Mid-month musings: You're only as old as you act

How to age badly...

You know you’ve reached the brow of the slippery slope to decrepitude when you can no longer remember numbers - whether they be passcodes, telephone numbers or PINs.

A while ago I was shopping in Waitrose [I’m not going to apologise, as it doesn’t happen often], and I reached the check-out counter, proud of myself for having remembered my Waitrose card and the carrier bags from the car.*  However, after my shopping had been packed into those bags and I’d scanned my Waitrose card, I tried to pay for the groceries with my contactless bank card, and unfortunately it was one of those random occasions when it decided it wanted me to do it the old-fashioned way, as a security check.

And that’s when, with a rapidly lengthening queue forming behind me, I realised I had completely forgotten my PIN.

            It had vanished from my head as if I’d had a Men In Black memory swipe. The harder I thought about it, the less I could remember it. I roughly knew the specific digits but couldn’t think of the order they came in. I vaguely recalled that one of them was used twice, but had no idea which one.

            I felt that hot, clammy feeling of embarrassment creeping up my neck as I explained to the assistant that it was a while since I’d used that card, and it was the only card I had on me. But, now, the four digits had slipped away into the ether and my mind became increasingly blank the more I tried to remember them.

            The assistant was very kind. She advised me to sit on a nearby bench and relax and the PIN might come back to me. She reassured me that there was no rush. In short, she treated me like a little old lady. I was 61 last week. It was mortifying. In the end, I had to ring P and ask him what my PIN was. He’s the only person who knows it, beside me. I realise you’re not supposed to share you PIN with anyone, but when you’ve got a brain like mine, what else can you do other than tattoo it on your wrist?

I’ve always been a bit scatterbrained, but what used to be vaguely charming when I was young and slim is now the sort of behaviour that makes people shake their head, roll their eyes, and wish they’d chosen another queue.

Debit cards seem to cause many people of my age problems. I’ve had my card swallowed by ATM machines on several occasions when I’ve been unable to remember my PIN, particularly since Covid as I rarely use cash these days. My friend, D, recently had her card sucked into a cash machine, and the apparently nice young man behind her in the queue was later discovered to have done something to the machine that enabled him to get her card back out, after she’d left, and he had photographed her PIN somehow so he could draw out £140 for himself! Fortunately, the bank reimbursed her, but if young people are now such smart arses that they can do this sort of thing, what hope is there for those of us who are just beginning to lose their minds? We can barely remember how to use an ATM, let alone be expected to recognise which apparently helpful young person is actually about to steal our cash.

I’m not the only one to experience embarrassing incidents in supermarkets either. In a recent shop in Sainsburys, The Master himself picked up a handbasket and proceeded up and down the aisles, shaking boxes of All-Bran, rummaging through the packs of boiled ham, comparing the prices of support stockings and checking out the display of Werther’s Originals. As he went along, he found the basket was becoming increasingly heavy and cumbersome, and eventually a kindly shop assistant pointed out to him that he had picked up not simply an individual basket, but the entire metal stand into which the baskets are placed when not in use. He was actually dragging the basket plus the stand round with him, wondering why the bloody thing felt so heavy…

Then there are the misunderstandings. For instance, my friend, B’s, husband recently fist-bumped an RAC man who was actually holding out his hand for the car keys

It doesn’t stop me thinking I can do stuff though. A couple of weeks ago, I bought two circular raised flower beds, made of metal, and when they arrived I thought it would be a great idea to assemble them and put them in the garden before P came home. It looked simple enough.

Unfortunately, not only were the instructions in the form of simplistic diagrams which assumed the assembler could fill in the large gaps using common sense, but I have cataracts in both eyes and the diagrams were very small so I could barely make out the detail. Anyway, it looked simple enough…

Firstly, I underestimated how heavy the four chunky sections of each circular bed would be. Each curved and corrugated section had to be screwed onto the next by means of four screws. The sections were large and heavy – at least for a five foot two inch fat woman with short arms and the beginning of arthritis in both hands – and sharp round the edges. My back was hurting, so I had the initial idea of sitting on the settee balancing the pieces on the large footstool P refers to as the ‘pouffe’, but it quickly became clear that there was no way I could hold two of these sections together AND screw in the screws with just two hands and one footstool. So I had to sit on the floor, which I find very difficult.

