My mother chose the morning of my eighteenth birthday to inform me that I almost didn’t happen. So long, childhood, hello brand new adult life.

My father was about to leave on an expedition, my mother continued, and was all packed and ready to say his last goodbye to his fiancée, my mother, before setting off, when he double-checked his plane ticket and realised that in fact he had another half-hour to spare.

It transpires it was during that half hour that I came to be.

Three months later a couple of letters crossed their paths over choppy waters of the Atlantic. Letter number one was from my mother to my father sharing the happy news of my imminent arrival with him. Letter number two was from the leader of my father’s expedition informing my mother that my father had decided to join the Amazonian tribe he was supposed to photograph.

As a child I only asked my mother about my father once.  She responded that she hoped he had been eaten by the biggest crocodile in the darkest corner of a swamp in the Rainforest. Something in the tone of her voice told me not to ask again.
Ever since my mother opened up about details of my haphazard conception, I learnt to treasure every moment of my life, the life that came so close to never happening at all that I felt obliged to cherish it. I count my blessings and I celebrate every day. I live what the carpe diem school of thought life coaches preach.

The thing I am most grateful for in my accidentally created life is my own family that I have built, purposefully and deliberately, with my husband, because despite my mother’s desperate attempts to talk me out of men, I fell in love and got married.

I have stayed married for a rather long time now. There are five of us. The children are no longer children in the eyes of major airlines and hotel reservation systems, but they are and will forever remain children to me. They are coming to terms with the fact that their mother is in denial about their growing up.

Our chaotic lives are perfectly capable of running independently of each other for extended periods of time, but we always come together at moments of hunger, boredom and cold weather. We seek each other out whenever we feel anxious, overwhelmed, overworked, unappreciated, ugly, fat, or simply having a bad hair day.

We also come together in our moments of triumph, big or small, and we make it real by sharing with the others. One way or another we come together a lot.

I believe that witnessing one’s little family coming of age is the best experience that anybody will ever go through in this life. It is actually far better, much more rewarding than I ever thought possible. Having a family is the most mundane, most common thing that happens to people, but at the same time it feels like a miracle that happens to me and me alone, again and again, one day at a time.

My daughters have grown up to be these beautiful, amazing creatures, wise beyond their years, brave, witty, and strong.
My son is doing his level best to figure out what’s what, to make sense of the world around him. It’s still hit and miss, but he will get there.

Every now and again I think of my father. I like to believe that he has survived my mother’s curse, and I picture him somewhere out there in the Amazon jungle, as he watches a mating dance of neon blue poison arrow frogs on the ground, or the frolics of spider monkeys swinging from treetops overhead.  A couple of toucans croak nearby and a flock of red and blue parrots soars high up in the sky.
I cannot begin to comprehend the madness that made him give up the joys of family life with my mother and me for that sort of crap.

DISCLAIMER:

This story is a work of fiction. It is not based on my personal family circumstances. It’s an exercise in nonsense writing fueled by my imagination. I apologise for misleading anybody into thinking otherwise.

 

At the ripe but for ever immature age of, well, the age I am now, I finally allowed myself a luxury of a daily torture which writing brings to those who write.

Over the last couple of years I have been told by people who had no ulterior motive in being either nice or dishonest with me, that I ‘should write a book’.  Fair enough, my close family members were among those who encouraged me, but they were not the only ones. Having spent several decades trying out all sorts of ideas and scenarios, I thought, fine, why not, I’ll do it, I’ll write. So it is being done, I am writing a book. The Book. Please do not ask me how it is going. Do not ask me how much of it I have written, and if and how I am going to get it published. Ask me something I might enjoy answering instead. Ask me what I like about writing, how I motivate myself every day, because yes, I do write every day, no really, I do, you can ask my cats, they are my annoyingly faithful companions. They must be wondering why I took to staring at them with such unwavering intensity of late. I wouldn’t be surprised if they are getting as freaked out by me as I am when they stare back. Freaked out is not a particularly literary word, I am aware of that, but it’s the only word I can think of when talking about how my cats make me feel with their feline superiority and aloofness. Awkward, you might think, she calls herself a writer and she cannot even think of a proper word for how her cats creep her out, so here, another word, creeped out. That will have to do for now, I am still a beginner.

Starting The Book has brought a few rejuvenating changes in my life.
I wake up early and exhilarated because today is another day in which I am going to write. I open a blank document and just write, Nike style, even if I do not feel particularly inspired, even if my creativity is still dozing away, even if I should really be getting ready for my day job, even if all of that happens at once, I still write, if only for a short while.

For the first week or so it felt incredible, it felt like I was the very first person ever going through the new-to-writing experience, I thought I was being really clever doing what I was doing, and was beginning to feel the first flushes of smug self-complacency.  I have since had it confirmed on good authority, Google no less, that all of that is standard writing experience. In fact, I turned out to be such a predictable writing cliché I feel robbed of my uniqueness.

