Staying Human - Quite a Trick if You Can Pull it Off

 A decade ago, I  had a new job in a TV company that was falling apart. I didn't know it was falling apart; it became more evident as the weeks rolled by. 

The boss looked like Bill Clinton, or at least, Bill Clinton with more personal problems and a bandaged hand. 

Meanwhile, I had a baby boy kicking inside my belly. 

I wrote a poem about that intense time, and I'm chuffed to have the poem published in this amazing Bloodaxe poetry anthology. What an honour! These anthologies have inspired me for years. 

Honestly, I can't leaf through one, without loads of the poems giving me the shivers, and I think, if only I could write one like that. Now, I can officially die happy. 

Unless, of course, I die of Corona Virus. I won't be happy, at all. What a mess we are all in. 

Quick - look at that rainbow! Note to self : Distract yourself from Planetary Disaster and the lure of the Twitter Doom-scroll.

My best distraction is still the daily dog-walk. Who knew it was a form of meditation for those who don't want to sit crosslegged chanting Ommm? The Wellies are put to good use. I feel like a farmer, tending my fields. Look - this is Glasgow!

And this is Bumcheek. The kids call her Bumcheek when she is being 'naughty'. Or being 'Bum-Cheeky'.  It's become an adjective now.  Someone's been editing photos on my phone. 

Here we go for the October Break. In terms of Covid Risk,  it's a temporary relief having schools shut for the holiday. We don't have any plans, beyond dog-walks, popcorn, Netflix and Nonsense. It's enough. 

Life can be scary, but it's still abundant. And a bit Bum-cheeky. 

Stay Human, fellow Bum Cheeks. X

Even The Dog is Feeling Sinister - Except Not Really.

 

Okay, Sita, please don't chew my vintage copy of The Trial. 

Good Girl. Just pose nicely for International Dog Day. 

Wait, that was yesterday? Better late than never, hen. We're all new to this game. 

The kids are back at school. * Upbeat music with a hint of possible tension.*

I have to be first into the kitchen at 8am, to act as a human shield against Sita's triple back flips and 'bear dancing'..... to celebrate the mere fact that, it's morning, and WE'RE ALL STILL ALIVE, stumbling toward the Muesli. 

It's a joyous miracle in Sita's doggy brain. Let it be so!

I see Scotland are buying 12 minute Covid test machines.  Let it be so, and I hope they work. 

I tried to go to IKEA yesterday - for the first time in 7 months. Hand-break turn in the car park, ya'll!?

There were only about 200 people queued around perimeter, Billy bookcases calling their names. I just wanted a couple of dinky coffee cups, and some door mats ( Sita has chewed her way through my existing stock). I'm not buying anything that says WIPE YOUR PAWS HERE. Not yet, anyway. 

I need to get back to reading and writing. Reading always comes first. You can't write, if you don't read. 

I'm still unclenching myself from 6 months of non-stop parenting. A balled up hedgehog unfurling. It's hard to find my muse again. 

I make the kids' pack lunches each morning. Did you know, it's a social faux pas to package the lunch in the discarded Hovis or Warburton's bag?

I forgot this fact. Tess placed her hand on the sandwiches in the bread bag and said gently, Mum, we've talked about this already....

If talking ain't enough and you need some online meditation, my pal, once known as 'Stuart-y Boy' hosts regular sessions here. 

This time two years ago, I took Tess off school and we had a fantastic weekend at The Islay Book Festival.  It's online and digital this year, so you can check it out here. 

Stay there folks, and I won't be far away. 

Fantastic Ms Fox

For the first few days, she was like a fox. She hid in her crate and wouldn't look at us. Ears back.  I felt a strange and heavy guilt, knowing she was traumatised from the long journey in a van. Our 5 month old gangly pup, Sita. She smelled like a dog. What was I expecting?

The dog rescue charity urges the adopters to be patient. Of course we had to be patient. It was like nursing a new born. I suddenly felt like a Mother-of-3, pacing the kitchen at odd hours, in a dressing gown, preoccupied with the next puppy-pad. 

