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Writer’s blog

Writer’s blog

“Neither am I.” quipped Peter Cook when he met a man who said he was writing a book. A great agent friend of mine said he had a cupboard full of clients who were “just finishing.” theirs. My beloved husband is compiling showbiz anecdotes to go into his book and I still have the rejection letter from a major publisher to whom my dear departed mother sent a manuscript called “Balls.” It was a tale about a violinist who gave up performing and took up football. However, he wasn’t very good at it and had to retire after being kicked in the nuts. My parents were going through the early stages of divorce at the time and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to work out what was going through my mum’s head. The letter said, “We all wish you well in any other career you might choose to pursue.” Oh, I DO love a bit of passive aggressive every now and then.

I’ve finished the first draft of “Mumbelievable” and now feel like the expectant kid who’s finally handed in their homework. The wonderful editor I work with will no doubt point out the glaringly obvious and recommend in her beautifully subtle way that perhaps this could do with a slightly change in direction here and there. I’m hoping that within the next few weeks we’ll have a version that’s ready to send to the publisher and then, who knows?

It was an honour to have been asked to comment professionally on the body language on display at Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II’s state funeral on Monday. I have always been fascinated by non verbal communication and learned from a very young age that what people said was often at odds with how they were really feeling. My mum was a completely open book, however my dad was a “masker” and spent a lot of time pacifying me and my brother amid the arguments and mayhem. His expressions, nervous ticks and body positioning always gave away that he was stressed, even though he told us that everything was OK. “Don’t judge a book by its cover” – how true. My mum always wanted me to write a book about my experiences and wrote me a list of chapters. I was five or six and thought at the time that these chapters were all feasible and that one day I would achieve them. After all, mums are grown ups and know what they’re saying. Don’t they? “The day I sang for Cilla Black”. “The day I danced for the Queen.” “The day I rode a horse to Buckingham Palace.” “The day I drove a bus.” and “When I flew with the birds.” Only one of those came true, (number 4) and I did once join in with Cilla Black when she came on the Gloria Hunniford Show on BBC Radio 2 and encouraged the team to sing harmonies for “Anyone Who Had a Heart.” So maybe two out of five. Come to think of it, I did once go parasailing and was floating up in the air alongside a pack of seagulls on holiday once, so maybe three out of five. Doesn’t it go to show that we’re writing our own life stories all the time and if we unblock our thinking, we’re all achieving things we never thought possible?

OK. Procrastination over. Focus Beldom, focus. First draft written, now get it out there.

Flights of Precious Angels

Flights of Precious Angels

When my mumbelievable mum died if felt fitting to remember her with a golden plaque on a wall of remembrance, as she was a woman who spent her life breaking them down. She didn’t give a hoot about protocol, socially acceptable behaviour or speaking her mind. The process of dealing with “stuff” after a death is often a helpful distraction to the grief we feel. What must it have felt like for King Charles III to cope with his precious mother’s passing while being hurled into a world of Royal tradition, protocol and onto the worldwide lens? I was honoured to be asked yesterday by the Press Association to comment for various newspapers and magazines on whether his voice might bring us the same comfort and reassurance of that of our dear departed Queen. It was an interesting thing to be asked about, because I’ve always believed that the voice is more the window into our souls than our eyes. It’s why I started my career in radio at the BBC. I fell in love with the voices of the announcers who made me feel safe and secure, not only in what they said, but how they said it. The choreography of speaking, use of tone, volume and the variations in enunciation and articulation fascinated me. I built up pictures of what these people looked like and created their worlds in my imagination. I can remember telling my mum that I loved the sound of Brian Matthew’s voice and thought no more of it. A few weeks later my mum burst into my bedroom flourishing a letter with a stamp franked by the BBC in bright red. It was a letter from Brian Matthew to me saying thank you for my kind comments and invitation to meet, but he was married and had a very busy schedule. I was 6 or 7 and I was puzzled. Why had this gorgeous, lovely, reliable man written me such a strange letter out of the blue? Mum!

