Embracing a new reality

It has been a strange and unsettling few months, but in the foreseeable future, I will be making regular trips to Kent to visit a relative. I am sharing this responsibility with my two younger sisters, so I am grateful we are all pulling in the same direction.

Fortunately, I am self-employed and have the flexibility to schedule visits around my work commitments. However, at the start of this episode, I was almost overwhelmed by panic and resentment (maybe a story for another day). I was thinking myself into a panic – worrying about the future and how things might pan out.

Thankfully, I am now more emotionally settled and able to take things week by week. We will need to review our options for the long term at some point, but only once we can see more clearly what is happening. The one time my imagination and incessant what-if thinking have not been helpful.

So, what was helpful?

First, I had to accept that we are facing a new reality, that this situation will continue for a while, and that there aren’t any straightforward fixes.

To look after myself physically, psychologically, and emotionally. Slow myself down and work at a pace that I can manage. Remember that saying no in the given circumstances is completely fine.

Accept what is within my control and what is not, and let that go.

Talking things through with friends and family – I do not need to carry this all alone. I have people around me.

And to quote one of my sisters – you can only do what you can do.

So, I was glad to find myself caught up in the excitement of celebrating International Women’s Day:  

The idea of acknowledging and thanking my past selves as part of the day came up while I was on the @JennyGarrett retreat – How to be the author of your life story.

Then, after listening to the phenomenal edition of Radio 4’s Sunday Worship, hosted by 1Xtra presenter Swarzy Macaly with rapper Deyah and DJ Rachael Anson as guests – with their take on the Beatitudes, I was inspired to write this short piece:

As it is International Women’s Day tomorrow – I encourage you to recognise and celebrate the women who have supported, uplifted, and inspired you. But I would also invite you to celebrate your younger self, the younger versions of you that contribute to who you are today.

Consider the decisions you made in the past that you are profoundly grateful for today. What would you thank your past self for?

Today, I choose to thank the Janice – who did not give up and finally passed her driving test on her seventh attempt.

I want to thank the young woman who, when offered the chance to stay rent-free in a friend’s house, chose to save the money she would have spent so that she could then put down a deposit on a flat when needed.

Thank you to the Janice, who took the advice offered forty years ago about paying into a pension.

Thank you to the not-so-young woman who signed up for a life writing course in 2017, without which I would not have started on my collection of stories.

Most of all, I want to thank the little girl who found a way to survive and eventually thrive.

But then, after the joy of International Women’s Day, there came this:

The video clip of Diane Abbott repeatedly trying to speak at the House of Commons debate a month ago left me feeling profoundly depressed and worn out by yet another example of a Black woman being ignored and sidelined.

Then I looked again and realised what this video was showing me:

And Still, I Rise.

Because this is what we as Black women do, and if I can’t do it now because I am worn out and tired, I KNOW other Black women will until I can get back into the fray. We can support and uplift each other as we need to.

So, I will continue to celebrate Diane Abbott’s resilience, grit, and humanity with the phrase:

And Still, I Rise.

Then there were some lovely moments, too, like.

Spending a Saturday afternoon in March with the class of 82 – a few drinks, some great conversation and a few rounds of darts with the men I studied Industrial Engineering with at Hatfield Polytechnic. I cannot even remember the last time I played; it was that long ago. I’d forgotten that this was something I enjoyed, along with the odd game of pool. The afternoon and evening flew by, especially since I last met with them five years ago.

I can’t quite believe it has been forty-two years since we first met, and I don’t think we have changed that much; we are still essentially the same people. 

So, I want to use a quote that sums up how I feel about them as classmates and friends:

The noir hero is a knight in blood-caked armour. He’s dirty, and he does his best to deny the fact that he’s a hero the whole time – Frank Miller.

Without them, I might not have made it all the way through, especially during our final year.

Thank you, gentlemen – you know who you are.  

But then, life has a way of taking you by surprise.

This notice is not what we expected to see on Saturday 6^th April after weeks of anticipation about our trip to see Tina the Musical. It wasn’t until my sister’s mobile pinged at ten minutes past seven with news of the cancellation due to cast indisposition that we knew anything was wrong.  

I have no idea what happened behind the scenes, but I can only assume that negotiations broke down at the very last moment. There were mutterings about last-minute resignations.

