Language – Page 2 – Middle Age Fanclub

Book Review: ‘Don’t Need The Sunshine’ by John Osborne

I’ve always loved the seaside. Newcastle, where I was brought up, is close to some of the best coastline that the UK has to offer, so there was always an easy access day trip whenever one was needed. We’d spend entre days there as kids during the summer holidays. Further to that, being born into a family that placed a high value on the power of a bracing walk meant that windy beaches were our regular stomping grounds. In fact, we went every year on New Year’s Day as a family tradition!

So, it was a pleasure to read this book, as well as a nice trip down memory lane. John Osborne’s ‘Don’t Need The Sunshine’ is a celebration of the charms of the British seaside and when I caught sight of the cover and two primary school aged kids in decidedly 70s clothing eating ice creams at the beach, I was always going to buy it. And it proved to be money well spent.

While working in Scarborough for a summer, Osborne is struck by a feeling of nostalgia for the traditions of the British seaside. And so begins an often rainy odyssey of trips to a variety of UK seaside spots.

John’s trips begin in Scarborough, which if you aren’t aware, is a classic British seaside town. A long, sweeping sandy beach, a harbour, gift shops, amusement arcades and various bars and pubs dominate a town where thousands flock in summer in search of seaside fun and entertainment. These days it’s slightly run down, although still a great destination for a few days at the beach, but Osborne finds much evidence to support the fact that the nostalgic activities he remembers from childhood are still very much in play in Scarbs.

From Scarborough, Osborne journeys down and around the country taking in a variety of seaside destinations. I was really disappointed that none of my old North East haunts were visited, but with such subject matter you’re never going to please all of the people all of the time, given the sheer amount of coastline that we have on our little island. That said, a chapter on Whitley Bay or Tynemouth would have been much appreciated!

There are various tales here though. From historical tales of Skegness to the arcades in East Anglia, following the suicide watch at Beachy Head right through to the ‘ultimate’ sandcastle competition and a remote western lighthouse. The British seaside provides Osborne with a wonderful collection of experiences to immerse himself and the readers in, as well as a selection of wonderful people to spend time with.

The result is a fascinating read. It might be quite a niche subject and possibly of much more appeal to us Brits than anyone else, but I’d still thoroughly recommend it.

‘Don’t Need The Sunshine’ provides a wonderful dose of nostalgia about a slightly faded British institution. Millions of us grew up looking forward to days out at the seaside; some of us still do. But the typical British seaside town has changed immeasurably from what we’d see in their heyday. The rise of first the package holiday in the 60s and 70s and then budget airlines in the early 2000s signalled a death knell for many of our resorts. However, the popularity of ‘staycations’ mean that they are making something of a comeback. Still, most of what Osborne finds just isn’t the same.

That said, he finds joy and hope in most of the places that he visits. Sometimes, it’s nostalgia based, sometimes it’s fleeting, but it’s joy all the same. And that’s the thing about the British seaside; there’s always at least a sliver of joy to be had. It’s just that sometimes you have to take a little more time to look.

Osborne’s writing is excellent. As he describes the people and places that he finds on his trips, you’re transported there with him. He’s sympathetic to the plight of our seaside towns so that everything has a positive outlook and while it doesn’t serve as some sort of propaganda, the work that’s going on is highlighted and praised appropriately. The resorts are treated with a genuine affection as Osborne reveals that when you scratch beneath the surface there’s a lot going on in our seaside towns. He clearly loves them, like a lot of us Brits still do. And that’s what makes ‘Don’t Need The Sunshine’ such a great read. Osborne’s subject matter has something for everyone; whether your ‘of a certain age’ like me and looking for a trip back in time to a different age and time or you just live a long way from the seaside and only take trips there ever so occasionally.

It would have been easy to write a book that was sniggering, cynical and sarcastic about the UK’s seaside towns. But thankfully that hasn’t happened here. Instead, ‘Don’t Need The Sunshine’ emphasises the positives and the diversity that you’ll find, touching also on the glamour of the past. And I for one absolutely loved it!

I give ‘Don’t Need The Sunshine’

Poetry Blog: Leaves on the grass

A poem about Autumn, this one. It’s the kind of thing I’d usually write and then forget about, only to discover it sometime later and add it on here…in Spring. Not this time though! This time, I’m unusually on the ball!

