take my inspiration or be anywhere near as awesome as the fabulous LA Derby Dolls, I will die happy...these girls are seriously sexy and utterly fab!

Bring on the bouts!! I will shake my pom poms and get to work...

If Music Be The Food Of Love...Part 1

...then I clearly pigged out at the buffet. One look at my music collection clearly indicates that my love of music is as eclectic as my love of clothes - some days full-on Goth, some days a hippy-chick or a skinny indie kid, and others an inmate of a Victorian Asylum for Wayward Girls. The reason for this post is because I just entered the 'Face The Music' contest at the British Music Experience website - I got 64/64 and won a prize, plus entry into the prize draw to win mega prizes (I'm crossing my fingers for the Vintage Goodward day - old clothes and old cars are my idea of heaven!) A lot of the artists they had cartooned for the competition were ones that I had grown up listening to and had really liked over the years; still do, in a lot of cases, for I'm as loyal to my favourite albums and artists as I am the new ones, which is why Iron Maiden and Black Sabbath sit happily alongside Nightwish and Apocalyptica on my shelf. I also have no problem mixing genres (well, a lot of dance music or rap irritates me beyond belief, but that's about it), which is why Kylie and Nirvana, Muse and Inkubus Sukkubus, Emilie Autumn and Garbage all rub along nicely together.

I have a big thing about women in music, though; I would say that at least half of my stuff is either female solo artists or female-fronted bands. And I'm not trying to make some big political feminist statement or anything here; a lot of the bands or artists that I love just happen to be women. I still freak out over male artists/bands just as much as anyone else does, and if you were to look at the men in music that I've lusted after over the years...well, let's just say we don't have the time to list them. But as I've got older and my tastes have expanded (musically I mean, not just hormonally, although that's probably improved somewhat), I still have a lot of affection for some of the stuff I grew up with...

It started with Kylie. I was five, she was still Charlene from Neighbours, and I was besotted with her. I wanted to be Kylie; she was so pretty and had such amazing hair and clothes...look, I was five, ok! Before that, all I'd really listened to was the Elvis my dad played and my mum's eclectic taste (classical music, Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and Duran Duran). But Kylie...she was all mine and I worshipped her. With Kylie, naturally, came Jason Donovan; it was officially love. Shortly after, I discovered (in rapid succession) Bros, New Kids on the Block, East 17, Boyzone and the Backstreet Boys...yes, I was a pop princess and proud of it! I even liked the Spice Girls...then I had a revelation when I discovered Nirvana and the old rock bands of the 70's (thanks, Mum!) At roughly the same time, the Manic Street Preachers entered my life and I entered what is known as my 'skinny indie kid' phase. That lasted pretty much all the way through college; by the time I was 18, I was a fully fledged rock and metal chick. Who still loved Kylie. What? She's bloody Kylie!! (This, by the way, is a very quick whistlestop tour of my musical history and heritage. If I listed all the bands that I loved here, half of them you won't have heard of and the other half will probably make you go "who?")

So yes...Kylie. Thanks to her, I got to know that girls could sing just as well as boys (I was 5, remember...it was an innocent time back in the 80's). And because of Kylie, I got to know the Spice Girls, who taught me girl power and encouraged my feminist leanings. On a very juvenile level, admittedly, but still...Then I discovered Alanis Morrisette, Siouxsie Sioux, Kate Bush, Shirley Manson and Courtney Love...I was officially converted to the 'girls rock' message and - although I worship my male rock gods in all their glory - it's the women who have a special place in my heart.

And so, to the women in music who have inspired me, comforted me, given expression to things I could never imagine and given voice to the things that I have; to Kylie, who started it all; to Siouxsie and Alanis; the girls in Bananarama and the Spice Girls; to Shirley and Courtney and all the other female singers and musicians that I have great respect and love for (Simone, Vibeke, Emilie, Tarja, Anette, Angela...); to all of them: thank you. And an especial thank you to the fabulous Sarah Jezebel Deva, who is not only one of the most talented and fabulous people I have ever come across, but has proved that meeting your heroes doesn't always have to mean disappointment. She is so warm and funny, and takes the time to communicate with as many of her fans as possible and that, to me, makes her even more fantastic...Cradle of Filth's loss is definitely metal's gain!



More posts in this vein to follow, I feel...gotta spread the talent!

What's In A Name?