Still, with twenty minutes to curtains up, we didn’t have long to find an alternative. Luckily, we were in the middle of theatre land and, within ten minutes, had secured the final three seats for The Play That Goes Wrong at the Duchess Theatre – promoted as Fawlty Towers meets Noises Off, though I would say with some elements of pantomime.

And some of you will already know my love of all things pantomime.

I enjoyed the silliness of the characters trying to hold things together, the helpful audience participation, the physical comedy, and the incredible cast who brought it all to life. Timing was all with this production, and it was fantastic to see how the cast interacted with the cleverly designed set; many moments made me laugh and jump simultaneously.

So, thank you, Duchess Theatre, and the production of The Play That Goes Wrong – after such a stressful period, you saved our special evening, and hopefully, we’ll see Tina in the not-too-distant future.

Until next time

Unapologetically Sixty

Once I assemble this pile of bricks, I will be forever immortalised in Lego; it seems a fitting way to celebrate my sixtieth 😂.

And here I am two weeks later, fully assembled, thanks to my daughter. I am impressed with the results, especially the details they have included, my chain, the styling of my dreadlocked hair and the wrinkles around my eyes 😉.

Ten years ago, I was fifty and feisty; today, I am unapologetically sixty – ready to fully embrace this decade and make the most of the time and relative health I enjoy.

So, what has changed in ten years? In some ways, not a huge amount, though I am possibly even less interested in cooking, despite a recent diabetes diagnosis – and just as likely to run screaming from the room if someone uses the phrase, ‘bring a dish.’

I am now more aware that I most likely have more time behind than in front of me, and since the pandemic, I’ve set the intention to spend more time with people I genuinely celebrate and who celebrate me. As the saying goes:

Be with the people who celebrate you rather than those who merely tolerate you – Unknown.

Because more than ever, I appreciate that life is simply too short.

So, in the same spirit, I’d like to share a few more quotes that speak to me now that I am unapologetically in my sixtieth year.

When someone shows you who they are, believe them – Maya Angelou.

I now choose to no longer waste my time on denial and pretence. I’ll either accept who someone is and fully embrace that or not. In fairness, this quote is strongly linked to the first – I do not want to feel as though I am merely tolerating people in my life.  

Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?  – Mary Oliver.

Professionally and personally, I feel like I am just hitting my stride – there is still a lot I want to do, and I will not be boxed away because of my age.

The most wasted of all days is one without laughter – Nicolas Chamfort.

I love people who make me laugh. I honestly think it’s the thing I like most, to laugh. It cures a multitude of ills. It’s probably the most important thing in a person ― Audrey Hepburn.

Because I think we all need to find more reasons to laugh. I know I haven’t laughed quite as much in recent years, and I’d like to change that. I want to set that as an intention for 2024 to enjoy a few belly laughs with friends, family and colleagues.  

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom – Anaïs Nin.

It is time to blossom and make the most of the opportunities open to me right now. It is time to move forward with courage and conviction. Make some bold moves and start by promoting my story collection and podcast. 

If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete – Jack Kornfield.

My diabetes diagnosis almost a year ago reminded me that I need to lean into my self-care. I need to be kind to myself, which sometimes means saying no. I cannot continually pour from an empty cup.

Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always – Ian Maclaren

We don’t know what is happening behind the scenes, underneath the surface. Far better to stay in a place of compassion and kindness. The older I get, the more I value and appreciate compassion and empathy in others, especially with everything happening in the world right now.

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow – Mary Anne Radmacher.

Sometimes, it is best to withdraw so you can try again tomorrow.

Embrace the glorious mess that you are – Elizabeth Gilbert.

You are wonderfully and uniquely you, whatever your age. That’s it. 

There are years that ask questions and years that answer – Zora Neale.

For me, 2024 is shaping up to be more about asking than answering. I guess we will see.

Life is the sum of all your choices – Albert Camus.

What choices have you made? Which made a significant difference to your life? Which of your past decisions are you profoundly grateful for today?  

Be the woman who fixes another woman’s crown without telling the world it was crooked – Amy Morin.

I still remember the person who helped me on my wedding day – her small gesture of support made a big difference when I suddenly became overwhelmed by the occasion. Thank you, J.   