‘Leaves on the grass’ was written after a particularly strenuous weekend of clearing leaves from our back garden. I felt rather pleased with myself for doing it, if I’m honest, as it’s the kind of job that is usually left to wait by me. Then, I end up having to do it in the freezing cold of late November or early December when the ground is wet and I end up filthy and soaked. This year though, it was a spur of the moment decision on a particularly sunny weekend when I felt a bit more energetic than usual. And so, old clothes on and gardening gloves firmly in place, I dragged our brown bin onto the lawn and got cracking.

The resultant poem came after when I felt thoroughly work out by my exertions. Here you go.

Leaves on the grass.

First, it's leaves on the grass,
suddenly noticeable,
a dozen at most
but added to daily
and then, months after shedding blossom,
small brown, red, green eye shapes
decorate the edges of the tarmac on the driveway,
escaping in the coming days onto the car, the road 
and when you look again
the falling Autumn rain
seems to gradually erase all colour,
like a life slowly sliding away,
too weak to fight, too old to care anymore,
too afraid of losing all dignity 
to heave on anything too bright,
visible again by scrolling through images on a phone,
a reminder of a distant rousing prime,
gone, but not quite forgotten,
stirred occasionally by the thrilling glee
of a fresh bright morning
when the fountain of youth seems to flow
without fear and we stride out 
and marvel at the amber and gold
before it leaves us again
and we brace ourselves, steeled
for the cold and the dark of what comes next.

There is a more thoughtful side to the poem. It’s not just about Autumn in that I’ve tried to add something about ageing and life in there too. I think a nod to Gillian Clarke’s poem ‘October’ must be given here as I’ve tried to look at similar themes, if only briefly.

I tried to capture the sense of getting older here – perhaps after feeling so bloody tired once I’d finished doing the leaves – as well as the feelings I regularly have about being so tired out by things that wouldn’t have normally had such a great effect on me. So, there’s a brief few lines about getting older (Autumn being late in the year) and catching sight of your younger self in photographs. This was after my wife sent me a photo of me at my son’s nursery sports day, some time ago. It shocked me to see just how young I looked and made me think about maybe feeling slightly self conscious (or just even more self conscious) I’ve become after a health scare.

Hopefully, the poem ends on a cheerful, hopeful note. There are lines about going out for a walk in the bright, bracing cold of an Autumn day and enjoying the vivid colours of the season and I think that’s me being about as optimistic as I ever get.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the poem. Feel free to leave some feedback as I always enjoy reading people’s comments.

Poetry Blog: Halloween

So, I’ve given myself a simple brief for this one. I’d wanted to sit down and give this poem some thought, but for a number of reasons I’ve found myself more than a bit pushed for time. Thus, I decided to write a Halloween poem within a time limit. So, I gave myself an hour to have it written.

I cheated a little bit because I’d started thinking about it a couple of days ago and this morning I wrote a few things down; just ideas, rather than fully formed lines.

Anyway, below is the finished and imaginatively titled poem.

Halloween

The smell of premature bonfires and fireworks drifts across town,
but nothing can distract you from the sounds,
those early shrieks and delighted screams
that despite daylight, still cling on stubbornly to 
sound the alarm of this special night.

You hear them before you see them,
their delight announcing their arrival,
those miniature ghosts, zombies and monsters,
with every so often a rogue Disney Princess,
knocking at a door to tempt someone to part with treats
based upon their cuteness alone.

As night falls, more sinister sights and sounds sidle along,
changing the atmosphere and making even the most cynical eye
dart everywhere...just in case.
The ghosts, monsters and zombies more convincing now,
casting doubt in the minds of anyone approaching from a distance.

Houses, now haunted, promise a bounty of sugar
for those who are brave enough to venture up the path,
creeping past the plastic graves, skeletons and cackling witches,
but the rewards are plenty when you reach the pumpkins
and before too long pockets and bags are under strain
as greedy teens take on just one last door.

Later, as quickly as they filled up,
the streets are deserted and the dead of night swallows up
that short lived sense of fun and adventure.
Tucked away indoors, stomachs are full and parents cling to the hope
that weary legs will soon win out over the sugar rush.

I hope this one captures that sense of Halloween, especially given the time limits! I tried to add as many things as I could remember from trick or treating now that my children are too hold to bother with it anymore. I’m a bit out of practice though!

As ever, feel free to leave a comment! Happy Halloween!