Sita's little Bambi legs quivered when she crept out to her dog bowl. 

Tess wondered if she didn't understand English and only spoke Romanian. 

She will know kindness, said my mum. Kindly. It sounds like a title of a poem.

Slowly the kindness brought Sita out of herself. It took a few days before I saw that first wag of the tail. And then, doggy joy. Sniffing around. Cavorting around the garden like a lamb. She looked at me like I was her everything.

We have taught her to 'sit' for dog treats. Primary 1 in dog school.  I have to order her a non- slip harness and we have to wait another week before venturing out on her first walk. There's a long way to go, but she will know kindness. 

Here's a link to an 18 second CLIP of puppy does happy.  You know you want to. 

Digging for the Meaning of Life

My lower back is sore. It's an almost pleasant hum. I have been digging the land - well, our garden - and it's as if 'the land' is speaking to me. It's saying, This is what we do to each other, this is as old as time. 

At the risk of sounding pretentious, there is something so earthing about getting muddy in the soil. So pleasantly purposeful. 

I am trying to rearrange the garden, so we have a larger grass area for Sita the Romanian Rescue Pup.

That is her superhero name. She will probably also be referred to as the cute one who made a mess on the carpet.

But, I can't get ahead of myself. 

I remember the hallowed day we got our our first pet. She was a stripy cat called Tigger, who was born on Kintra Farm on Islay. The farmer fed porridge to the cats from an old saucepan. 

My father drove us all home, bouncing down the farm track, 4 kids in the back of the car, ecstatic with excitement. Tigger was mew-ing, terrified, her head popping out of a cardboard box.

'THERE'LL BE NO TEARS WHEN IT DIES, NOW!' announced my Dad, in the car, attempting to prevent a broken heart 16 years in the future. 

16 years on, Tigger was as soft-bellied as Bagpuss.  One quiet Sunday, she started walking into walls with soft head-bops of complete disorientation. We drove her to the vet for the last time,  tears streaking our cheeks. 

Yes,  we did cry. We cried for two short days, but it was worth it. This is what we do to each other, this is as old as time. 

This morning, Hugh was on my laptop. He announced, 'I'm gonna google - What is the Meaning of Life. ' 

The question auto-filled as he typed.  

'Oh yeah,' commented Tess, as she walked by. 'I googled that yesterday.' 

Every Little Thing

and none of this, none of this matters

is the last line of Don Paterson's poem, Rain.  

Lockdown is still loaded with odd feelings and contradictions. You feel numb, you feel full of longing. Everything matters, nothing does.

Like my insomnia last night. There I am, attempting some yoga in the living room at 3.40am, watching light seep into the inky sky and hearing the birds start with their dawn cheep-outs. 

I have been awake all night, for no obvious reason. 2am Weetabix, Radio 4, and reading have failed to drip-feed me to sleep.

I finally fall over after 4.37am.

In the morning, I made sure to force myself to go for a jog. My favourite thing about lockdown jogs is meeting other people in the 'hood. Naturally, I have to stop for a chat. It is such a luxury just to talk to people in the street. It feels like a relief, like breathing out. 

When I get home, the kids hatch a plan to make lunch for us. They get dressed up for the occasion. They google 'posh music' on Spotify and play piano concertos through the speaker. They find a white table cloth from a drawer and say,  'Welcome to thy banquet'. 

It was so relaxing to have the tables turned and be waited upon. Again, a brief luxury. Every small, good thing savoured. 

After lunch, we go a local walk, as we always do. Bonus points if we get to stroke neighbourhood cats or dogs. 

In our own dog-search, I am still looking at rescue sites, some abroad - which is 'a thing', apparently. Tess has already adopted one of the  pups, in her head. She imagines it on the end of her bed.  I have started to imagine it around my feet. It is there, it is not there. It exists far away. It needs love. 

Who knows where the 'event horizon' of all this Covid chaos will be. It's the dizziness of not-knowing and trying to guess. Telling yourself that life's main challenge is to take whatever comes. Steel yourself. Learn to float. Hold on. Let go. Do both!