Life becomes easier when you learn to accept an apology you never got – Robert Brault.

How many of us need to take this on and move on? Are you holding onto old resentments, and if so, how is that serving you?

Finally, my word for 2024 is – unapologetic – so I’ll leave you with the wonderful Maya Angelou, I Rise.

Until next time.

Janice Taylor

The joy of Pantomime

Christmas is not my favourite time of year; honestly, I am always relieved when the day is over. It could be my imagination, but that is when I notice more light, the days getting longer, one minute or so at a time.

But there is one tradition I can embrace: a Christmas pantomime. 

Close friends and family will know I love Pantomime and will likely have joined us for a few performances over the years. Until the Pandemic, seeing a pantomime was a regular part of our family tradition.

I have lost count of the number of shows we have seen over the years – we were huge fans of the London Bubble Theatre Company, who used to put on spectacular shows regularly.

Some of the more memorable scenes I can remember include:

• The growing song – my sister B still remembers the words to this song from over fifteen years ago.
• Cake-making or wallpapering scenes always involved the performers getting as much gloop over themselves and the audience as possible.
• I still picture the ferret shooting across the stage in one of their productions.
• The ghost or monster chase scene – a brilliant opportunity for the audience to shout, ‘It’s behind you.’

So, in the absence of London Bubble, it is time to hunt down a Panto. Because I love the rules and structure of an English pantomime, especially around the main characters:

The principal boy, the hero, is traditionally played by a girl, and their love interest, the principal girl, is played by a girl.

The dame, another dominant character, is usually played by an older man. He would also typically have a sidekick, played by a younger man.

To add to the confusion – I have seen shows that also included a narrator in the form of a fairy with magical powers played by a woman. Of course, it wouldn’t be a pantomime without animals, cows, geese, and horses performed by whoever can fit into the costume and raise a laugh.  

I love the silliness of the whole thing, the double entendres for the adults that go straight over the heads of the children, the audience participation, the silly songs and when things go wrong, the performers who can go with it. For us as a family, it is a real treat.

I even had the opportunity one year to perform the wedding ceremony between Prince Aloysius Charming and Cinderella at a performance of Cinderella and the Beanstalk. I was delighted to step forward as Reverend Janice and play my small part. I think I brought a certain gravitas to the role 😉.

And over the years, we have seen Cinderella, Mother Goose, Aladdin, Jack and the Beanstalk and Dick Whittington, to name but a few.

I still think Simon Thomson from the London Bubble Company is the best pantomime dame, I have ever seen. 

After a three-year hiatus, I think it is time to reinstate this family tradition.   

Until next time.

Finding peace and solace in the everyday

As this year has worn on, I have felt the need to seek peace and solace in the everyday, those small moments where you stop, breathe, and notice. With the world as it is today, this is my way of coping because, in all honesty, I don’t feel that optimistic about our leaders and how they are wielding the power they have.

So, here are some of the everyday things that help keep me grounded:

• The warmth from the early morning sun on my cheeks – the first light to touch my face.
• Seagulls squabbling and squawking amongst the rooftops.
• When I can wriggle my toes on our wooden decking and feel the ridges through the soles of my feet.
• Feeling the heat of a freshly ironed sleeve through the palm of my hand.

• Settling down to a comfortable rail journey (assuming I can get a seat 😉) and allowing my mind to drift – I love trains and believe in the adage, let the train take the strain.
• Sinking into our shabby brown leather sofa at the end of a busy day.
• The smooth action of my Uni-ball pen across a blank page.

• Butterflies fluttering through the branches of our apple trees.
• Sitting in companionship with our resident fox – me at one end, they at the other end of our garden, though I’m not keen on the poo.
• The fine mist of drizzle on my face on a rainy day and the smell of damp earth after a downpour.
• The sharp, pungent scent of freshly cut grass.  
• Listening to the wind rustle through the dry leaves of our apple tree and watching the sway of our Eucalyptus.

• Clearing books, I will not read again to create space in our overfilled bookshelves.
• Rereading a much-loved book – it’s like meeting an old friend.
• Uncovering old documents I can put through the printer again gives me a buzz.
• Shredding, out-of-date bank and credit card statements –no need to hang on to these.