Poetry Blog: A Poem for National Poetry Day

I’ve taken a different direction for this latest poetry blog. Where usually I’d have already written a poem and just dug it out from a notebook, today I’ve written a short poem especially for National Poetry Day. I gave myself a deadline before writing some of it down. Any changes or additions were then made when I typed this whole thing up. I hope you like it.

I only gave myself a short time to think and after trying to write something about Autumn, I abandoned it in favour of writing something about why I write poetry. So, here you go.

The words I'd never say

Usually, it's the words I'd never say,
too self conscious to just let them fly
and only too aware of the stutter, the nerves 
and the glowing cheeks that would greet
the rush of blood telling me that it was safe to speak.

Sometimes, I'm lost in thought,
my own little world and things I'd rather not share out loud.
Futile really. Probably not even anything that
anybody else would need to know,
but it has to come out somewhere, somehow.

Scrawled inky lines crawling across the page,
filled with scribbles, arrows and asterisk
allow the expression that otherwise would stay silent
it could be the birds in the park or fears about health,
or just about a day out that might have left its mark,
this shy boy can still have his say.

I was never a one for writing poetry. There had been the odd one or two over the years, but they were never kept. And then lockdown happened and the words just began to flow. Now there are multiple notebooks with poems in various stages around out house. Hopefully, the poem fills you in a little bit as to why that is.

Book Review: ‘Tick Tock’ by Simon Mayo

There’s a dedication in the front of this book that reads, ‘It’s another page turner, Mary!’ and it’s not wrong. Put simply, this is just a great read; the kind of novel that you just don’t want to put down.

‘Tick Tock’ is the latest novel from Simon Mayo, best known as a radio DJ in the UK. It’s what I suppose you might call pandemic literature, inspired as it undoubtedly is by what we the kinds of things went through with Coronavirus. This time though, the mystery virus seems to be a rare strain of tinnitus and as such, pretty harmless. But soon and with information being drip fed from various angles, we learn that this is something far more serious and life threatening.

Kit Chaplin is the head of English at a small and fairly exclusive high school in central London. Rose, his daughter goes to the same school and Kit’s presence there is an irritation to say the least and Kit knows it. Lilly, a vaccinologist, is Kit’s partner and her daughter Jess also goes to the school, meaning that there’s yet more workplace awkwardness. Little do they know that soon life at the school will provide a great deal more to think about than whether or not they might bump into each other in a corridor during the change over of lessons. Life as they know it, is about to change in a big way.

‘Tick Tock’ tells a tale that in a way, we all kind of already know. The tale of a pandemic, of ignorance, pain, misinformation and more. And it’s the more that makes this well, more than just a pandemic story. Suddenly, in among the science, there’s also an espionage shaped twist as ‘Tick Tock’ takes us in a direction that we might not have seen coming and it’s a race against time to try to save lives.

I remember reading my first Simon Mayo book, the YA novel ‘Itch’, and for what seemed like hours of reading thinking, ‘Oh, I didn’t see that coming’ as I hung on for dear life. ‘Tick Tock’ has the same thrilling qualities. It’s really well researched too, so as I reader I found myself wanting to read on in order to find out more about the burgeoning pandemic, the possibility of a vaccine and the research behind it. It all adds up to – as I said at the top of the page – a real page turner.

Mayo’s characters are excellently written too and I found myself empathising with English teacher Kit, as someone who does the same job with the same loves and frustrations. Being the father of two teenagers I felt familiar with his home situation too and found myself smiling at every rolled eye and worrying for him when he and Rose were caught up in the hysteria of the pandemic. The stress of the pandemic is obviously all too familiar given our situation a few years back and yet the narrative still feels compelling and original.

The virus moves at a fast pace, as does the narrative and you’ll find yourself feeling desperate to know what’s going to happen next, what fresh twists might be taken and perhaps more importantly, who will make it through. Tick Tock’s cover tells us ‘your time is running out’ and with the somewhat breathless pace of the book, it really does feel that way at times, as you immerse yourself in the increasing sense of panic that is gripping the nation.

‘Tick Tock’ is a brilliant read and another triumph for Mayo. Not only is it an excellent thriller, it’s one to keep you thinking too. So, while you’re trying to figure out who might die, you’re also left with a number of underlying sub plots, wondering how it all fits together. But fit together it does, brilliantly, constantly making you ask questions; the kind of narrative that might just keep you awake at night!