Quite a lot, actually, especially when you need a nom de plume or a stage name, something to hide behind on t'internet or to generate interest in your work. Which explains why, over the years, the names I've used on forums and other interweb-based places have been many and varied. Never let them know who you are, after all...it also explains why one of my lovely friends has spent the better part of an hour discussing burlesque names with me (he has the patience of a zillion saints, as befits a GBF). I still say we should have gone with Miss Lucy Lastic, but apparently it's already in use by a rather fabulous drag queen. Dammit. Still, so far we've come up with some crackers...

1) Miss Anna Seizure (this is possibly my favourite so far)
2) Indigo Irae (Epica tribute!)
3) Miss Sugar Shakespeare (cos I'm sweet 'n' literary)
4) Miss Eva Dream (yep, a Nightwish one...)
5) Miss Rae Venn (cos 'crow baby!' doesn't have quite the same ring to it)
6) Cocoa Katy (because I love chocolate)
7) Luna Falls (moonlight and water - two of my favourite things)
8) Fancy Nancy (after my favourite childhood book)
9) Ruby Starlet and Jasmine Shimmer (from the Dulux paint catalogue, of all things)
10)Lotta Legs (because we need the cheese factor, clearly)

We're still going - I keep getting random emails with things like 'Plum Duff!' in them, so this one could run and run. And should any one have any suggestions, feel free to add to the list! So far I'm torn between "Miss Anna Seizure" and "Miss Sugar Shakespeare"...although the more names we come up with, the more names I love!

Maybe I need split personalities...

The Year of Living Dangerously

Sometimes you can really surprise yourself. Sometimes you find yourself stepping outside your comfort zone and doing things that you would never, in your wildest dreams, have ever seen yourself doing. And I know what I'm talking about because this has been my (almost) year of living dangerously...

Ok, so I haven't walked a tightrope across Niagra Falls without a safety rope or anything like that, but since August last year I've done some things that have really forced me out of my cosy little world and I have to say I feel better for it. I'm sure my list of 'achievements' probably doesn't look much to anyone else, but to a girl who would never do anything about anything because a) previous experience made me wary of repeating things, b) it was easier to just stay in my room and c) I was just too plain shy and scared to these are a prettybig deal.

So, in my year of living dangerously I have...

1) Taken a chance on love for the first time since I dated a real bastard at 17, got my heart broken and realised that it's not the end of the world;
2) Gone on holiday by myself;
3) Joined a book club;
4) Joined a writing group;
5) Shown 'real' people my writing instead of relying on the vaguaries of cyberspace;
6) Performed my work on stage;
7) Been persuaded to audition for a play;
8) Discovered that, actually, other people can be quite fabulous and don't mind the fact that I talk complete rubbish 99.9% of the time (this is my way of saying that the new friends I've made this year are totally awesome and I love them);
9) Decided to actually go to New Zealand next year instead of procrastinating and wussing out;
10) Found a buddy for burlesque and pole dancing classes, so now I can't wuss out or Melissa will be disappointed.

There are other things, too, but these are the big ones that have made me realise a lot about myself, other people and the world in general. So here's to the next year of living dangerously...maybe that walk across the falls isn't such a crazy notion after all!

The Show Must Go On...

Okay, so yesterday there was an epic fail on the blogging front again, but I have an exceptionally wonderful excuse up my sleeve. I was on the stage.

No, seriously. Stop sniggering. It's true - yours truly spent the day locked in the Palace Theatre in Southend having a mini-diva hissy fit before performing in 7 sketches as part of my Writers Group performance. So not only have I been dragged kicking and screaming into the light of day where my writing is concerned (i.e. showing it to someone who a) isn't my mother and b) I actually see as opposed to random people in cyberspace, now apparently I act as well. And considering I haven't acted since I was about 14, I actually really enjoyed it...

It's kind of amazing to think that in 3 months, not only have I joined a writing group and physically had to share my work with other people, I've also had my work performed in a proper theatre. It's totally bizarre, really. I was so scared before I went on stage to read my poem, even during the dress rehearsal in the afternoon, which was just in front of the other writers and actors, but once I'd got that one out of the way I relaxed and just did it. And it was brilliant. Apparently, even my mother was surprised - and that was a shock to me considering she knows what a drama queen I am on a daily basis!! But I now appear to have been convinced to audition for something else as well, so who knows? Maybe I'll give it a go and surprise myself!