King Charles III’s first speech was interesting to watch, especially as I’d spent the afternoon analysing his voice and comparing it to that of Queen Elizabeth II’s. I found it fascinating to listen to as he had obviously thought a lot about pace and had slowed down his normal run-together speaking style. I talked to the journalist about the origin of a plummy accent and explained that it is most likely to have originated from times when a shrill, high voice was encouraged to deepen by placing a soft plum in the mouth so that the articulation moved from the front of the mouth to the back. Throat-based articulation is more resonant and closer to the chest, so you get a deeper effect. That deeper, resonance is more associated with authority and control. And of course, the deeper sound waves have a physical effect on us in our core bodies, compared to the lighter, more shrill voice patterns. Interesting to note that the Queen’s voice dropped about a semi-tone per decade which is why we felt more connected and reassured by her when she spoke in later life. And we all remember how Margaret thatcher was encouraged to deepen her voice to command respect and inspire authority.

My mum used to change her voice a lot, depending on the situation she was in. When trying to sound clever or commanding with a policeman or my teacher, she’d adopt this crazy deep voice as she squashed her chin into her neck and peered through her eyebrows. It wasn’t her voice itself that terrified people, it was the sudden change and strange look in her eyes. It always made me laugh, because I thought she was doing it as one of her silly voices she used for storytelling. She’d then spin round, stare at me, look cross at me giggling, put her chin down again and continue to berate whoever had annoyed her. The effect was complete confusion on the poor faces of those she was talking to. If that voice didn’t work, she’d go within a split second into flirty high girlie voice. This was the devastating voice for me as she would “quote” me and put ridiculous words into my mouth that I had never said. Brian Matthew talked sense. Brian Matthew spoke in the same gorgeous, deep voice all the time and he didn’t break into flirty girlie voice. Ever. I probably did want to marry Brian Matthew when I was 7. Can you imagine when in the 1990s I was given the job as a BBC Radio 2 producer and I was allocated a role on Round Midnight, presented by … yes, you’ve guessed it … Brian Matthew. I could hardly contain myself. MY Brian Matthew, the voice that kept me sane when my parents were hurling plates at each other and stomping off down the street. MY Brian Matthew who emanated calm, compassion, knowledge and had a great taste in music? WOW. We were to meet in the BBC canteen, and I was a bit tongue-tied at the beginning and managed not to say that he wrote to me when I was a little girl telling me he was married. Brian was seated when we got there. MY Brian Matthew was at least six foot tall, had flowing dark hair, deep brown flashing eyes, a broad chest and (for some strange reason), dark tan riding boots. THIS Brian Matthew was shorter than me, had thinning white hair and a tendency to avoid eye contact. But the voice, oh that voice. Magical. My love affair with voices and how they made people feel started there. How amazing that voice itself can conjure up a story. I can also remember having visceral reactions to the wrong voices. One poor chap was lovely, handsome, clever, witty and interested in taking me out, however his voice!!!! Oh, his voice! So deep and gravelly it made me feel nauseous when he spoke, as it had a visceral effect on me which I couldn’t overcome. And as for the high-voiced, squeaky men, they didn’t get a look-in either and my theory for that isn’t something I’d talk about here. (Email me and I’ll explain). Having left Radio 2, I worked in TV and then started a coaching business, helping people find their voice, project their voice and have confidence in themselves through their voices. And a lot of public speaking confidence comes from taming your inner voice – the loudest one in the room that can trip you up with its constant nagging.

I’m looking forward to listening to the voices of King Charles III and Camilla, Queen Consort as they take on their new roles, no doubt with Queen Elizabeth’s voice in their memories, encouraging and reminding them of how to engage and reassure people. And now I’ve got the voice of my precious mum in my mind, reassuring me that life can be sad, hilarious, and adventurous if you break down those walls. “Come along, Sonia darling, you won’t know until you try it.”