If you love a thriller, give ‘Tick Tock’ a read. However, if you simply enjoy a good yarn, I’d say give it a go too. Complex at times, worrying at others, but a fantastic novel every step of the way.

I give ‘Tick Tock’

Book Review: ‘The Wild Silence’ by Raynor Winn

For my entire life I’ve been guilty of falling for stuff because of the way it looks. Pebbles and shells on the beach or rivers we paddled in were frequently brought home because I thought they looked lovely and it felt like life would be enhanced by having them with me. When I was younger I worked in a scrap yard and would pocket coins and other interesting trinkets while sorting through random scrap metal. It felt like treasure at the tender age of 14. As I got older I bought records and books based on their covers.

‘The Wild Silence’ is one such item. It came into my possession because I loved the cover. The blurb made it sound quite interesting to me, but I couldn’t put it down because of the cover. It was from one of those trips to the budget book shop. My guard is always down here and I can spend far too long browsing the shelves and then far too much buying the treasure I’ve gathered.

‘The Wild Silence’ is a memoir that tells the tale of Ray (Raynor Winn) and Moth (her husband) who are fighting to keep their heads above water amidst health issues and homelessness. But this isn’t a story set on urban streets. Instead, Ray and Moth find themselves sheltering in a chapel in deepest Cornwall, having walked the South West Coastal Path while homeless, camping in remote spots nightly.

It’s an interesting juxtaposition; the desperation of their homelessness set against their existence surrounded by the raw beauty of nature. Human pain and bewilderment played out in a rugged yet idyllic setting.

Having lost their home and their livelihood – a Welsh farm – Ray and Moth had been left battling the elements as well as financial ruin. However, ‘The Wild Silence’ finds them somewhat settled in the chapel with at least some sort of future ahead of them. Moth is battling against a debilitating condition, but has began a degree course as he hopes to lecture in the near future. Meanwhile Ray is left in a home that’s not hers, worrying about whether Moth will even make it to his lectures, on edge until he checks in, while trying to avoid the people in the village where she lives.

The book is a tale of a vivid struggle with a quiet, yet quite lovely triumph at its end. Moth and Ray have only each other. In the end, their existence and love is a huge win for the human spirit.

Following on from the best selling memoir ‘The Salt Path’, ‘The Wild Silence’ shows us that there is always a glimmer of light in the darkness. It is beautifully written and I found myself easily picturing the various settings for the novel as well as rooting for Ray and Moth throughout. While ‘The Wild Silence’ can be quite a bleak read at times, it is ultimately uplifting. Ray finds a way to regain her confidence and faith in her fellow man, while Moth simply finds a way through strength and sheer bloody mindedness.

I’d thoroughly recommend ‘The Wild Silence’ although I’d tell you to read ‘The Salt Path’ first! I didn’t, but having heard of the first memoir, I kind of understood what was going on after a little while. Winn writes beautifully which means that we’re willing her and Moth to ‘win’ as we read. When they get their first break it’s a blessed relief and even though their struggles are far from over, we’re left with a sense of hope that is fulifilled by the end of the novel.

I give ‘The Wild Silence’

Poetry Blog: Wandering the park

This was a poem that I wrote the bones of on my phone while I was out and about. It was written during one of my daily walks when I was recovering from heart surgery at the beginning of the year.

It was at a time when I wasn’t as exhausted as I had been and so was able to take a bit more in. Previously, thoughts had been restricted to just getting home without running out of steam and my gaze would be either firmly fixed ahead or glancing at my watch. By this point I wasn’t so out of breath and just generally tired, so was able to have a bit of a look around as I walked.

The more I noticed, the more I found myself coming up with description that would turn into lines that could be used in a poem. So eventually I stopped and made some notes on my phone. Later I would sit with the notes open on my phone at the side of me and a notebook in front of me. The result was this poem.

Wandering the park

A thin carpet of frost covers the ground,
juxtaposed at the furthest point by a crisp blue sky,
giving the landscape a glamorous and temporary identity
and changing things for all who pass through.
Birds scamper about, pecking repeatedly yet in vain at the frozen ground,
while blackbirds, a thrush and wood pigeons compete for space.
Overhead, a magpie heckles from above, perched safely,
high up in a skeletal tree.
Leaves, scattered at the foot of trees are dusted at the edges
with pristine white and crunch underfoot as I wander from the path.
Elsewhere a squirrel joins the birds; not quite a friendly gathering,
but not quite enemies either,
each just happy to ignore the other,
joined together in the same cause.