But despite being a total ball of nervous energy yesterday, I got through it because of the brilliant friends I've made at the group, who are not only fabulous writers and performers but incredibly wonderful people as well. So...to Daisymay, Hannah and Dan, who stepped in and helped us out with performing and who are amazingly good; to Michael for helping us out, for acting and for almost deafening me in sketch 3; to Jack, for bullying me into acting in the first place and for managing to direct us all; and to my Three Musketeers Melissa, Danielle and Liam, who are fabulous beyond belief and put up with my complete manic-hysteria yesterday more than they should have done - thank you. I would never have got through it without you and hanging out with you over the past 3 months has been amazing. You guys are fabulous and I'm really, really pleased that I've met you! (Mel - we'll take over the world with our burlesque/pole-dancing double act!)

So here's to the next 3 months and the next performance...and I promise I'll try and be calmer next time!! xx

Procrastination Central

It's July which, of course, means only one thing in my world: July Novel Writing Month, also known as JulNoWriMo. A spin off from November's National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), JulNo sees intrepid or possibly foolhardy writers huddled over their laptops/PCs/bits of paper with frenzied looks in their eyes as they attempt to bash out fifty thousand words before the end of the month. Yes, that's what I said...fifty THOUSAND words. In a MONTH. Are we mad, I hear you ask; no, my good sir, we are WRITERS!!

Having got the NaNo and JulNo bugs a few years back, consequently this time of year sees me once again hunched over my laptop attempting to make sense of a plot that was vaguely conceived on a scrappy bit of paper in a pub one lunchtime, and cursing the writing gods for making me this way. Other people don't feel a burning need to write, I can be heard to scream semi-coherantly; so why did you curse me with this unfortunate affliction? To make things even worse, this year - for a variety of reasons - I started late and so I'm several thousand words behind. 12,684, to be precise. I'm also labouring with a story that I started two years ago and have been bullied into finishing (you know who you are...) Some days it flows like a dream; other days - like now - it's like wading through treacle: you get nowhere fast. I'm sure it would be easier to just write 50,000 words of utter garbage and not worry about it, but that kind of defeats the point in my mind; I want to have a very basic first draft of the story to give to people to read so that I can edit it and make it a coherant story. I did it twice before, how hard can it be? And why the hell am I scribbling this blog and googling complete rubbish when I have words to complete?

Right, I've done my entry for today, so back to the coalface of those 12,684 words still missing. Why can't my bloody characters just do as they're told; Stephanie Meyer made a killing churning out nauseating dialogue and having sterotypical one dimensional characters, so surely I can do the same for the sake of a few thousand words, right? Right?!

Umm, no, actually. I am certainly no Shakespeare but I have a little thing called self-respect. So: once more unto the breach, dear friends, for the writer is returning to her garret to bash out another few sentences. All this and I have my Writers Group performance tomorrow, which I am utterly stressing about. I'm a writer, therefore I sit in my garret and, well, write. Judi Dench I am not. Ah well, enough procrastinating and pathetic whining, I have words to attack! Forth Eorlingas!!!

The Art of the Tease...

So I hit the big three-oh in a couple of years (and yes, I'm having kittens at the very thought, because I don't feel 28 and - as anyone who knows me will testify - I sure as hell don't act it!) I always knew that the event would have to be marked in a big way, and from talking to my Baby Forumbat, GemGem, a few weeks ago, I'm leaning towards a full-on Burlesque Bash. All of which leads me neatly into my random babble for today...

I need to do burlesque. I have a deep-seated, burning obsession with it, which is ridiculous because I get stage fright at the drop of a hat and am not exactly Little Miss Body Confident (I need Gok-ing!) but I desperately, desperately want to go and have burlesque lessons. The only thing is, I'm not so sure that I'd want to go by myself, and I don't know that any of my friends would be up for it. But it would just be so much fun, and a big confidence booster; besides, who wouldn't want to get to dress up like a vintage sex kitten and strut around like Dita Von Teese or the uber-sexy Veronica Varlow?

Isn't she a doll? I have the biggest girl-crush on Veronica, and her clothes...I need to save up (or win the lottery or something) so that I can buy the Bonnie dress below, and then I can wear it to rob a bank (or an X Factor judge) so that I can buy all the other clothes and then go to the London School of Burlesque for private lessons. This is the plan...

All this before the big three-oh. Piece of cake. Hey, maybe I could burst out of a cake for the big event...?

Oops...

Yes, I have managed to successfully reach my first 'didn't post a blog entry day'. Well done me.[/sarcasm] In my defence, I was busy planning my holiday with one of my bezzies, so I think I can get away with it...maybe.