If my back hurts, there is a great deal of amusement to be had in watching me trying to get back to my feet from a seated position on the rug. It takes longer than you’d imagine. I have to get on all fours, shuffle painfully to the nearest stable piece of furniture [the ‘pouffe’ in this case], then try to use it to drag myself to my feet. It’s like watching Douglas Bader doing a gymnastics floor display. I’m not always like this, but if my back is playing up, let the entertainment begin! Guess how many times I had to get up from the floor that afternoon?  Once to get the scissors to open the packaging – once to get the screwdriver – once to get a knife to help fit the rubber edging on the top bare rim of each bed – once to get the sharper scissors in order to cut the rubber trim once I’d fixed it on one bed so I could use the rest for the second bed…

I fixed three sections of one bed together before I noticed that the sections had a protective plastic coating which had to be peeled off first, so I had to take them apart and peel off this coating. And it didn’t come off with the satisfying ease of those cellophane strips that cover your mobile phone screens when they’re new. Oh no, this was heavy-duty protective plastic, the sort that would kick sand in the face of new mobile phone protective plastic strips. It took ages to find the edge and longer to pull the plastic off – it wasn’t stuck with adhesive but it was hugging that painted metal like a child clinging to its mother. Pulling it off was brutal and exhausting, and took far longer than I expected. But at last it was done and I screwed the sections together again only to realise that I’d fitted half the screws on the wrong way round...

Throughout this whole process, the TV was broadcasting the apparently 24/7 US evangelical Christian programme that seems to be the default setting on our smart TV. It consists of a group of mostly elderly white men - though one or two highly-coiffured women sing songs - who either sing dreadful hymns or give long sermones, interspersed with some audience participation and quite a bit of hand-clapping. It goes on and on and on. I couldn’t find the remote control, and I couldn't easily switch it off so I tried to ignore one over-excited preacher who spent twenty minutes telling a story he claimed happened to someone in his own congregation but I’ve heard this same tale told by several other such preachers and they all claim it for their own. What I find both compelling and hysterically funny in roughly equal amounts is the style of these preachers – like the traders on Barnsley market that my sister used to adore when she was a child [“You get not one, not TWO, but SIX - that's right, my dear, SIX - FULL SETS OF CROCKERY for the knock-down price of £3.40 – Ladies and gentlemen, this is a ONE-TIME ONLY OFFER, and I am going home in ten minutes so I’m knocking another 50p off because you’ve been such a good audience…!”]. They have a weird delivery, which swoops up and down, changing tone, pitch, volume, pace and intensity at random moments, but particularly towards the end of sentences. And they are quite compelling, it has to be admitted.

By the time I’d assembled my two circular raised flower beds, I was feeling very proud of myself, and also ready to accept Jesus as my lord and saviour.

 

***

*Incidentally, one of these bags was a Marks & Spencers bag while the other was a Tesco one, which made me remember my mum-in-law’s belief that it is morally wrong to use another shop’s carriers for your shopping – she thinks it is somehow an insult to the shop you’re using and that they will be offended, or even that it is against the law and could get you arrested. What do you think about shopping bag etiquette?

***

Check-out Assistants in different supermarkets:

Waitrose: - ‘Hi, how are you today? Do you know you can get a free coffee from the machine near the door with your Waitrose card?’

 RESPONSE: a warm cheeriness in the customer’s heart as they take their shopping and walk away.

***

Marks and Spencers:   ‘Oh, I love those ready-to-cook chickens, don’t you? I think that’s what I’ll get for my tea tonight’, ‘Those almond biscuits are my favourites.’, ‘Oh, is that a new dessert? I’ve not seen that one before. It looks delicious. I’ll have to get one of those’

 RESPONSE: ‘Oh, piss off, you lying corporate lackey’

 ***

TESCO: ‘Hiya, love. Wanna bag?’

 RESPONSE: ‘Yes, please – I’ve got hundreds in the boot of my car but I never remember to bring any into the store!’

 ***

Aldi: dead-eyed stare.   

RESPONSE: avoid assistant’s eyes as you pack your shopping into a Tesco carrier bag.