A short one, this. I’m guessing it was too cold on this particular January morning to be stood about making notes! But, as ever in the park, there was a lot going on and it was nice to feel well enough to be able to tale the time to watch.

Most mornings during that time I’d take photos, mainly just to put on social media to remind people that I was still alive! While I was looking for the phone notes, I noticed the date of writing them, so went back to my photos to see if I’d taken any on that morning. Here are some of them.

I remember it struck me that while I was about the only person in the park at that time of day, the wildlife had come out in force. Too cold for the usual dog walkers to stand around while their pets sniffed anything and everything. Only me daft enough or desperate enough to sample the early morning light and freezing cold. But it was the kind of hour or so that I actually really enjoyed while I was recovering – just still and peaceful, giving me time to think things through and make a little more sense of what I was going through.

So, a shorter poem today, but for me personally, some reasonably positive memories from what was actually a pretty dark time. I hope you enjoyed the poem!

Poetry Blog: Horizons

Readers, I’m at a difficult stage in my life. Lots of things have come together to unsettle me somewhat over the last year or so. This is a poem that is closely linked to the questions that have arisen and the feeling of not really knowing what to do.

Firstly, there’s my age. I turned 50 last year, leading to the kind of existential questions you might expect; what have I done with my life, could I have been a lot better at life if I’d tried harder and no, seriously, what have I done with my life? That kind of thing.

Turning 50 also (sort of) focuses your mind on the amount of time you might have left, which wasn’t exactly helped by heart trouble at the back end of last year. Let me tell you, if anything is going to channel your thoughts about mortality, it’s lying in a hospital bed wondering if you might die!

The heart episode also made me look ahead in a more positive way; considering ambitions and achievements and also changes to my lifestyle. In short, it made me focus on retirement and what I need to do to get there a little earlier than I might have been planning.

Horizons

Horizons,
staring back, unflinching,
dead eyed and offering no answers,
intent, impassive
yet begging us to continue with our gaze,
fizzing with promise,
aching with hope,
pulsing with the mystery of what could be
a cliff to drop blindly over,
a plain to explore,
a yellow brick road to dance down
or just a maze to get lost in.
Still, time after time we head in their direction
with no plan in place
and no answers guaranteed,
because this may well be all we have.

I wanted to convey the sense of moving forward and its inevitability, while also stressing that fact that I don’t really know what moving forward looks like at the moment. Hence, conflicting ideas about exploring and getting lost. I don’t think I’m too old to explore or take my life in a different direction, but I’m not sure how to do it. So, while there are decisions to be made and temptations ahead, I really don’t know if they’d make me any happier or comfortable than I am now. So, in essence, my mind is focused on moving forward, but in a way I don’t exactly know how to. I presume we all feel like that now and again though.

I liked the idea of a horizon and the fact that we don’t know what’s just past it. So, we can move forward, but can never quite be sure what’s next. I mean, when I went into hospital I was expecting medication and maybe an overnight stay. I kind of knew I’d get fixed, but I wasn’t ready to be told I needed a pacemaker. Nor was I prepared to feel ill for so long or be away from work for months. But, during all of that time, I moved forward, I guess.

So horizons are exciting in a way, while also holding the potential to be absolutely terrifying. If you think of the horizon at sea, then we know that over the horizon there’s more sea, but not exactly what that might hold for us. It could be a good or a bad thing. I think that’s what I’m trying to say in the poem anyway! As ever, I hope that you liked it.

Poetry Blog: ‘Adjustments’.

When I got ill at the back end of last year, it’s safe to say that it came as a bit of a shock. I should have known really, as I’d been having problems with my heart for around six months. I just didn’t really let anyone know, preferring to keep things to myself in the hope that it would just pass. It’ll come as no surprise to learn that I have no medical qualifications whatsoever…

After having my pacemaker fitted, life changed. I didn’t really realise just how poorly I was. To me, this was just a setback and while I was in hospital where the biggest ask of the day was to avoid the attention of the bloke in the opposite bed, I felt okay.

It was the recovery that would cause me problems. I was constantly tired, unable to do lots of previously routine things and ended up being signed off from work for 4 months.

The poem is about the changes that I felt happening at the time.