A very thorough industry research followed, average daily word count by best-selling authors, daily writing routine, best time of day to write, do I write on weekends, how many words per published page, how many words per average first fiction book, non-fiction, flash fiction, pros and cons of self-publishing, essential reads for would-be writers, I looked up the lot.

The truth will always out with Google. It tells me there are no writing groups of any description near me. No results found, accompanied by an empty five-mile radius circle. Brixton to Purley, Bromley to Mitcham, nothing. I haven’t yet decided how I feel about that. On one hand it can be good news as it might mean less competition submitting to Croydon Gazette. Then again, this greyed out writers-free zone might mean that no writer of any worth has ever emerged from barren clay soils of Upper Norwood. Challenge accepted.

Based on what I have learnt, I believe that what I am writing right now is called a craft essay, I am pretty sure it is. Like with craft beer, the aim is cool and not too frothy. Craft essay is writing about writing and being witty about it. This one ticks the first box, but then it gets a crafty rather than witty. Still, fifty percent at first attempt isn’t bad so I am going to give myself a cautious pat on the back.

My husband still thinks it is all an extended joke. He comes into my study in the morning to say goodbye and he notes merrily, as he buttons up his shirt, ‘oh, you are creatively writing then’, he then giggles himself out of the door. My husband, my rock.

One thing I am looking forward to next is purchasing the whole new Writer’s Wardrobe. Writing clothes are ever so forgiving, all chunky knits, flowing oversized boho dresses, and combat boots, oh, the boots are just the dream! Not sure about the bandanas though, they make me look like Zorro without a hat.

What else? My mind is faster than my keyboard, my mouth is faster than my mind. That is nothing new, I have always known this, but what is new is the frustration it now brings me on a daily basis. When I try recording myself, that red recording button doubles up as self-censoring device, so that’s a no.

My favourite new hobby is staying up late and setting traps for thoughts and ideas when the whole house is asleep, only me and the cats again.  Also first thing in the morning, and in the bath, and if I stay still enough for long enough, I get a firm grip on a few, but some good ones still manage to get away.

 

– I was dumped last weekend, mum.

– Oh, dear, again? You have had quite a few of those, haven’t you? Oh, well, to be fair you have done a fair share of dumping yourself, haven’t you, so well, sometime a dumper, sometime a dumpee, but this one would have never worked out, what was even her name?

– Chloe.

– Hmm, yeah, I liked a couple of them, I was quite cross with you when you dumped that cute one, the first one, you know, the one who looked a bit…

– Julia

– …like me, yeah, Julia. She was really lively, and pretty, of course, cute girl, you know you were both very young and all that but I thought it was so sweet that you got all dressed up in your tuxedo all over again the next day just so you could take a proper photo with her, after that ball you two went to. And the girls liked her too, she talked to them about Jacqueline Wilson, remember? Yeah, she was my favourite, perhaps you could look her up again, or perhaps I could write her a letter, hi Julia, remember Matt, my son, he has just been dumped, again, would you mind giving him a second chance, I know he dumped you and all that, he thought you were a bit mentally, you know, but I am sure this can be managed with  medication, so please get in touch, he is still good looking, he ran the London marathon since you two last went out so still fit.

– I am not sure about that, mum

– Oh, don’t be silly, it’s worth a try. Another one I really like was Zoe, the last one at uni…

– Sarah…

– That’s the one. She was very friendly, and I think she kept you on straight and narrow, and she looked after you well, you could have tried a bit harder to keep her interested you muppet. Yes, she was a good one. I didn’t really like Lucy that much though.

– Leah

– That’s right. She was a bit bland, I can’t even remember her that well to be honest, just her brown boots when she came to stay, nice boots. Brown Boots Lucy, ha ha ha.

– Leah.

– And then there was this bubbly one who was never your girlfriend, but I really fancied her as a daughter in law, you see I am dreading not getting along with your wife, but she was great, a lot of fun, I loved how she sent you to bed and carried on drinking with your dad and me until all hours, oh boy were you grumpy about that, love. I am glad it didn’t work out between you and Elsa

– Louise

– Yeah, she was going to mess you around, so I am glad she did it straight away, sooner rather than later, all that big blond hair, that spelt trouble I could see it a mile away. Anyway, it’s getting late, I am glad we had this chat, aren’t you?

– Yes, mum.

 

How are your Halloween preparations going? Not applicable to your household? Lucky you.

At ours, two out of three kids seem to have outgrown it, and my husband is not too bothered if he spooks anybody any more on that day than any other day (kidding, honey, just kidding), but that still leaves our last born and, boy, does she make up for the others’ indifference. She can go from ‘normal’, yes, we still use this word, we like to court controversy, so anyway, it’s normal to world record stress and anxiety in ten seconds flat with our Lexi, and this week the subject is very much Halloween.