 ***

Some other tales of what it's like to get older:

Devi

"We were golfing many years ago on holiday and, as we were about to tee-off, someone shouted across from another part of the course: 'I don't know, these retired people having all the time in the world to go golfing on weekdays...'

When we turned round to where the voice was coming from, they were on the next hole, but were looking straight at us. We hadn’t even reached early retirement age at that point!

"Recently, I had a day off work, and when I went in the next day a colleague told me that a customer had come in the day before and said he’d been given some information ‘by the old Asian woman...' (I have salt and pepper hair, but my face has no wrinkles yet and I was in my early 50's at the time). She said they told him they didn't know who he was referring to..."

RUTH

"My experience is definitely menopause-related - in the last week, I’ve left my phone in three different toilets. I keep it in my back pocket and take it out so it doesn’t fall in the toilet. 

'The first time was on the ferry to Belgium. I’d got as far as our table in the cafe when I realised I didn't have my phone, and my son’s fiancée woke up to see me sprinting back to the Ladies, desperately hoping no one had taken it! 

'The second time was when we were leaving my in-laws on Boxing Day. I had no recollection of even bringing my phone downstairs and my poor husband had to unpack the car he’d very carefully packed, as we hunted everywhere for it. He mentioned the toilet and I suddenly remembered where it was! 

'I did it again at my brother’s house and I’ve also spent a good hour over the course of the week, wandering around the house trying to work out where I’ve left it each time! 

'I am NOT enjoying brain fog…."

 

Ron

TRAIN BRAIN STRAIN [a true story]

Last May, my sister kindly gave me a lift from my elderly mother’s flat to Newcastle Central station.  John Dobson’s famous porte-cochere loomed up out of the gloom as I strode from the car towards platform 3 and the 16:36 back to Dunbar. 

A worried-looking woman standing next to me said to her husband:

‘It’s coming in from the Manors side.’

‘That’s unusual’ I said to her, ‘I wonder why that is?’

I assumed engineering works or something and thought no more about it.  Precisely at 16:34, an East Coast Main Line train hove into view, from the Manors side, and pulled up at Platform 3. The woman had been right.

‘Funny,’ I muttered to myself, ‘I was expecting Cross Country.’  Nevertheless, the odd ECML train did stop at Dunbar, so I clambered aboard regardless.  I managed to get a seat next to an American student.

At times like these, the aged person’s brain does not automatically register the obvious fact that something is very wrong.  I was halfway over the King Edward Bridge before I had the most awful feeling in the pit of my stomach.

‘What train is this?’ I asked the American student.

‘It’s the London train.  I’m on board till Peterborrow,’ he replied.

‘Hell, I’m on the wrong train.’ 

I dashed along the corridor, through the first class and into the train office.  The elderly guard, who looked and moved like Private Godfrey from Dad’s Army, was dealing with an imbecile who wanted a single to Darlington and was thirty pence short. Eventually, with just three minutes to go until the train stopped at Durham, Private Godfrey advised me to get off there, cross under the permanent way and stand on the down platform awaiting the 18:18 to Edinburgh, which stops at Dunbar.

‘That’s 105 minutes I have to wait - is there nothing sooner?’

He shook his white head. 

I stepped off at Durham and saw a bus standing at a stop near a roundabout.  It was a little single-decker and it had ‘Newcastle’ on the front destination screen. 

‘How much?’ I asked the driver.

‘Four pounds.’

I paid up, sat down, and looked at the train timetable.  The 18:18 that Private Godfrey had been talking about was due in at Newcastle Central at 18:39.  It was now 16:50, so I had bags of time.  Durham is just 15 miles from Newcastle, so I guessed on a traffic-free Sunday afternoon that 40 minutes maximum would get me back to the City.

 

It was only when we seemed to be travelling in the opposite direction that alarm-bells started jangling gently in my befuddled brain.  We rolled into little Durham villages with strange-sounding names that I had never been to before - Framwellgate, Sacriston, Edmondsley, Craghead, and South Moor. After half an hour, we had reached Stanley. We pulled in at a fairly new bus station. The driver got out. A new driver, plump and silver-haired, got in.  For a long while, nothing happened.  I was becoming a little agitated. Eventually, I plucked up enough courage to speak to the plump driver.