Mumbelievably emotional

Mumbelievably emotional

“It’ll be quite emotional”, they said. “No, I’m sure it won’t.” said I. “You’ll need to dig deep.” they said. “I’ve spent my lifetime talking about this, so I doubt it.” said I. “Do you ever listen to grown-ups?” they asked. “Rarely” said I. Deep down, I’ve always believed that you might listen to a grown-up, smile, make all the sounds to make the grown-up feel you’ve listened, then ignore them and do your own thing. For people who’ve followed this blog over the years, you’ll know that this is because my precious, departed Mum would say anything that popped into her head and, like a fool, I believed it. Then I’d repeat it and get into trouble. Lesson in life? Grown-ups can’t be trusted. I can remember testing my teachers with impossible questions just to reassure myself that my theory was right. “Miss Townsend – how do you spell Jascha Heifetz?” “Yashy who?” “You know, Jascha Heifetz, the most famous violinist in the world, surely everybody knows that?” Poor Miss Townsend with her flushing red cheeks, wide-eyed panic and spluttery answers. That little girl probably triggered her fear of public speaking and the dread of being asked difficult questions she couldn’t answer. Then there was Mr. Traue. Now, he was a big, clever grown-up with an authority about him that made you feel he should know what he was talking about. “Mr. Traue?” “Yes, Sonia.” “If eyelashes and eyebrows are meant to protect your eyes from dirt, why don’t worms have eyelashes or eyebrows?” Hah! No answer. I knew it. And as for the teacher who made me stand on a stool in the corner, facing away from the class because MARY had stepped on someone’s foot and I got the blame – I got to stand there for ages because I kept smiling to myself. She thought it was guilt, but I knew it was because I’d proved to myself yet again that grown-ups didn’t know what they were doing.

This little engine has been running my life until relatively recently. A clever little engine, always stocked with fuel, never breaking down or leaking. An engine that I rumbled into life when I was probably four or five and one that really needs retiring. As part of the healing process when my mum was finally sectioned, aged 80, I could see it for what it was and, respectfully, tell it to shut up. No wonder I could only last so long in a high-powered job with a powerful boss. And my quizzical face in response to an order or instruction could have been seen as defiance. Hindsight is a wonderful thing if you use it properly.

A couple of years ago a major literary agent encouraged me to write a memoir about growing up with a mentally unstable mum. It was emotional. I did dig deep. And I did listen to this clever, intelligent, insightful man. Many weeks of recalling the emotional trauma took its toll and even though I adored my mother in later life, I started to regurgitate the old feelings of frustration and hurt at what I perceived to be her not loving me. All nonsense of course as I know now that every strange thing she did was based on love and was all she could think of doing while her mind was turning somersaults. I came to the conclusion that unless you’re a famous face, a known writer or a million-plus blogger, nobody would really be interested. Friends told me that I should keep working on it as the blog was funny, uplifting and supportive and if the book was based on the blog, it would be a hit. I listened, but deep down it just wasn’t working. Cut forward three of four years later after getting my bus driving licence and writing the Granny Franny Adventures books and – “Tah-dah!” – the answer came. This book was always meant to be a starting point for young children to see that parents can act differently and do strange things, but deep down they still love them. I also hoped that grown-ups could read the story to their children or grand children and talk openly about their own issues or the issues of people around. The message: you’re always loved, no matter how strange things might appear. A picture book! Yes ! A picture book for children aged 4-8 about a little girl and her naughty mum. A mum who embarrasses her in front of her friends, sabotages play dates and jumps up and down on things she shouldn’t. I’ve written it now and after working with the most brilliant editor, it feels like a great mix of a funny story, emotional ups and downs and a strong message that no matter what, you’re loved very, very much.