Finding peace, solace and joy in small moments, but the trick is to stop and notice.

These are a few of my things – what would you put on your list?

Until next time

Janice Taylor

Home

Learning to live with diabetes.

I have not felt quite right for at least a year, and now I know why.

Physically and mentally, I have not been firing on all cylinders, but unable to pin anything down. And certainly not enough to go to the trouble of seeing my doctor –I put it all down to a lack of a proper holiday and not having time to recharge after the Pandemic.

And oddly, the two things I noticed during this period were a gradual decline in the quality of my sleep and a gradual drop in my writing – over time; I seemed unable to generate anything new.

Today I suspect this feeling was due to my diabetes; I was diagnosed in March of this year after a routine checkup.

Five months after my diagnosis, I am still adjusting to the news and a new way of living. In the past, I essentially took what I ate for granted. The whole business of buying, thinking about and cooking food was a chore. Left to me, I would take a leaf from Willy Wonka, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and satisfy my nutritional needs with a stick of magical gum. Alas, that is not possible and, in any case, certainly not feasible with my diabetes.

Now I know I need to take my food intake more seriously, not only what but when and I remember poo-poohing the idea of diabetes a year ago when a friend suggested I get myself checked.  

Though I am encouraged to hear that some people achieve remission from diabetes, and I’d like to see if I can manage that, however for the moment, I am on medication – three times a day with meals.

One thing that has come out of this is that my health and well-being are now my top priority. I am more intentional about maintaining and enhancing my mental and physical well-being.

When I first received my diagnosis over the phone in March, much of what my doctor told me was a blur. But when I went to collect my medication, the pharmacist came to physically check on me when he noticed that it was my first prescription for diabetes. That simple act made all the difference that day.

So where am I today?

Thankful that I now know and can put myself in a better position to manage this disease. I am determined to do my best with it, and if I can kick it into remission, even better.

I am used to the medication; the underlying feeling of nausea has largely gone.

The most significant adjustment has been accepting that I have a chronic disease. I am not generally ill, so it has been a blow to my sense of self that I must now manage a chronic illness. And one that could potentially have significant repercussions for my long-term health and well-being.

I have established a new routine to account for my condition. I recognise more than ever that the things I do every day will make a difference.

And what have I learnt?

Stop taking my physical health and well-being for granted – it is time to prioritise these moving forward.  

Movement is the name of the game these days – I eat and then exercise after each meal, so I help my body metabolise the sugars I have consumed.

To take what and when I eat more seriously – timings are more critical. I now eat more or less at the same time every day.

I can no longer eat big plates of food – little and often seems to work best for me.

Eat more simply; sometimes, a baked potato with baked beans is perfect.

To accept the occasional bouts of nausea and dash to the loo.

Daily medication is, for the moment, a part of my life.

To appreciate the restorative effects of Greek Yoghurt, something I discovered while on holiday.

To never leave the house without a packet of Glucose tablets with me.

Until next time

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

PS I should also state that none of the above constitutes medical advice.

Taking Life in Stages

If you were to divide your life by five – how long would each stage be, and how would you characterise each one? Did you emerge, triumphant or a little deflated?

A few weeks back, I had to complete this exercise as part of a coaching programme, and it intrigued me so much that I wanted to share it here. Because, in all honesty, it doesn’t feel possible that I’m approaching my sixtieth year. Where has that time gone? And I’ve managed through, relatively unscathed, though I have recently received a diabetes diagnosis, which has been a bit of a wake-up call.

So, without further ado, here are my five stages:

Stage 1

Music – My boy lollipop, Millie Small

Early memories include moving from room to room in the mid-sixties and my dad leaving for good in a grey Ford Anglia. Looking back, I realise we might have come close to being without a roof over our heads. Mum did well to hold it together; and I suspect this is where my interest in homelessness comes from.

I remember the scurrying of mice at night, maggots shoved through our letterbox, cutting my knee open while jumping off the World War Two bomb shelters at the back of the flats, and dogs appearing as if from nowhere while we were out playing.

Attending three primary/infant schools which might explain why no one realised I couldn’t read. Hours spent searching for the tiny people in the radiogram convinced they were somewhere inside. Playing hide and seek each time, the lady came to check on our childminder because she had too many children on her books 😉.