‘How long are you staying here?’

‘Three minutes’ was the terse replay.

‘Is there a toilet in the bus station?’

‘Yes’.

‘Would you mind waiting till I use it?’

‘I don’t mind, but you’ll find it’s shut’. 

We rolled on and on – Annfield Plain, Catchgate, Dipton, Tanfield Lea, Tantobie, Lintz, Burnopfield.  I kept looking at my watch – minute after minute ticked by and we seemed to be no nearer Newcastle.

We eventually reached Gateshead and, as if by magic, the driver suddenly woke up and took off from the Metrocentre like Lewis Hamilton in a Ferrari. He had the six of us left on the bus hanging onto the handrails for dear life.  To my delight, the final stop was only 300 yards from the Central station.  It was 18:28.  I had ten minutes to make my train.

I made it with three minutes to spare.

I never had any need to fret, but  had worried myself into a state of anxiety so chronic, I found I had unconsciously torn my train timetable in half. 

Whoever says that brain fade with ageing doesn’t exist and that letting the train take the strain is an abject fool, I say, and should be locked up immediately.

Writer Showcase: February 2025

 Sharon Henderson

I am very pleased to introduce our second showcased writer of 2025, Sharon Henderson. Like last month's writer, Karen Honnor, I met Sharon in the Open University Write Club group, and later collaborated with her and several other women writers [some of whom have been, or will be, featured in these showcases] on an epic narrative poem. Sadly, we never finished that project, but it was great fun and it was where I first discovered how talented both Karen and Sharon are.  

Sharon Henderson

Biography

Sharon Henderson is 54 years old and predominantly writes poetry and short stories. She is a teacher in a large secondary school on the outskirts of London. In addition, she tutors students with learning needs. She lives in Leatherhead and loves walking, books, the gym [especially boxing classes], and cooking. She volunteers at the local museum and has an avid interest in history and people. As someone who can ask questions for England, Sharon has been accused of being nosy but prefers to think of this as a kind curiosity and interest in the world.

Sharon has two grown up children who live at opposite ends of the country. One of them has a cat and lives in Manchester and the other lives by the sea, which makes visiting them a delight.

Sharon grew up in Lancashire but spent a great deal of time in Cornwall where her mother’s family live. She lived in Bradford for many years, working and teaching in inner city schools in Yorkshire but began her career in the care industry. This gave her an experience of the lives of people from diverse cultures and experiences, which are reflected in her poetry.

She has been published several times in the magazine Makarelle and in a subsequent anthology of work from the magazine. In addition, she has been published in several OU publications, including The Gift.

Many of her poems focus on people and their experiences. Much of it reflecting her interest in the views and understandings of others. She is currently writing and putting together a collection of poems, albeit slowly, with a theme of memory and association.

Links

Anthology One - selected work from the literary journal Makarelle

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Anthology-ONE-Makarelle/dp/B09L3RC6GJ

One of Sharon's own drawings: dog-roses

******

Sharon has sent us four poems as a sample of her work, all chosen because they are ones she personally likes.  Enjoy!

"The following poem was written during lockdown. The time made me think of my grandmother who was unable to walk and lived in a care home for the last few years of her life. She loved nature and the outdoors but never seemed to be discontent with the situation she was in. Being trapped in my own flat gave me some perspective."

"Roses in my grandmother's garden'

Close your eyes

When walls become too solid,

 I no longer want to hide.

Sit down in a corner,

Close my eyes and step outside.

I see the smell of seaweed left uncovered by the tide.

I see the touch of heat, the sand beneath my feet.

And gaze up at the sound the Fulmar cried.

The walls no longer solid,

 I do not have to hide.

Sat down in my corner,

Close my eyes and step outside.

I see again the smell of gorse, hard by granite wall.

I watch the breeze, bend hawthorn trees.

Stare at the cuckoo’s call.

These walls were never solid,

 I will never hide.

Sitting in my corner,

Close my eyes I step outside.

I see the sound of mist silent in the dawn.

Elated feel the stag, step out from the crag.

Regard the warmth of rising dawn.