Adjustments

The white beard is the most noticeable thing,
and it's salt and pepper by the way, if we're trying to be kind,
but when one side of you doesn't really work
one's vanity is forced to take a back seat.
The worried looks and constant stream of questions
come from both sides; yours because you see what I don't,
mine because I feel what you cannot.
The daily walk in the early morning frost and biting cold
is new; pleasant and frustrating all at the same time,
a conundrum that's vital if I'm to get any better.
The layers help because everything and everywhere is cold 
and channeling my inner Inuit is the only way I know of fighting back
and easily the best way of hiding too.
The fractured sleep and vivid dreams are an irritant, 
but one that I have lots of time to deal with all of a sudden.
The lethargy just isn't me.
not usually,
but then, there's nothing of the usual about this present normality.
Similarly, the new sleep positions are restrictive, 
but then again the lack of choice might just set me free.
Or keep me awake.
As for the guilt and the fear, well there's no positive spin
to be found here; a work in progress is what it is I guess and I have it on the authority of those in cardiology that these things will eventually pass.
Life will move on in time and a new version of me can finally emerge, 
whenever that may be.
For now, I have to make adjustments.

The title was the first that came to me in the writing of this poem, which is unusual as I usually struggle for a title. I was thinking about the way things had changed for me while I was ill. I wasn’t working, my routine was different and even my appearance had changed. Thinking about it all was an unavoidable yet dangerous thing to do though as it never failed to make me feel down. At times not only did it feel like everything had changed, but also that it would never go back to normal.

In short, I came upon the idea of these somewhat traumatic changes being more like adjustments. I was still me…just adjusted in quite a few ways. It didn’t matter if I could shave or wash properly. It didn’t matter that for a while even 10 or 15 minutes of walking left me exhausted and it didn’t matter that I felt frightened or guilty; I had to tell myself that it would pass. And as frustrating as it was that it took so long to feel even vaguely normal, what mattered had to be that one day I’d feel like myself again, even if I’d had to make a few adjustments along the way.

I hope you enjoyed the poem and that anyone who reads regularly isn’t getting bored of me telling them I was poorly once!

P.S. In case you’re wondering, the picture is of an Inuit, as referenced in the poem. It was how I felt out walking in winter in the big coat, hat, gloves, scarf and several layers that were needed to make me feel like I might make it home from a walk and not be half human, half block of ice!

Poetry Blog: ‘You can’t unring a bell…’

A poem with a message, this one. It’s about not giving up and for me personally, it’s about the health problems I’ve had and the importance to me of not giving in to them. It’s about getting better. If it means something to anyone else or helps in any way, then that’s a rather lovely bonus.

I know that everyone has their problems, their bumps in the road and that some people have it far worse than others; far worse than me. But I’m a big believer in working my way back into the right frame of mind or the right headspace. So this is a poem about the fact that we can’t change a lot of what happens to us. It happened. It will leave a mark. But for me personally, I think it’s important to keep moving. For me, I need to recover and there’s been a lot of telling myself that lately.

You can't unring a bell.
its sound resonates across rooms, miles, borders
and the act that made the sound cannot be changed.
Eventually, the noise will stop, but the memory will always remain.
You can't illuminate the darkness with a permanence
that will mean you never have to stumble down a path again.
What's done is done now though.
Sometimes it will feel like one beating too many,
the volume of the punches thrown
is sure to leave bruises
and you'll feel like you can't get up.
Haul yourself to your knees,
grab someone or something for support,
clear your head and try, as best you can,
to get back up on your feet.
Let your eyes adjust to the darkness.
Let you body stop aching.
Breathe and then feel your way back, however slowly, into the light.

The poem started with just the first line. I heard it somewhere – I don’t remember where – and I really liked it. I didn’t really know what it meant, apart from its literal meaning. So, I wrote it down on a scrap of paper to come back to. When I got back to it, the poem just flowed around the idea of moving on from whatever it is that happens. You can’t unring a bell, but it will getting quieter.

I understand that it’s never just as simple as that and that’s what I was referring to with the metaphor of the bell. Once it’s rung, it’s rung. Once it’s stopped making the noise we will still hear it, still remember what it sounds like. We’ll suffer with the things that happen to us and we perhaps won’t forget them. But it’s hugely important to try and move on.

I hope you liked the poem. It’s a short one, but I hope it means something to more than just me.