Tomorrow is another day. I hope you will sleep well tonight, curled up like a pup. 

In Sickness and In Health

I am compelled by contrast. As a small child, in the middle of a sun-soaked, leafy day, I suddenly thought about winter snow. Imagine?! The contrast! That such a thing was possible, if only by increment. From June to January, how it all changes. 

That was the late 1970's. But hey, January to June, 2020? It's incredible how all our lives have all changed. 

I also have a huge slice of contrast in my own life story. What many folk don't know, is that I was desperately ill and 'disabled' for two decades and now count myself as recovered. 

I was an 18 year old university student when I caught a flu virus.  I felt slayed. I couldn't stand up. My family brought my food to my bed. I expected to get better, but I got steadily worse. 

It was flabbergasting. I developed a migraine- level headache that never went away. It was there for every waking moment. Painkillers wouldn't touch it. I couldn't watch TV, talk, read, or even listen to the radio. It was like being in an iron lung, inside my own head. I got too weak to hold a knife and fork. I couldn't walk to the loo; my parents had to drag me on an office chair. Even my skin rebelled, developing eczema. 

After about 6 months, doctors diagnosed Myalgic Encephalomyelitus (or ME). It was something I'd never heard of, and a name I was embarrassed of. M.E. was too... me, me me. The ridiculous mockery of the term, Yuppie Flu. 

The realisation of just how ill I was, dawned in slow horror.  It was possible to get a virus and not get better? It was possible to get worse? Time and healing are not always linear. 

I spent 4 years bed-bound in constant pain and suffering; 4 years being the skinny ghost of a teenager in pyjamas in a back room.  

Then  another 16 years when I operated at about 50% of normal. On a good day. I was the Great Pretender. 

I became best pals with Stuart, who also had ME. We both had lots of catching up to do. We dressed oddly and paid for taxi's to cafes, where we ate scones. We laughed and we cried. We made jokes about quiche. I was so unused to being out and about, I had an urge to wave to strangers from the back of the taxi, like a child. Here we were, two kids with bad fringes.

Stuart formed a band  called Belle and Sebastian. I thought he was a bit crazy. In a good way, of course. Good luck with that song about Judy and the Dream of Horses, I thought. No chance, I thought. Ha!

A few years in, I met my partner, Francis, at an early Belle and Sebastian gig. I asked Stuart where he'd been hiding Francis. I 

called Francis, 'the unrequited love of my life'. Until he started requiting. 

Later I did a weird and wacky therapy and it was the start of a miracle recovery from 20 years of illness. Now, 24 years later, Francis and I have two beautiful kids, Hugh and Tess. 

When I think about trying to write about my lost 20's and 30's, it is too big to know where to start. I have enjoyed writing these bite-sized blog posts during the pandemic, and perhaps that's a good a way to go. To keep it informal and short. There are many aspects I could touch on, in future posts. But this is the speeded-up version. 

I often think of ME sufferers who are still ill, who haven't been so lucky. I'm horrified by the prospect of  'Long Tail Covid'.  People with Covid-19 are not getting any better for months, or possibly years.

I am still very heart-sink-y about Tess's chronic cough. For 6 months, my beloved child has been unable to exercise (even slightly) without it triggering coughing fits. She coughs every night before bed. She coughs when she wakes. She coughs when she gets chatty. She coughs at traffic fumes, now cars are back on the roads. 

I still suspect (and fear) she has Vocal Chord Dysfunction, yet another chronic condition.  One that can run parallel to asthma. It has to be managed, when it can't be treated. I've been told we will need to wait months for an ENT appointment on the NHS. 

 So, here we are folks, in a global pandemic- approaching the solstice, mid summer, the longest day. My favourite time of year. Nature feels like a young girl who has no idea how beautiful she is. You could fool yourself that life is meant to be easy. For a moment or two, at least.