The walls they are not solid.

The waves still bring the tide,

The breeze still blows. The oak tree grows.

Close your eyes and step outside.

 

 "Love Lane, St Agnes, near where my                                    Newquay
   grandmother lived."

"The next poem was written after one of my mad early morning walks by the Thames when I first moved to London. This was the result of a nine mile trek from Putney Bridge."

Aliens

I stepped off the bus at Putney Bridge.

Early, but not bright.

The streets were loud with racing, static cars,

Rushing for petrol (yes, it was then).

I hurried away to the banks of the Thames,

And the relative quiet of rowing clubs,

Teeming like salmon into the river.

As I walked I eavesdropped,

Loud hailed coaches, making demands.

“Jacob, hold your line! Well done, watch your line.”

Without warning I saw “Jake”

Holding his “line” on the back of a credit card

That no longer has any other purpose.

“Angela watch your hands.

Imagine you are smoothing out the creases on a table cloth.”

I smiled at the idea of Angela and her table cloth.

Then “Angie” got out of a car on a dark street,

 Smoothed out the creases in her skirt and waited,

For the next slow moving car to wind down it’s window.

“Abid, press down with your heel. It should connect with the water.”

There he was “Abs” pushing down his heel,

To connect with a pedal in a car not his own.

Speeding towards the unknown disaster that awaited.

“Gentleman, watch where you are going.

You want to avoid the other crews.”

I thought of the “crews” on Friday nights.

Post school and cool.

Out in their best avoiding the other “crews”.

Yes, the Aliens are here.

Unaware of each other’s existence.

"The poem below is about my family’s ability to carry on doing childish things even as adults. We still play Pooh Sticks, blow dandelion clocks and a game with grass seed stalks called “hardheads”. It’s a weird expression of love and belonging that works in a family that isn’t at all touchy feely."

 

Clocks

I recall when the blows of time were soft.

Billowed, breathy and light.

Wrapped in giggled joy.

Time stood still and we played in it.

Running downhill, arms flung wide.

While tufts of time were released,

From the grasp of hands,

That trusted still enough,

To not hold too tightly,

But let the moment float away.

While we looked on in wish filled wonder,

And it was only yesterday.

  

"Below is a poem about the things you do as a child with your siblings, which - when you do them as an adult  - take you back to childhood. In this case, it was watching for dolphins."

Transfixed

Sand stung, transfixed we sit,

All in a duck row, descending.

Unblinking, awed, afraid,

Lest moving pulls a thread.

That lets them Know we watch.

 

Our first sight burnt as the sun on our backs,

Into our memory seared.

While frantic Turnstones search the water’s edge.

Again we sit transfixed sit.

We watch for backs arched ascending.

 

Unblinking, awed, stilled,

Lest moving shifts the sand,

Reminds us time has passed.

Yet they unchanged break the waves.

Again, the sun burns our backs.

While turnstones, frantic, search the memory past.

 

******

And finally we come to The Big

 Interview, in which Sharon kindly

 answers writing-related 

questions and lets us into 

some of her writing secrets...

"Bants Carn [St Mary, Scilly Isles] - one of my favourite places"

1.    How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be a writer, and what set you off down that journey?

     I don’t remember not writing. I learnt to read and write and didn’t stop doing either. The first thing I wrote of any note was a poem about a ruined house that my teacher entered in Horwich Literary Festival when I was 12. I remember the winner, some private school kid, reading out her poem in a posh accent. It put me off a bit. I carried on writing but just stuff for family and because I felt writing was what “posh people” did. However, the poems fall out of my head and I can’t stop them so I have a bank of poems that until a few years ago I shared with no one.

 

2.    Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped your life and your writing career.

     As a teenager I read “To Kill A Mockingbird”. It rang true with all the values I had been raised with and reinforced the emerging understanding that we have to stand up for what is right even when no one else does. I love the character of "Scout and that feeling that she never quite fits in anywhere - that she is consequently outside, looking in on the story. I also love reading other people’s poetry. Writers who are reflective and observational always appeal, and those who comment on human rights or empowerment. Maya Angelou, Seamus Heaney and John Betjeman spring to mind.