So since this is a quick 'I should have posted this yesterday' entry before I get on with today, I shall keep it short. Somebody (Liam) told me that this wasn't a proper blog because there is no mention of Liam Gallagher. I hate Liam Gallagher. I hated Oasis too, to be honest, although I thought 'Wonderwall' was blinding. So in order to make this a 'proper' blog in Liam's eyes...voila Wonderwall...



Now I am never mentioning him again...

My new love...

Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement to make. I am in love. Mind you, if you could see my beloved you would understand my complete and utter adoration. Hold on, let me find a picture...

Aren't they adorable? These are Little Penguins, from Phillip Island in Australia, and they are the cutest, most adorable little things I have ever seen! I love penguins anyway - I think it's the way they walk - but now I've seen the Little Penguins Bluey and Sheila (what better name for Australian penguins?) and their friends, my devotion has reached new heights. It's enough to make me want to go to Australia...and sit on a beach...now that's true love!

It's only a short post tonight as I didn't get back from Writer's Group until just now (more of which to follow), but I just had to share the cuteness!!

On Heroes...

Hero (noun): a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or ability; an illustrious warrior; a man admied for his achievements and noble qualities; one that shows great courage.

This is the definition of a hero according to the Webster-Merriam online dictionary. Look at those words. What do they suggest to you? Hercules, perhaps, slaving away on one of his trials, or one of the mythological warriors of the siege of Troy battling for the hand of Helen the fair. If you're looking for a more up-to-date version of the hero, you only have to look at our brave servicemen and women fighting in Afghanistan, or our firefighters or paramedics. These days even footballers can pass for heroes, although given the national team's dismal performance at the World Cup this year, I wouldn't be expecting Wayne Rooney and co to be featuring too high on the popularity lists. But I'd lay money on the fact that when I said think about what the word hero suggests to you, one person you didn't think of was Raoul Moat.

Unbelieveably Moat, who hit the headlines last week after going on the rampage in Rothbury before finally shooting himself in a stand off with the police, now has a Facebook page in his honour, proclaiming him a legend and a hero. There are no words to explain just how sick that makes me feel. Here is a man who, on his release from prison discovered that his girlfriend had moved on and his children had been taken away from him and, instead of thinking that maybe he needed to take a good long look in the mirror and work on his problems, he decided to go shoot his ex-girlfriend, her new boyfriend and then - thinking that she was dating a police officer - proceeded to go and shoot a cop. Because of course thst's completely rational and what we all do when times are bad [/sarcasm]

So apparently because he shot and seriously injured a police officer, murdered the new partner of his ex-girlfriend and went after her as well, this guy is now a hero. Excuse me if I don't jump on this particular bandwagon; as far as I'm concerned, he's nothing more than a cowardly thug. If he was that determined to kill himself, he could have done it without dragging the police into a situation where he tried to provoke them into doing it for him; suicide by cop is pathetic. Just as pathetic are the morons who think this waste of space is some sort of legend; comments like "she deserved it for dating someone else while he was inside" and "it's a pity the cop didn't die too" just goes to prove that this country really has gone to the dogs. I'm so outraged and disgusted at this that I can't actually write anything else, so instead I'm going to close this post by sending my thoughts and sympathies to the victims and their families...

On green fingers and a return to innocence...

I think it’s fair to say that I’m an enthusiastic rather than a knowledgeable gardener. As a child, I loved nothing more than ‘helping’ my grandparents in their respective gardens; my Nanna (my dad’s mum) grew flowers and my Grandad (my mum’s dad) had an allotment, a small vegetable patch, a greenhouse and a large garden with lots of flowers in, and so from a very early age I was running around with my little plastic watering can, enthusiastically soaking everything and everyone in sight. Fast forward twenty-five years or so and I’m still running around with my little watering can, enthusiastically soaking everything and everyone in sight…

Unlike my grandparents, I don’t really have ‘the knack’ when it comes to knowing what’s what in the garden. My Grandad was the fount of all knowledge when it came to horticultural matters, and my childish questions about why roses smelt and why tomatoes changed colour were always answered very seriously and gently, in a way that only a grandfather can. Similarly, my pleas to ‘help’ were always gratefully received; as a child, I was never happier than when I was with my Grandad on his allotment, rooting around in the mud and digging up potatoes with my bare hands and trying to cram as many peas and strawberries into my mouth as I could before I was caught out. As I grew older, my poor Grandad become subject to my ever-increasing demands on both his time and his soil; after my Nanna’s death when I was 10, for example, I wanted a pot with some dirt in it so I could grow sweet peas in her memory. Some of my happiest memories were of me trundling round the garden with her, helping to water the sweet peas that she grew; my Grandad’s response to this request was to turn over an entire patch of his precious garden to my experiment at growing my own sweet peas, something that he’d never grown. The sweet peas were not entirely successful, it has to be said, and the fact they grew at all owed more to my Grandad’s skills than my own, but the seeds of something far more important than a bunch of pretty flowers were sown that day and I was almost beside myself with joy at the accomplishment.