A stage filled with a lot of change and uncertainty.

Stage 2

Music – Master Blaster Jammin’ Stevie Wonder, Walk Under Ladders, Joan Armatrading

With our family now outside London, this stage was about getting my A’ Levels and degree. Going about my business as a teen, I had a knife pulled on me on the top deck of a bus. One of my most bizarre memories.   

When I grew sick of tramping around in the winter months with a heavy sack of newspapers, on my paper round I got a Saturday job in a shoe shop. Thank you, Mr Hyner, though I still can’t believe the customer who asked me for ‘n*gger’ brown shoes.  

Then there was my first time abroad and on a plane as a student; I was and still am a little nervous about flying.

A final fling during the summer after my four-year degree resulted in my sightseeing with no knickers in Paris. All would have been well if I hadn’t inadvertently stepped on an air vent. 

My first job in East London after graduating meant renting some dodgy rooms. First, I was next door to someone with a serious drinking problem. In the second, my flatmate/landlord arrived home one evening very drunk and knocked himself out in the bathroom. In my third rental, in addition to finding myself in the middle of an active National Front area, we were robbed within the first month of moving in.

And then I almost blew my first job appraisal. I am forever grateful for my second chance.

After four incredible years at Hatfield Polytechnic, this stage is characterised by uncertainty, change and some loneliness. The early months of full-time employment were tough.  

Stage 3

Music – Something Got Me Started, Simply Red; Show Me Love, Robin S.

After seven attempts, I finally passed my driving test with my fourth or fifth driving instructor – she was unconventional to say the least especially because she had a passionate embrace with the previous student at our first lesson. But in the end, her no-nonsense approach during our lessons gave me the confidence I needed.

Clubbing every night on my one and only ‘girlie’ holiday in Fuengirola. It is still one of the most memorable holidays I have ever had, and it is where a drug dealer told me that they wanted a change of career, something in IT. 

Buying my studio flat for the princely sum of £25,000 wouldn’t even get you a beach hut in Brighton, or anywhere else for that matter. Finding, Mr Right – it took a while, but I finally managed it via a dating agency. He was the last man on my list and in June this year, we will have been married for twenty-five years.

In my third job at a Further Education college, someone wrote to the Queen to complain about me and the service I was providing. It only took two weeks for the letter to reach my employer from the foreign office.

Leaving full-time employment to start my own business, and I still remember the exhilaration I felt standing outside on the steps looking up at clear blue skies.  

I was happier and more settled during this stage – I finally felt I could stop running.

Stage 4

Becoming a mother after four years, we weren’t sure if we would manage it and then buying our forever home in Brighton.

Starting this blog Pittabread – something I had been thinking about for some time. It felt like a huge step to press the publish button for the first time.

Mum’s illness and death, I did not see this one coming. She had always been incredibly fit and healthy, and I fully expected her to live through her eighties. And this is when I truly appreciated my sisters. I could not have managed through this period without them.  

I can see, looking back, this stage was mainly about motherhood, becoming a mother and then losing one.

Stage 5

Making two trips to Jamaica, the land of Mum’s birth, to meet relatives we had never met, including my brother. It was almost like bringing her back to us again.  

Signing up for a two-year life-writing course, which I almost didn’t return to after the first week. But I am so glad I did. It taught me so much, and it got me started on my collection of stories.  

After some lean years, work picks up, despite the Pandemic. I still can’t quite bring myself to dig into that monumental event too much; only time will tell what the full impact of it will be. 

In 2022, our daughter started at university and left home to study. For months before, I did not know what to do with myself – I did not realise how much the thought of her leaving the family home would affect me. And for many reasons, it has been a challenging year for us as a family; let’s hope next year is better.

So, I invite you to try this and see what you can remember from each of your stages. Ask yourself:

What were your main achievements?

What did it teach you?

What were you happy to leave behind?

Until next time

Janice Taylor

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The Piano – Childhood Dreams and Ambitions

I first wanted to play the piano when I was around nine, and it still means the world to me that Mum could find the money for lessons, especially as money was tight. I remember the excitement of returning my completed permission slip. But then the crushing disappointment of being unable to start because we did not have a piano at home.