The trees are resplendent. As poet, Philip Larkin wrote about the unfurling leaves, every year, they begin, 'afresh, afresh, afresh. '

One day at a time, is maybe where most of us are at. Judy can keep on dreaming of those horses, be they sinister or bright. There is always room for both in the paddock of life.  

Hearts and Flowers

In second year at high school, I sent six anonymous Valentines to six different boys. Maybe I thought I was performing some sort of emotional public service. I didn't want anyone to feel left out. 

Now, I think Valentine's Day is commercialised fluff, but the kids have fun with it. Tess (9) was obviously hoping to receive a card or a chocolate heart, but when I suggested she actually send one, she fired me a look. 'Too emba-wass-ing!?' 

Reap what ye sow, child. I am here in my second-hand cashmere jumper, with warm bosom, if consolation hugs are required. 

Here's a short poem I wrote over 20 years ago. It was for my main man, Francis Macdonald. Two decades and two kids later, we are still eating soup together in the sun-lit kitchen. I'm not complaining. 

Happy Valentines. May you all have soup to share. 
My favourite tweet of yesterday was from @mommajessiec 

70% of marriage is yelling "what" from a different room. 

In the end, Tess and I had a girls' night in. She begged to do my eye make up and I couldn't refuse. Crazy bat-wing nonsense. I'm the older one. 

Edinburgh, You Rock!

What an exciting evening I've had. It's not every day you get an invite from the First Minister of Scotland to a reception celebrating the opening of Edinburgh's International Festival(s!). 

There's me thinking, 'lucky I didn't wear my red dress.'

Nicola (yes, I eventually just called her Nicola. Was that alright, etiquette wise? It felt okay)...Nicola made a lovely impromptu welcome speech about how important it was - now, more than ever, to support the Arts and foster better  communication and understanding. 

She went on to praise the Book Festival's newly-erected marquees outside Bute House. The process of building the book festival was so noisy, she could hardly hear Boris. I may have guffawed. I tried to do it politely. 

I met two great women from Edinburgh Science Festival. I loved how enthusiastic and passionate they were about science. The opposite of Donald Trump. 

Yes, we need Arts more than ever, but we desperately need science too. We need the Arts to speak for science.  I feel a link to Extinction Rebellion coming on. 

Arts, Science and the Climate Emergency, are all passions and preoccupations, as if you didn't know, if you've ever glanced at my Twitter feed. 

So, friends; a week to go before I will be reading at Edinburgh Book Festival. Monday 12th, 6pm.  The show is part of the Throwing Voices sequence and you can book tickets and learn more here.  It would be lovely to see you there for coffee and scones, poems and songs. And maybe a few guffaws. 

Westering Home

Well, what a weekend we had at the wonderful Islay Book Festival 2018.  Oh, the sight of those big red Cal Mac funnels! By the time the Paps of Jura popped up, I was excitable as a puppy.

Big 'hats off' to all the organisers and volunteers who couldn't have done any more to help or make us all feel welcome. We stayed in the cracking Bowmore House B&B, all tasteful fabrics and fluffy  white bath robes. Never mind the free whisky, they must have known about my cereal weakness.

I met new friends as well as old ones. I talked love, life and all sorts with Gaelic author, Donald S Murray while we wandered Portnahaven as  moonlight fell on sugar-cube houses, and seals coughed and cavorted in the velvet dark of the bay.

I still get excited about chubby, speckled seals, their tails aloft on the rocks, but Donald said he sees them all the time in Shetland, so he couldn't get too excited. 'Like getting excited about cows?' I asked. Yeah, like that...

It was great to read in Laphroaig Distillery with acclaimed poets, Brian Johnstone, Chyrs Salt, Ian Stephen and Donald S Murray. A wee photo courtesy of Richard McFarlane -

Great too, to go back to Islay High School  to do a workshop with the kids, thanks to the brilliant Scottish Book Trust .

As far as venues go, the Round Church in Bowmore will take some beating. It was heart-warming to see so many old friends turn up to see me interview my Dad about his writing career and our years growing up on Islay. I look like I'm channeling Kirsty Wark here, but hey ho.