 

3.    Have your children, other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing? In what way?

    My friends and colleagues are very supportive. The first person to take my writing seriously was a teacher at school who entered me for Horwich festival. However, I was a teenager at the time and hugely embarrassed by the whole thing. My family are as far from effusive as you can get, so my Mum saying about a poem “That was good.” outweighs anything anyone else could say. However, I do write about them, often indirectly and their names are never mentioned.

 

4.    Does the place you live have any impact on your writing? 

     I’ve moved around a lot but people and places are what I write about. So, yes, I am totally influenced by where I am. I love writing about the sea and natural environments, but live and work in an urban area, so you’ll see elements of both in my work.

"Penzance seafront in winter. I have relatives all over 

Cornwall and winter is the best time to be there."

5.    How would you describe your own writing? 

     I can’t help the poetry, which sometimes seems to write itself. Beyond that, some poems are funny or positive, others sad. Sometimes it rhymes and sometimes it doesn’t; it depends very much on the context.

              When I write short stories, they are often based on real events or built around characters that are people I have met. Again, these are often funny or slightly dark. I think a lot of what I write is part of an effort to understand other people or situations rather than to convey a message.

6.    Are there certain themes that draw you to them when you are writing?

     I write about anything at any time. I write a lot about family and memories, but, to really get me going, give me something I feel strongly about (There’s a lot of this as I’m very opinionated.) Human Rights, injustice, the environment - these will all set me writing.

 

7.    Tell us about how you approach your writing. Are you a planner or a pantser? 

 Poems tend to appear in my head half formed and need to be written down and played with. However, I find stories, even flash fiction, require planning. I’ve learnt you need to have some idea where a story will end up and how it will get there from the start. I can’t just make it up as I go along.

 

8.    Do you have any advice for someone who might be thinking about starting to write creatively?

     Do it your way and because you love it, not because you hope to become a published writer - although that’s amazing when it happens. I can’t draw or paint well at all, but I still do it because I enjoy it.

9.    Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any writing groups, online or face-to-face? 

    I am a member of, and love, the OU Write Club. They gave me the confidence to do things with my work and I do think that’s the value of such groups. They are supportive and positive. I wouldn’t stay with them if they weren’t. I have even shared things from my must-not-be-shared file. These are poems about people and events that could get me arrested or at least make me a suspect if anything happened to the protagonists! They have given me confidence and got me through the rough patches I imagine all writers have when the road is not smooth.  Having others who understand the days when writing is not a happening thing is invaluable.

 

10.   Have you ever studied creative writing at university or elsewhere? 

I’d love to do a creative writing course but I have never got round to it. I’m not sure I could teach creative writing. I think it would require a confidence in my own work that I don’t possess.

 

11.  What do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or non-writers? 

     I veer between absolute terror and a need for approval, when showing other writers my work. It’s something you have to do because it’s so hard to be objective about something that comes from you. This is why having a writing group you trust is so important.

12.   Where do you get your ideas from?

      My writing is always about people, places and feelings.

"The monument to Sir Cloudsley Shovel (his real name, honest) with the camel in the background - his name was enough to set me off on some in-depth research into who he was and how he ended up on a sinking ship. This is on the Isles of Scilly which is a favourite walking spot of mine. He may well become the topic of an epic saga type poem."

13.    They say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do you agree with this?  

I have a very busy life, working full time and with lots of hobbies and interests that all feed into my writing. While this gives me inspiration, 'organized' and 'self-disciplined' are not words to use for how I write. It’s all about grabbing the time and having something to write about. I dream (as I think all writers do) of a cottage in the country, where I write and go for long walks, but that doesn’t give you things to write about.

 

14.  Beyond your family and your writing, what other things do you do? 

     I teach full time in a large secondary school and tutor part time as well. I am not someone who can just sit and watch a movie, so there’s always sewing, cooking, DIY or something going on. I love hiking and the gym, but only classes. I am not disciplined enough to be left with treadmills and rowing machines, I need direction. I volunteer at a local museum and love history, particularly anything to do with industry and ordinary people.

"Denys the bear is a big part of my life and has his own back pack to ride in if I take him anywhere. He's good with anxious students and makes excellent worksheets for younger students with speech and language needs. He's also a bit of an emotional prop and I have been known to seek his opinion form time to time (He doesn't answer back)."