Without the ability to practice at home, the school ruled there was no point in me having lessons. 

So, I swallowed my disappointment, forced it down and promptly got on with life as a nine-year-old.

What difference would it have made to my life if I had started lessons then? Perhaps none or perhaps everything – I will never know.

But then, I guess these things have a way of wriggling free and working their way into the open.

Fast forward thirty years or so – when my husband asks me what I want for my birthday, and I tell him, ‘A few piano lessons,’ thinking I can give it a go and move on. What I didn’t fully appreciate was that the same rule applied.

There is no point unless you can practice outside lessons, which is how a slightly battered and beat-up keyboard appeared in our living room on my 😉th birthday—assembled while I was at the Co-op. All it cost was a bottle of red wine and the petrol to collect it.

Well, that was the start.

I did not realise how much I needed and wanted to play the Piano until I saw that keyboard.  

Today, I have been playing the piano for almost twelve years – but only practising daily for the last three or so. Something about this fantastic instrument caught my imagination from a young age, and it’s never left. What difference would it have made had I been able to start playing then?

And my love for this instrument was compounded by Channel 4’s – The Piano – each episode had me in tears.

Channel 4 invited members of the public to play at rail stations while secretly observed by world-renowned pianist Lang Lang and singer-songwriter Mika. Who then selected one pianist from each episode to perform at the end of the series concert.

I hope the four finalists, Jay, Lucy, Sean, and Danny, stay in touch – as musicians and as friends and family. There seemed to be such a bond between them, and each had something unique to add.

It also had me reviewing my playing – thinking about how I might use my fingers and body to play more fluently, especially as I haven’t had a formal piano lesson in almost six years.

And in the final episode, where the four finalists performed at the Royal Festival Hall, Southbank, I loved watching Lucy become even more expressive on and off the Piano.

It also reminds me of the memorable scene from The Shawshank Redemption – when the main character, Andy Dufresne, uses the prison loudspeaker system to share Mozart’s ‘Marriage of Figaro’ with his fellow inmates. And for the few bars of music Andy manages to share, it seems every prisoner is set free.

That’s what I saw watching some of the onlookers on The Piano. It was wonderful.

Until next time

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

Mum’s lime green cowboy boots

This February is the eleventh anniversary of my mum’s death. I still can’t fully comprehend where that time has gone. So much and so little has happened in the intervening years:

• Four family trips to Jamaica, the land of her birth.
• Our daughter going to university.
• Brexit in the UK.
• The global pandemic.
• Liz Truss.

All the above would have involved some active participation and discussion with mum.

So today, in celebration of her life, I want to share a short story based on the boots we found while sorting through her belongings:

Lime green cowboy boots

The three of us gaze in silence at the boots tucked neatly inside a tissue-filled cream cardboard box. Laughter follows, mixed with some hysteria, as we throw back our heads and howl.

Questions tumble out as each of us struggles to make sense of what we have uncovered, sorting through mum’s things.

It’s the lime we comment on first.

‘Is that for real?’

‘Where did they come from?’

‘Why lime?’

One of us, I can’t remember who lifts them from the box, which is when we discover that they are cowboy boots with toes so pointed it doesn’t seem physically possible for anything to reach the end.

This additional discovery, a winkle-picker boot with a two-and-a-half-inch Cuban heel, send us off again.

‘They must have been a bargain she couldn’t resist.’

‘She might have bought them for Jamaica.’

‘Are they brand new?’

We examine the boots more closely. There are no visible marks or creases on either foot.

I trace my fingers along the dark stitching that swirls around the top of the foot and winds its way to the pull strap at the top of the boot: Julianne, my middle sister, takes a big whiff and comments on the clean new smell of the leather.

Belinda, our youngest, turns the boot over and examines the sole.

‘Look at this,’ she points at a speckled stain, a rough patch. We take turns rubbing our fingers over the textured surface and realise that these boots have been worn.

They have been out in public.

We are silent again as each of us struggles to picture our 70-year-old mum in a pair of lime green, mid-calf length, winkle-picker cowboy boots complete with Cuban heels.

There are more questions as we speculate on the number of times Mum has worn them. All three of us agree, more than once, judging by the condition of the sole.

‘Girl’s night out?’

‘Must have been. Did she ever mention line dancing?’