Afterwards we went to The Bowmore Hotel, which was jumping with locals, young and old. I was dying to leap up and join the karaoke, but since I can't hold a tune in a bucket, I had to make do with singing my 80's power ballads on the inside. 

The hotel owner, Peter, recognised Dad from way back and poured him an expensive dram. Later, he insisted on showing us many of the be-spoke hotel rooms, turning on and off power showers as we made appropriate approval noises. This is bonkers, I thought, but in a good way; in a wholesome nonsense way. 

I went back to the bar and thought, I love these friendly, partying Ileachs (the name for people from Islay). I want to stay up all night and dance and talk uninhibited gibber about anything. Just because it takes me back. Just for old time's sake.

But I peeled myself away and walked with my sister back through the peat-scented, blowy night to our B&B, to coorie doon beneath tartan duvet and remember the best of it from way back. What luck and fun we had growing up. What delicious freedom. 

Thanks Islay Book Fest, for bringing it back. Slainte and here's to you and All Your Pretty Horses. Until next time...

Three Readings, One Weekend. Who am I, Pam Ayres?

Well, whoop de doop. 

Not often I can say I have three poetry readings in one sunny weekend, but I say it now, good people. I shout it from the roof tops! 

That's not me, by the way, that's just some Glasgow radj's trying to get a tan. But you know what I mean. I'll shout it from the blog tops. 

Numero Uno - I'm excited to be part of the fabulous Edinburgh Book Festival Outreach in Glenrothes - It's a free lunch. Pass they sausage rolls, Mag'ret! I'll be reading poems that aren't too scary. 

Then it's back to Glasgow on a Stagecoach bus and off to Tell it Slant at the lovely Project Cafe. I can never be too far from general scone-age. Friends tell me I am like a squirrel. I carry croissants in side-pockets, just in case. Half woman, half choux pastry. 

On Saturday/Sunday, I am pure gagging to get to the dynamic Coastword Festival,  in Dunbar, where I'm humbled to be reading with the mighty William Letford and talking about all the good that flows from the Scottish Book Trust. Come on down to the seaside. 

Can we buy a Family Ticket?

An Interview and Three Poems at The New Writers Awards

Check me getting over-excited on the live stream. I thought I was on the Wogan Show, circa 1981. If you like the poems, Past Love in the Museum of Transport is available from Tapsalteerie Press and a few Glasgow bookshops soon!

Half a Century (No Fakers)

Well, Amigos....what a week to turn 50.

My poetry launch doubled up as a wee 50th birthday bash and delightful it was too. The house band were: my own Francis Macdonald, Sophie Pragnell Bell from Sister John and pal, Alex MacLean, who sang beautifully. 

Poetry Superstar Liz Lochhead joined in with aplomb. I would call her the icing on the cake, but she might tell me not to use cliches. 

Thursday was the New Writers Awards Showcase in Edinburgh. We all had a great night - here with fellow writers, Anna Stewart, Christine Laurenson and Julie Rea.

If you want to read Past Love in the Museum of Transport, you can buy it here at Tapsalteerie Press.

Past Love in The Museum of Transport

You heard it here first, blog pals! I have a poetry book coming out soon (January 2018), published by the lovely Tapsalteerie Press.  

I hope these are accessible poems, poems that won't scare people who don't usually 'do' poetry. Poems about the places love takes us. Poems about different kinds of love - teenage crushes, female friendship, parental devotion, past love, present love. 

Thanks go out to the wonderful Scottish Book Trust,   Creative Scotland and fellow poets for these great quotes -

Liz Lochhead says, “These poems - in the voice of a woman, a mother, a good neighbour of the here-and-now - are light-but-deep, often funny, always generous, accessible, inclusive, deeply humane, celebrating small things that can say some very big things indeed.”

“Ciara MacLaverty takes the everyday and passes it through a prism. How wonderful to see the hidden colours of the ordinary. Bright, beautiful, familiar, magical. Language that's honed, 'to the point where - almost imperceptibly - it reflects more light.” (William Letford)

“There is wisdom in her pen, aspiration in her heart, and a lightly crumbed fruit scone on her plate. Eat of the goodness in this book!”