Keep a look out for MUMBELIEVABLE, a picture book for 3-7 year olds, as I’m about to send it out to publishers. I don’t know what ever happened to Miss Townsend, but one thing’s for sure; she’s getting a mention in the dedications. Sadly, Mr. Traue died a few years ago and I wonder if he ever thought more about worms’ eyebrows.

I read the final version again this morning and shed a few tears for my darling mother who did everything she ever could to protect, nurture and support me. Mummy Margaret – you were and always will be mumbelievable.

Makeup, Making Up and Making it Up

Makeup, Making Up and Making it Up

All out of sweets, money box empty and candle wax all over the hall floor. Yes, Halloween was a popular one this year. Fully made up in “Bride of Frankenstein” look, I opened the door to two snickering teenage boys and a father who jumped when he saw me. “Excuse my dad – he’s a wimp!” declared one of the boys, fixated on the bridal cleavage. It was so nice to see gaggles of giggling kids running up the path and recoiling in mock terror when I asked them if they were the take-away dinner I’d just ordered. One little girl said (rather indignantly) that she wasn’t for eating, neither was her brother, mummy or daddy – thank you VERY MUCH. The emphasis on the “very much” made me laugh so much I lost an eyelash and sent them away with a couple of pounds each. My adorable husband stayed out of the drama and was rather miffed that I had to start dishing out his favourite dark chocolate Hobnobs when the cash and sweets ran out. The laughter and doorstep drama rather made up for it though and he regretted not doing his dastardly Dracula makeup to enter into the spirit. There’s always next year.

All this reminded me of how I used to be pushed onto doorsteps by my darling departed mum. Quite often I’d be sent to knock on doors with a charity fund-raising box or a pamphlet that Mum had created about whichever religion she was road-testing that week. Sometimes she’d accompany me and speak on my behalf. “Can my little girl have a glass of water please?” or “Can my little girl tell you all about (insert religious belief here) please?” or -worst of all – “Can we have some of your flowers for an old lady we’re visiting in hospital please? We don’t have the money for a proper bunch and my little girl was so enchanted with your flowers she wondered if you’d let us have some?” She was, of course, making it all up, I’d never said any such thing and I knew that this was a terrible cheek, but somehow Mum melted hearts and people did what she asked. Maybe it was the flame red hair, slightly manic look of the eye and the sheer surprise of the request that made them relent. Or maybe, as I’ve come to learn in later life, people are just kind and are often very happy to help if asked. The absolute worst bit of the flower begging story is that I had no idea that the house she’d chosen belonged to my arch nemesis at school who poked her head round the door and had that “Ooooh, just wait till I tell the other school bullies what Sonia’s mum did today” look on her smirking face. Many years later we met at a school reunion and we laughed about Mum’s antics. She didn’t remember the flower story though, but did remember the elephant feeding story which I’d forgotten. When we had school outings, three or four parents would volunteer to be helpers and I prayed that Mum never volunteered. She was nearly always busy and constantly working extra shifts to buy extras I later discovered. However, at the time I was relieved she’d never volunteered, so I could enjoy the trip. One fateful day – yes, you’ve guessed it – she volunteered and I spent two weeks in high anxiety wondering what would happen and how her crazy antics would contribute towards even more bullying and sniggering finger-pointing. We arrived at the zoo and were ushered to the front of the queue thanks to Mum declaring that we all needed the loo and should be allowed in first. When we got to the elephant enclosure Mum disappeared for a few minutes and re-appeared with a bag full of pastries which we all fed to the elephants. Nobody questioned it and we were all about to move on when a security guard “had a word” with Mum and looked quite serious. It turned out that she had gone into the canteen, found people who were eating pastries and convinced them to hand them over so we could feed the elephants with them. Somebody complained, hence security guard, but as nothing had been stolen and people had actually handed over said pastries, there was no case to be answered. Mum had apparently called the security guard “Grumpy guts” as we all made our way to the penguins and it wasn’t until Sara re-told the story that I vaguely remembered the incident. All was forgiven and she also told me that one day she’d been at school with a torn cardigan and Mum had asked my nan to knit a new cardigan, supposedly for me. I never received it because Mum secretly took it to Sara’s house because she obviously needed it more than I did.