‘Can’t remember, I bet it was a Christmas do. Someone will have pictures.’

Now the boots are out of the box, the next logical thing to do is try them on. Like one of Cinderella’s sisters, I go first as I pull and squeeze my size 7s into the boots. My two sisters double up again as I totter slightly; it’s been years since I wore anything higher than a one-inch heel.

Feeling the sharpness of the toes, I’m impressed that anyone could walk in these, let alone dance in them. And looking down at my lime green feet, I wonder what our fashion-conscious mum chose to wear with them. I share this with my sisters, and the three of us come up with two viable options:

Option one

A pair of jeans, no one thinks a skirt is credible – accompanied by a stripy top, most likely blue and white with horizontal stripes. Vertical stripes were never mum’s thing. 

Option two

White trousers narrow enough for mum to tuck them inside the calf-length boots, and a plain denim shirt, possibly accompanied by a scarf.

We agree that option two makes more of a statement. If you choose to wear a pair of lime green, winkle-picker cowboy boots, there is no point in putting them on unless they are going to be the centrepiece of your entire outfit.

‘Go, mum.’

Until next time.

Janice Taylor

Word count: 652

African Grey Parrots and Battersea Power Station

I grew up with a view of Battersea Power station. And recently, while visiting the newly revamped building, I was reminded of the time I decided to liberate our African Grey parrot from our two-bedroom flat on the Savona Estate.  

So, who let the parrot out?  

Well, it was me, and after almost fifty years, it is probably time to confess to the disappearance of our family’s African Grey parrot. Time to admit to my role in liberating it from the living room of our South London flat.   

Over the six months (I think) it was with us, this bird became the bane of my life.

It was a constant battle of wits between bird and human each time I had to clean out its cage, top up its feed or refill its water bowl. It was all about speed and agility. Was I always able to withdraw my hand quickly to avoid being bitten? Not always, sometimes I’d end up with bloody fingers from its razor-sharp beak.

I grew to hate that bird and dreamt of getting rid of it.

At eleven inches tall, I can see it now tracking my every move with its watchful eyes. It was intelligent, I could tell, and I relied on this when planning and executing its liberation.

I bided my time and took the opportunity presented by a hot summer’s day and an open sash window.

It was one of those hot, sticky days during the long school holidays; my sister, I and a few others were playing by the bomb shelters around the back of the flats. Daring each other to jump from the highest point of each shelter. In any case, I needed the loo, so leaving my sister, I ran to let myself into our empty flat.

I can’t remember what prompted me to enter the living room, possibly a squawk from the parrot. as I poked my head in to look, I noticed the sash window opposite the birdcage had been left slightly ajar. The critical thing to note here is that it wasn’t me. I was already framing how I would present myself if questioned. At the tender age of eleven, I had decided which lie I might get away with.

Here was the opportunity I’d been waiting for; it was mid-afternoon, and no one else was due home for at least an hour. I would have plenty of time to set everything up and allow the bird enough time to escape.

All I needed to do was help the parrot while covering my tracks. If I were clever enough, it would look like the bird had escaped of its own accord through a series of ‘unfortunate events’😉.

Though I couldn’t be too long setting things up as I’d left my younger sister playing outside.   

First, I hitched up the sash window to ensure the eleven-inch parrot could fit through the gap. And true to form, I could see the parrot watching me very closely. Essential for the next stage, which was to loosen the clasp on its cage door. I wanted the bird to see that its cage door wasn’t quite as it should have been. 

I felt this bird was more than capable of undoing the cage door if given a bit of help and encouragement; that was precisely what I intended to do. Once I’d taken care of the cage door and the window, all I needed to do was withdraw and close the living room door tightly behind me. I didn’t want an irritated African Grey flying around the rest of the flat.

And I certainly didn’t relish the thought of trying to recapture it. My sincere hope was that the intelligence I read in its gaze would be enough for it to realise how to fully open the cage door and make its way to freedom through the open window. All I was doing was smoothing the way.

The operation took no more than five minutes, and I am pleased to say that it did indeed make its escape. As I recall, there was some discussion about the window being left open, but no one ever connected its disappearance with me.

