working towards perfection (and failing)

Tag: daily prompt

i can’t even keep my own secrets


I am seriously considering writing my memoirs. It would be mostly for selfish reasons, and I probably wouldn’t even be gutsy enough to get it published, but it would be therapeutic and I do need therapy.

There is stuff in my life which is impossible to blog about, even in a fairly anonymous way. In conversations with YASiL yesterday I confessed that there are bits of my head which the world has never seen. She told me to write a book about it. So I will. I even have a title for it, but telling you that,  dear Lone Reader, will create a bond between us which I’m just not ready for.

There have been regular occurrences throughout my childhood, adolescence and adulthood, concerning a variety of people, from friends, to family, to lovers, where I’ve thought to myself  “I thought we’d never come back from that one”. More often than not though, we do come back from it, however tragic or horrid or electrifying ‘it’ was.

And life goes on. One day that life will die with me and nobody will ever know the truth. And I do have an insatiable need to tell the truth.

Use It or Lose It


worst. year. ever.

broken h

An Extreme Tale

“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” — Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities.

When was the last time that sentence accurately described my life?

That sentence could have described my life at many different ages: Childhood, when my Father walked out, but I loved school {I was a nerdy five year old}; teenagehood, when I liked boys, but struggled with hormones; university days, when I blossomed and excelled at being three hundred miles from home, but longed for Mummy’s cuddles when drunk; being in love, yet getting beaten up … so many times this could have accurately described my life.

But most recently, is probably now. This year. Today. Tomorrow. 2014 has been a truly horrid year, and 2015 will no doubt be nearly as horrid. But I am still in love, I’m looking forward to spending time with family at Christmas, I’ll be able to get all broody when Husband’s niece makes an appearance and I still thoroughly enjoy my job.

I’m the girl with a smile on her face which hides a multitude of ‘stuff going on in the background which nobody knows about’.

And I’m okay with that.


good things come to those who wait?


It’s a ridiculous idea really, probably created by the same person who came up with the idea that your time will come, and that person probably had it all. It’s a concept designed to make us feel a little better about our situations and our problems.

The reality is that for most ordinary people, good things don’t just fall into their laps. If we all waited for everything to just happen our lives would be a chaotic mess. Life is about working hard and reaping the benefits of the effort we put in. I’m a great believer in that. It sort of contradicts my belief that Fate plays a great part in our lives, but doesn’t really detract from it.

Life is both a blessing and a curse. It’s frustrating, repetitive, ridiculous, and painful as well as happy, eventful and lovely. And yes, good things do sometimes come to those who wait, but bad things do too.

Our lives are like little waiting rooms. We wait patiently for buses, for feedback, for donor organs, in queues, on dating websites, and for the postman. We struggle to make ends meet, but know that one day those good things will come. We forego our holidays and our new cars, that perfect pair of shoes and the lover who got away, because we know that good things are just around the corner.

It’s a terribly dangerous concept.

‘Good things come to those who work hard, play hard and are kind to everyone, and even then the good things aren’t guaranteed’, is what the saying should be.

I’ve been waiting patiently for some good things, but good things are rare indeed.


stranger in town


I have lived in this little corner of England for nearly ten years now and I’m still the stranger in town.

It’s an odd little place; very flat, very rural, very insular. Allegedly the folk who can trace their roots here for hundreds of generations are hiding webbed feet. Whether this is referring to the squidgy dampness of the area (we’re below sea level) or the fact that once upon a time it was likely you’d have married your brother (who was also your uncle, your cousin and your nephew) I have yet to fully ascertain.

They (the experts) claim that in about one hundred years my town will be underwater, nature will have reclaimed the land and the eels will be able to swim freely again. I think my house is safe; we intentionally chose one which is on the natural island of old. I shall just have to buy a boat if the sea begins to rise.

As you drive towards my historic – it’s one of the hundreds of places in which Boadicea is said to have died, and we once had an abbey – market town you’ll be amazed by the fact that you can see for miles across the flatlands. There are farms and scattered houses, fields of rapeseed and potatoes. It’s alleged that nearly all the carrots in Britain come through here.  The scattered houses were once the domain of naughty boys, sent from afar in the knowledge that they wouldn’t survive in the wilderness of rural nothingness if they escaped.

If you’re hoping for a haircut, followed by a browse around the charity shops and a dirty -but amazing – takeaway, you’re in luck. We have four hairdressers, three charity shops and about eight takeaways. Fancy a drink? Be wary of the locals in the pub. Need a new dress? You’ll need to travel miles for that. My most humble apologies.

We had a riot here once. There’s also a ‘tiger’ lurking nearby, a song was written about us and apparently TB is rather rampant here.



© 2020

Theme by Anders NorénUp ↑