Isn’t it bewildering sometimes to hear stories about people you love and how their actions have impacted on other people? I love the fact that my precious mum’s antics were widespread outside the family and that people remember her with great fondness and laughter, mixed up with a bit of “the sheer cheek of it!”

It’s coming up to Christmas season and I wanted to share something that I remembered whilst putting on makeup for Halloween. For about three years Mum had badgered my school into considering me for the part of the Virgin Mary in the school nativity and they always chose a Catholic girl for the leading role. Then one year they gave in and I found out that I was chosen to be Mary when it was announced at school assembly. I was very excited, even though they told me that there were no plans for a solo ballet routine. I had the blue robe, a white head covering and learned my one and only line like a trooper. We did a couple of rehearsals and my “Oh Joseph, I’m tired. Can we rest here a while?” line was going to be get me an Oscar. The night before the show I checked my costume, spoke my lines to a mirror, remembered to smile and was confident that this was going to be a triumph. My Joseph co-star was my first crush – with his StartRight sandals, knobbly knees and huge sticking-out ears. Yes, Kenneth Williams (not THE Kenneth Williams – stop messin’ about!) was going to be my real husband one day, despite not showing me the slightest bit of interest and refusing to hold my hand in rehearsals. On the day of the nativity Mum took me out of school for the morning and sat me down. I had to close my eyes while it felt like she was brushing my face with big soft brushes and dusting things around my eyes. It took ages, but as I’d grown accustomed to zoning out when Mum was in full-on strange behaviour mode, I was probably singing the songs from Cinderella in my head or trying to remember the latest ballet dance. It all finished, I put on my costume and she marched me into school, much to the relief of the teachers who must have been lining up my under-study. Well, at least I thought it was relief as they were smiling a lot and one of them laughed before clasping a hand to her mouth. When I walked on stage, parents stared, kids started laughing and I, like a trooper, tried not to be put off and said my line. Kenneth Williams didn’t say his next line, because he was staring at me open-mouthed. I had to say it for him to recover the situation – a skill I’d learned very well whenever Mum was involved in anything. When it was all over I saw myself in the mirror. Staring back at me was The Virgin Mary in heavy stage make-up, complete with blusher, blue and silver eye shadow, bright red lipstick, mascara and heavy brown eyebrows. Mortified wasn’t the word. I think she’d even given me a Marilyn Monroe beauty spot. As a grown-up I did tease her about it and she laughed at the audacity of it. Even she could see that a tarty Virgin Mary wasn’t the look my school were going for. But we made up eventually of course, although at the time it took me two days to speak to her again after the nativity play.

Years later, when taking my English O-level exam we were presented with three titles to choose from for a fictional story. My choice was “Making Up” and I told the story of a little girl whose mum took her stage makeup a bit too far in the wrong circumstances. My English teach told me that I’d got the wrong end of the stick and the title referred to making up after an argument. Miffed, I beat myself up about misinterpreting the title and obviously failing my English. Imagine my absolute delight when I passed and the school were sent a note saying that they applauded one student’s fascinating interpretation of the phrase and recommended that I pursued a career in writing. Well, it’s taken me forty years to take their advice and I’ve decided to create a children’s picture book inspired by the wonderful feedback I get from this blog and it’s all about a little girl and her naughty mum who has good days, naughty days and sometimes goes away for a few days while granny and grandad come round. Watch this space and if the book catches the imagination of children who can see from the story that strange behaviour in a parent is nothing to be ashamed of – job done. And if grown-ups use it as a funny story from which to springboard into conversations about mental health and their own issues – job done too. So many incidents to choose from of course when it comes to naughty mum stories – you couldn’t make it up!