Though I sometimes wonder if mum had her suspicions and kept them to herself. 😉

Until next time

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk

Word count 740

(Adapted, amended from an earlier post, July 2018)

Saying Yes

Now that our daughter has left home for university, I am thinking again about how we can best encourage her to live life to the full.

It is the start of an exciting time for her and a new era for all of us. She did brilliantly to win her place and go, only when she was sure it was the right thing for her. 

Forty years ago, almost to the day – I did the same thing and left home to start a four-year degree at Hatfield Polytechnic. It was the best thing I could have done. I left Hatfield in 1986 with a degree in my back pocket, a job to go to, and a higher set of expectations for how my life could be.

And as I approach my sixties – I can also appreciate that throughout my life, most of the funny, exciting, and unusual things happened more when I said yes than when I said no.

So, this month’s post is a re-run of random memories from when I just said yes and here’s to your new adventures, new friends and new opportunities, IT.

Getting up at stupid o’clock in the morning to catch sight of a ‘Lesser Spotted Grebe’, well can’t remember exactly what now, but some bird. Travelling in my friend Mandy’s canary yellow Volvo with Martin, our resident Twitcher.   

Swanning – around on campus in my first year at Hatfield in a graduation gown and, from memory, a straw boater. Ten pounds seemed such a bargain at the time for this iconic piece of clothing, spotted and paid for at Camden Market.

Sightseeing in Paris – with no knickers after a night out and a last-minute change of sleeping arrangements. In my knee-length skirt, no one would have been any the wiser if I had not inadvertently stepped onto an air vent whilst crossing the road back to the flat where we were staying.  

Eating frogs’ legs soaked in garlic on said trip to Paris.  

Watching Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back and Return of the Jedi back-to-back in a London cinema with my mate, Jules.

Squatting – in a field, at midnight, somewhere in France on the second leg of our coach journey to Italy. Our driver had consistently refused to allow us access to the coach’s loo but generously allowed us the time we needed to get ourselves sorted in the field opposite the gas station.   

Spilling –  out of a white mini-van to play Gaelic football in a park in North London. I remember lots of running around; I was a lot fitter then, with lots of people (15 aside for Gaelic) but not much contact with the ball.   

Officiating – as Reverend Janice, at the wedding ceremony, between Prince Aloysius Charming and Cinderella in the 2017 production of Cinderella and the Beanstalk at The Old Market, Hove. I couldn’t resist when asked in the show’s final moments. Some of you will already know I love pantomime.

Whooping it up at the Middlesex Sevens Rugby tournament and laughing at the three men bellowing out behind me, ‘It’s not the taking part. It’s the winning.’

Emerging – twenty-four years ago as a newlywed, onto the steps of St Peters, Brockley and being showered with rose petals, appropriated from the garden three doors down. Someone (who shall remain nameless) had figured out that as neither confetti nor rice was allowed, stolen rose petals were the next best option.

Trekking on horseback for three hours in Runaway Bay, Jamaica, we stopped traffic as we trotted across the main freeway and finished up knee-deep in the sea. I’d been under the impression that a paddle meant a couple of inches around the horse’s hooves.

Clubbing – every night for a week in Fuengirola, on my only full-blown girlie holiday with my sister Jackie and my best friend, Fiona. One of the most fun holidays I’ve been on, with its cast of characters from the lovely Jonathon, our tour rep, Lego Man, who we took under our wing, Fiona’s fan club from Newcastle and applique lady, who always wanted a gossip with us’ young uns’.

Spitting out – the chewed, saliva-covered scrap of paper on which her future husband had written his telephone number after a night at Charlie Chan’s. She did have to scream at me a few times before I deposited it onto her palm. But at their wedding reception, I did get a thank you from her husband for not swallowing his number.   

Singing a solo part with Brighton Goes Gospel at their summer concert in May 2013, my first term back after losing mum.

Floating off on a cloud of Pethidine around sixteen hours into my labour with our daughter. The effect was instantaneous, and as the needle entered my arm, all I clearly remember is turning to the nurse and asking, ‘how long does this last?’

Looking back, I can see that saying yes more times than I said no, meant that I did stuff, and at the end of my days, the one thing I know I won’t be doing is boring myself to death 😉.

So, there you have it until next time.

Janice Taylor

www.blueskycareerconsulting.co.uk