15.  Would you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person? 

      As a social science teacher, the term “cultured” brings out the worst in me. It implies a judgement on other people's lives and experiences, and I am likely to start ranting about the 'western canon'. 

            I know what I like and am interested in anything and everything. My taste in music ranges from medieval counter point to metal and Kpop. I watch old murder mysteries when I am working at home but also like documentaries and well written dramas. I have not got the time for long term investment, so I haven’t watched Game of Thrones or spent much time on reality TV. To be honest reality itself is enough for me. 

            My daughter and I will watch foreign films together (Spanish and Japanese horror movies are a favorite). When I can, I will read anything printed on paper. I love classics such as Dickens and Austen but have also read all of the books my children read as teenagers and enjoyed them all. I think it’s very important to stay in touch with what’s going on around you. Even if you personally don’t like it, it helps you to understand the world from the point of view of someone else.

16.   Are you interested in history and if so does it impact on your writing? 

     Yes to both. My mother's family were tin miners and farmers and my dad’s sailors and dockers. As a result, I was raised with an interest in industrial history and a pride in the achievements of people like Brunel and Trevithick. I will scramble round steam engines and vintage cars all day. It doesn’t necessarily inspire my writing but I am very aware of where I come from and the people in the past who got me here. I will visit museums, old houses and open days whenever I can and I do think the more you know, the more you have to write about.

17.   How did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?

     I was on my own for the entire pandemic, mostly teaching online. As someone who loves a good 12 mile hike and to chat to total strangers, it was my own version of hell. I wrote some good poems and I think it gave me the space and time to observe what was going on around me more closely, but I’m not doing it again.

 

18.   There is a lot of talk at the moment. in the publishing world and elsewhere, about political correctness, the Woke movement, cultural appropriation, ‘cancel culture’, ‘trigger warnings’, sensitivity readers and the importance of diversity. What are your thoughts on this, with regard to writing? 

 I’ll say what I said to my children when they were growing up: “Don’t rob banks or hurt anyone”. 

        You are always going to offend someone, somewhere. However, I think it’s about your intention as much as what you write about. There’s a huge difference between offensive appropriation and trying to understand another’s point of view. If we stop writing about each other, we lose something, but writing about other people requires effort and communication. Writing should add to the world, not detract from it.

19. Would you describe your writing at mostly fantasy or mostly factual?  

     I love fantasy, but as I am often unsure about what is real and what is fantasy in this life (Is AI a thing? Are there really cat people?), I am not sure where I fit on a continuum.

20.   Do you have any particular health or other issue that affects your writing and if so how have you overcome this?

     I have some health issues. Osteoporosis and low blood pressure are the worst because they limit what I do. I want to walk Striding’s Edge in the Lakes and go white water rafting. While these things are not going to happen, I don’t let it stop me doing other things and looking for other experiences elsewhere. It only affects my writing in that I now need a warm tea-room to write in if I am walking in winter. Not really much of a hardship for a tea addict.

 

"Frost on walk to Norbury Park - my favourite walking weather"

******

Thank you very much, Sharon, for such an interesting and informative showcase. 

******

In March, I will be showcasing 

another fabulous writer: 

Gae Stenson

Not to be missed!

******

So far in this series, I’ve showcased the following writers: 

Ruth Loten – March 2023

Jane Langan – March 2023

Beck Collett – April 2023

Ron Hardwick – June 2023

L.N.Hunter – July 2023

Katherine Blessan – August 2023

Jill Saudek – September 2023

Colin Johnson – October 2023

Sue Davnall – November 2023

Alain Li Wan Po – December 2023

Lily Lawson – January 2024

Philip Badger – February 2024

Glen Lee – March 2024

DHL Hewa - April 2024

Tonia Trainer - May 2024

Mike Poyzer – June 2024

Judith Worham - July 2024

Chrissie Poulter - August 2024

Adele Sullivan - September 2024

Lin De Laszlo - October 2024

Wendy Heydorn - November 2024

Elisabeth Basford - December 2024

Karen Honnor - January 2025

Sharon Henderson - February 2025

You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.

******