When my Grandad died when I was 14, and we moved into a house that only had a small garden, I lost my enthusiasm for gardening. I think it was a combination of teenage rebellion, grief at losing my Grandad and not having the space to do much garden-wise, but whatever it was I wasn’t interested in making things grow. As the years passed, I had a few brief forays into reigniting my love of all things green-fingered, but mostly they were completely unsuccessful; I must be the only person on the planet to kill a bamboo plant, for example. Demoralised and convinced that I was utterly useless without my Grandad’s gentle reminders to water things/not over-water things, I gave up and resigned myself to a life of vases of cut flowers and living vicariously through the achievements of others.

Recently, however, I have staged a breakthrough. It started innocuously enough, when the Innocent smoothie I bought came with a packet of ‘bee friendly’ seeds; I like bees a lot and firmly believe anything that can be done to help boost their numbers is a Good Thing, so I begged a pot of soil from my mother (sounds familiar) and planted my seeds. I watered them diligently every evening and, to my eternal joy and amazement, three days later my first green seedlings appeared. From my reaction, you’d have thought I’d just grown some rare and exotic specimen that had won first prize at the Chelsea Flower Show, but I was so overjoyed that a) I hadn’t killed them and b) they were actually, properly growing that I think my complete overreaction was justified.

From such tiny plantlets mighty plans do grow…my enthusiasm for all things green-fingered has at last been reignited. I watch my mystery green seedlings obsessively, monitoring their wellbeing as though they were infants in a Special Care Baby Unit, and progress updates are given proudly each evening to The Parents. (They humour me…they know me well). I have also recently sown some sweet peas in memory of my Nanna, and nearly deafened the neighbours with my shrieks of demented joy yesterday evening when I discovered that they have germinated and produced a few green shoots. All of this encouraging progress has given me the confidence to voice a secret desire that I have long nurtured: I am going to get myself an allotment and grow veg on it, just as my beloved Grandad always did. Amazingly, The Parents are supportive of this venture, and so tentative enquiries are being made about acquiring said allotment. Plans are also afoot to write a separate blog chronicling the trials, triumphs and tragedies of the allotment once I have taken possession of it, but that’s all in the future. For now, I am nurturing a pot of sweet peas and a pot of mystery flowers and am ludicrously proud of my abilities thus far...

Grandad would be proud, I think. And be reminding me not to over/under water them. Now where did I put that watering can…?

On the perils of hair dye...

As a small child, I was blessed with the sort of honey-blonde hair that you usually see on cherubic Nordic children in catalogues. Unfortunately for my parents, I'm fairly sure that this was the only cherubic thing about me, but being blonde-haired and blue-eyed was my calling card and I was so upset when I hit my early teens and my cherished blonde locks began turning a muddy, mousy brown colour. That was the moment I was introduced to the sometimes dubious pleasures of the dye bottle...

Those first early forays were nothing much to write home about, it has to be said. Wella wash-in, wash-out temporary dyes, a desperate attempt to reclaim the cherished blonde tresses that I mourned. When I was 14, I managed to persuade my long-suffering mother to pay for blonde highlights at the hairdressers; a few hours after I walked in to the salon I strode out floating on air, back to being a full-time, permanent blonde. I was in heaven. Blondes, after all, have more fun. But so do redheads, and brunettes, and blue hair is just funky...it was no good, I was addicted to the bottle.

Over the years, my hair has been practically every colour known to chemists and - more by luck than judgement - it appears to still be both intact and in pretty good condition. There have been a few disasters over the years; once I used a temporary black dye on my platinum blonde tresses so that I could pass convincingly as a witch for Halloween and ended up with a faded grey mess, and there was also the time I dyed it such a dark shade of red that I wept for days and had to pay out for my eternally patient hairdresser to put loads of blonde highlights in it to rectify the problem; overall, though, I've been quite lucky with my forays into chameleon-like reinvention. Until now, that is.

