Cold and Grey Monday

womens-2605355_1920

 

Between me and the trees, there’s not much that takes my fancy. They say I’m disillusioned and talk in riddles, but when I’m halfway up the garden path sucking on my smoke on the brink of despair, oh, I dunno. There’s a bottle of wine with my name on it and prose to be written. There’s an ocean of inner dilemma to swim through in the search for a handful of lines that may or may not appeal to the whims of others. At one point in my life, I was much the same as the rest. My dreams and ambitions matched those I passed on the street, and there was only the need to love and to be loved in return. Perhaps if things had turned out differently, those dreams could’ve come true, but sometimes it feels as if that way was never meant for me. Skipping down the garden path, I sense no separation between the ground at my feet and the sky above my head. This place, is it where I lived up until I was four? Or how about the garden that belonged to my great grandmother who lived in St Albans? I used to call her Sunday Nanny, on account that when my mother was a little girl, she always used to visit her on a Sunday, and so the name stuck for me as well. My Sunday Nanny, she was ninety-eight when she died. According to family legend, when she was nine years old, on the night that The Titanic sunk she and her mother were in their garden hanging out the washing. Her mother was talking to a neighbour over the fence when all of a sudden, she stopped what she was doing, looked up into the sky, and then told my future grandmother that something was wrong. That although she wasn’t sure what, something bad was going to happen that was to take the lives of many people. When I close my eyes, I picture the scene and smile as the two of them stand there awaiting the great tragedy that would befall over a thousand souls that cold and grey Monday in the Atlantic Ocean. She’s been dead for sixteen years now. Her mother for many more, and yet they still exist. That moment, it still occupies a measure of time and space, and when I close my eyes, the cool breeze of that evening can be felt all about me.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.co.uk

A Journal for Damned Lovers on Amazon.com

2 replies »

  1. “There’s an ocean of inner dilemma to swim through in the search for a handful of lines that may or may not appeal to the whims of others. At one point in my life, I was much the same as the rest.” This is brilliant. I want to tell you that the whims of others doesn’t matter much. We were all the same as the rest, but you’ve found something that makes you different from the rest. Unique.

    The bit about Sunday Nanny made me smile so much – I may write about my own Nanny. I hope that’s okay? x

    • Thank you. That’s a very nice thing of you to say. I think to be different and unique is all that I could really ask for. Just to have done something else- that’s my aim.

      I’m glad you liked the story about my Sunday Nanny. Every time I visited her house, I’d do the dusting and she’d give me money to buy books. Magical. I’d love to hear about your own 🙂 x

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s