(Stuart Murdoch, Belle & Sebastian)

I'll keep you posted, poets and pals. Feel the love!

What Nicola Says....

Recently read this and totally agree. @maclavertyB on fine form. Highly recommended. https://t.co/vfK4Sp8Qh0

— Nicola Sturgeon (@NicolaSturgeon) August 12, 2017

It's not every day the First Minister recommends your Dad's new book. Our Dad used to be an English teacher on the Isle of Islay. He gave that up to become a writer and has written five books of short stories and five novels. We're all proud of him, so I had to share this Nicola tweet.

Goo Goo even got the Tuxedo on.....

'Is that Mummy? No, that's Guitar George.'

Guitar George is the guitar tech for Teenage Fanclub. He used to work for Dire Straits, and Mark Knopfler wrote, Check out Guitar George, he knows all the fancy chords. 

So, there we all were at the wonderful Deer Shed Festival. Except I got left out of the drawing, in favour of lovely George (artist's Impression by Tess, 7). Fair do. Can you believe 45% percent of the crowd were kids? Heck yeah... Let the kids rock!

It was quite a sight to behold all the parents pulling their babes round in prairie wagons like this one; sleeping cherubs bedecked with blankets, ear protectors and fairy lights. Really.

Tess was madly envious and wanted one too, but had to make do with standing at the side of the stage, cheering for her father drumming, and developing a kid-crush on lovely Norman Blake. What an adventure for all. 

Thanks to the Deer Shed staff for being so kind. If you like festivals and you have small kids, saddle up the horses for this one next year.

Women Tell Each Other They are Gorgeous at Moniack Mhor

It’s like we have been starved of each other,

though we have only just met

and we are keen to make up for lost time,

leaning our stripy-topped bosoms on the table,

slapping our hands on its long wooden expanse

and agreeing with each other in shrieks

(Lana laughed enough to pish her breeks).

You’re gorgeous though!

No, you’re feckin gorgeous!

We can’t talk enough

about family, sex and death,

breach labour, Nicola Sturgeon and the NHS.

It’s not every day you wait a decade or two

for a faux medieval candelabra

to shine down on your face

and make you feel like, at last,

you’ve found your rhythm,

your got-it-now place.

Writers Go Crazy in the Highlands

You know that thing, when a photo of a sunset, is only 1% as good as being in the actual sunset? And even a good photo can't convey the whole ravishing shebang of it?

That's what being at Moniack Mhor is like. It's been a wham-bam treat of a week, whooping and laughing with new friends; cutting to the chase in every chat. 

And the countryside! God-dang, I hadn't realised I missed it so much. How calming it is. It's grassy smells and fresh breaths. Highland coos chewing and the rat-tat-tat of a woodpecker.

The cottage itself has a farmhouse 'hug' - slate floors,  heavy wooden tables, fresh herbs, wood burners, sofas to sink into.

I have read plenty and written some. I will share in later posts. Big 'shout out' to the Scottish Book Trust. Meantime, here's a couple of iphone snaps that won't do it justice.

Scottish Book Trust, I praise ye!

What a fantastic day I had last week, visiting the Scottish Book Trust and receiving one of their annual New Writers Awards. 

I loved meeting the other New Writers and getting our photos taken in Edinburgh - which never fails to dazzle with architectural splendour. You can read all about it here. 

So this is 49

It's my 49th birthday and it's good to know I still look youthful (see accurate portrait above) and, allegedly, I am the best mummy 'in the holl intiyer wold' and I am 'more pretty than the gold on the crab in Moana.' I am not boastful...thank God.

Glorious. You have to swallow these things whole when they are offered with such love. I feel lucky.

It's a funny old age, 49. I feel like I'm looking backwards through a door on a whole decade.  'It's all good,' as my pal, Stuart used to say, when summing things up randomly. Well, it is for the moment, so I won't push it.