First, there is an issue of whether she has one Halloween event to attend or two.

A while ago she was vaguely invited to a Saturday night Halloween party at her best friend’s grandparents’ house, but as Saturday steadily approaches this has not been confirmed properly, so now Lexi is no longer sure whether she is invited or whether the party is indeed happening. I suggested texting the friend and asking, but Lexi just stared at me blankly not able to comprehend how I could be proposing something so awkward, so utterly out of the question.  The second event, and this one at least is fully confirmed and straightforward, is good old trick-or-treating nearby on Halloween night proper.

The costume question first arose some weeks ago. Lexi does not do obvious or predictable. She does not go for conventional or easy either. That ruled out vampire girls, fangs, fake scars, cobwebs and witches hats from the start. In fact anything black, anything off the peg in our local Tesco Extra did not get a look in.

Lexi went for Jellyfish instead.
I must admit that when she first announced her decision in early September, I totally underestimated the seriousness of the situation. In fact, it did not fully register with me until weeks later Lexi started devoting considerable amount of time to searching for ‘transparent dome umbrellas’. A while later Amazon purchase was made and she became a proud owner of a blue rimmed, you guessed it, transparent dome umbrella. I hung it off a back of a chair in the living room and life went on as usual for a while longer.

Conversations with Lexi became progressively Jellyfish-centred about a week ago.

– What shall I use as tentacles?
– Ribbons or crepe paper?
– What colours should I use?
– Perhaps I could get fairy lights to wrap around the umbrella?
– Yeah, but then you will need to be plugged in somewhere all the time.
– No, daddy, they are battery operated these days.
– Lexi, how are you going to enjoy the party if you have to hold an umbrella above your head all the time?, her ever practical sister ventured.
– Oh, I didn’t think of it.
– So, when you don’t hold the umbrella up, what is you costume going to be like?
– A grey hoodie and leggings.
– Not very scary, then.
– No, not really, not without the umbrella.

Cracks began to appear on the surface of Lexi’s steely resolve. Her internal struggle was painful to watch. Nana was recruited onto the Jellyfish support team. Nana told her to go to Poundland and get a normal, oops, that naughty word again, Halloween costume and be a good Zombie girl.

The Jellyfish was not giving up without a fight.

At about the same time I started quoting all the slogans that cover every inch of Lexi’s walls back to her. Never give up on your dream. Do not let anybody tell you your dream won’t work. Only you can be the judge of it.
I was hoping to help her realise that she might be overthinking the issue. It had the opposite effect and it only reinforced Jellyfish’s resistance.

Still, an alternative idea sprouted in Lexi’s torn and confused mind, and it took the shape of Coraline, the eponymous heroine of that creepy button-eyed Disney film that caused nationwide nightmares and bed-wetting epidemic a few years ago.

The Coraline idea must have been inspired by a simple fact that Lexi owns a yellow raincoat, an indisputably Coraline-esque garment. Coraline also has blue hair. Ever-resourceful Lexi dug out a blue and white cat-patterned woolly hat with a pompom. Coraline has yellow wellies. Lexi has dark blue wellies, which still fit her, but only just, so it would be good to get some more use out of them, wouldn’t it?

A number of Coraline characters sport disturbing buttons in place of eyes. Lexi has a jar of big buttons she could carry around, possibly in her pocket, to keep her hands free, because otherwise what would be the point of swapping a jellyfish umbrella for a jar of buttons?
The white and blue hat really suits Lexi and those wellies, hat and raincoat give her a female Where is Wally look.  She looks nothing like Coraline and I think she knows it.
She stares longingly at the blue-rimmed umbrella in the corner.
Jellyfish is far from dead in the water.

31st October 2017 Update below.

Happy Halloween!

 

Spoiler alert: sickeningly self-centred egotistical piece indulging in interminable self-promotion. And this is just the beginning. More to come, and soon. You have been warned.

Here I am, delivering an extract from my story, Interpretation of a Murder, at my first ever literary launch event, on Thursday, the 5th of October 2017, at a rather cosy venue in Waterloo.  I wish myself many more, but this one will have to do for now. I am addressing a small gathering, there is no escaping the numbers, during the launch of In More Words, an anthology of very short stories relating to the art of interpreting. I have researched it since and it turns out there is a name for it, and it’s been going on for a while, and it is called flash fiction, or non-fiction, and the stories might be more correctly called micro-stories. The event clearly went to my head. So much so, that I wasted no time in setting up this brand new, rather pretentious, fiendishly ambitious website, which introduces Ania Heasley, the writer.  Since the launch I climbed several rungs up, if only in my own estimation, the ladder to literary success, and I am now balancing precariously on the brink of fame and fortune.  Thank you for reading.