Oh yes, I have committed the cardinal sin of DIY-dying, and I am suffering for it. Until last night, the only time I have ever had a bad reaction to a hair dye was when I used the Herbal Essences range - ironic, really, considering that it's supposed to be all natural and has no peroxide or ammonia in it. And of course the instructions on the packet of every single colourant tell you categorically to do a patch test 48 hours before colouring your hair. To those of you who have never succumbed to the joy of changing your hair on a whim, a patch test consists of you dabbing a small amount of the chemically-potent dye on a small patch of skin (usually behind your ear or in the crook of your elbow) and waiting 45 minutes before washing it off. If in that time you experience any reactions, such as stinging, burning or - Goddess forbid - rashes, you know not to use the colourant. No reaction, go crazy. You are supposed to do this every time you colour your hair, even if you use the same shade every time, because the allergic reaction has in some very rare cases been fatal. Even if it isn't life threatening, the potential reactions can be horrendous. I'm not exactly a virgin where the colouring of my hair is concerned and I know full well what I'm supposed to do. Last night, however, I was in such a fever of curiosity to know what my new colour would look like that I blithely skipped the testing stage and went straight into full-on chemical alteration mode. Never, ever again. Although the reaction has luckily been nowhere near as severe as it could have been, I've been left with the occasional tingle and irritation of the scalp, a few patches of skin that feel hot to the touch and the distinct feeling that I should have known better.

So let my story be a lesson to you, boys and girls. By all means reach for the eternal allure of the dye bottle; glory in your ability to change your colour on a whim, but for the love of everything that you hold dear take your time and do the patch test!!! As for me, I'm going to have to shamefacedly trot off to my hairdresser tomorrow lunchtime to make sure that everything is all right and that I won't lose my hair/skin/anything else. I'll also be laying off the colour for a while; better safe than sorry, after all.

It won't be forever, though. I know what I'm like, and as soon as I get bored with this particular shade I'll be reaching for the bottle once again...

Only this time, I won't be so impatient and I'll do the damn patch test!

On Beginnings...

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a writer in possession of a muse must be in want of the perfect opening line. From Jane Austen to Dostoyevsky, from 'once upon a time' to 'it was a dark and stormy night', the memorable beginnings are the ones that hook you in immediately and are often plagiarised, memorised and bastardised by the rest of us. Whether you're writing the next War and Peace or the next Mills and Boon, a weekly column for The Times or something as frivolous as this blog, a good opening - a good introduction - is important.

Which I suppose is why I now need to offer humble apologies to Jane Austen for stealing her best line and then messing with it. (Well, it worked for Seth Grahame-Smith in 'Pride and Prejudice and Zombies', and I like to think that Miss Austen would have raised a wry smile at that modern classic). I started this blog after a) severe nagging from a friend - who remains nameless for their own safety/to protect the incredibly guilty - to not start and stop on the blogging/journal front as so many times in the past (ah, the joy of a new journal every Christmas...to be faithfully written in a la Anne Frank every day. I usually stopped after a week, although at the age of 13 I believe I managed an entire fortnight); and b) because someone very wise - my English teacher at secondary school - told me that it was important to write every day if I wanted to be serious about my scribbling. I am still awaiting the 'serious' part of the writing project to unfold, but with hindsight this actually does appear to make sense. Who knew? But in preperation for the five-book deal from a top publisher (every girl has to have a dream, after all), this blog will be my attempt to write something every day, even if it's just a five line rant about the idiot who attempts to run me over every morning. I don't take it personally...

But it's not just in writing where a good beginning is important. In life, too, a 'good first impression' or 'a good start to things' is something we pride ourselves on. Whether it's job interviews, the first day of school or meeting new people, we remember what our mothers told us and do our best to ensure that we leave a positive impact. And sometimes this is more difficult than we imagined; in my case, for example, I either revert to 'shy girl' type and never say anything unless directly addressed (usually with much blushing and stammering), or I overcompensate for my nerves and become completely over-the-top bubbly and hyperactive. Still, either way I must be doing something right because I have actually managed to make friends with other people rather than being the completely socially-inept weirdo I always imagine myself to be. I don't necessarily subscribe to the whole 'strangers are just friends you haven't met yet' theory, but there must be something in it: some of the people that I consider my dearest friends only came into my life in the last 12 months; before that, we were strangers (and some of us were just, well, strange. It's what makes you so endearing...) The first impression was obviously good enough to make them stick around - my grandmother would be so proud!

But as well as a good beginning, every writer needs to have a good ending. I haven't figured out what mine will be yet, mainly because I'm hoping that there's a lot more to come, but whatever the next chapter is like I'm reasonably sure that my English teacher was right - practice will make perfect...