Wimbledon’t

Wimbledon’t

It’s tennis season and memories of being turned away at the Wimbledon turnstiles still haunt me. Not even a frilly white frock, pretend tennis racquet and packet of strawberries was going to convince the security guards to let us in. I was probably 8 or 9 and Mum normally managed to blag her way in anywhere. Not this time, despite the flirting, protests and pushing me forward and ordering me to smile nicely. I knew at the time that my outfit was ridiculous. Tennis players wore short, simple tunics and not frilly bridal dresses. Nobody was going to be convinced by a pink plastic toy tennis racquet and as for the strawberries … mushy and inedible. Years later I was able to sneak in with my BBC ID pass and watch from the commentary boxes, As always, looking back, this was Mum at her most creative; trying to make a dream come true and cementing future memories. Cemented they were, but maybe not for the right reasons.

Barnet Council has brought back a Summer Festival and is putting on outdoor cinema events for us all to enjoy for free. Walking past the giant screen earlier with my little dog I heard the familiar plock, plock of the match and no doubt all eyes will be glued to Emma Raducanu as she slams her way into tennis history later today. I did start tennis lessons (in protest) at senior school, but was soon excused after messing around and not taking it seriously. Our tennis coach, the formidable Miss Harris, taught us how to serve … “ball UP, look UP, racquet back, watch ball and THROW the racquet over”. Yes, of course I knew that what she meant was to keep hold of the racquet while making a throwing motion to contact the ball and send it over the net. My first attempt was a disaster as I missed the ball. “You’re supposed to hit the ball, Sonia, not watch it drop to the ground.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. Second attempt. Right – up, look, racquet back, watch and throw. Clatter, clatter, clatter. “You’re not supposed to actually throw the racquet across the court, Sonia.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I was much happier running around the square, making faces at the tennis students who probably wished they’d had the balls to risk the wrath of Harris. The only competitive sport she ever convinced me to take part in was hockey which I also loathed. All that knocking of sticks, whacking shins and getting up at dawn for hockey matches. I made myself very good at defending the goal which meant that not only did I have shin pads, I didn’t have to do all that running up and down the pitch. Netball was OK as I was tall and was often made goalie. Again, lots of knocking the ball back and not having to run around too much.

So now we’re approaching a life after lockdown with more time to actually go to things I’m going to apply for tickets for Wimbledon next year – and in my precious mum’s honour I’m going to try and find a white frilly frock to wear. Looking back, I’m pleased we didn’t get in because she would have been heckling the players no doubt, gate-crashing VIP areas, digging up bits of grass for me to take home as a souvenir (I’ll tell you that story another time) and hoovering up the spare strawberries left by the posh people who bought them inside the club grounds. She came to the Finchley Festival once – the yearly event with dozens of highly decorated floats, Carnival Queens, displays, events and a huge fairground. There was so much noise around that nobody really noticed her loud singing and she even managed to get herself a ride on a police horse by flirting with the mounted policeman who wasn’t laughing at first when she stood on a chair and tried to mount his horse to sit behind him. Advantage Margaret.

Here’s to Summer freedom. Here’s to my marvellous mum. Love all.

Instru-mental

Instru-mental

I was just about to give up the trumpet when my precious mum bought me one. It was dusted aluminium with shiny slides and inner bell. I loved it, but sadly it didn’t love me. Having had tonsil and adenoid surgery I couldn’t maintain the air pressure needed to get a decent note out of it, so the noise of air escaping down my nose was louder than any note I could muster. I decided to take up the trombone which was altogether easier to play and didn’t sound like a balloon about to burst. It was also great for creating sound effects in the school plays and making resonant farty noises to make my granddad guffaw with laughter and my Nan waft her hand in front of her nose (making Pop laugh even more). Mum, bless her heart, would have taken on a new job to pay for the trumpet, so I didn’t tell her for ages that I’d moved on to another instrument. She would have understood, because one of her phrases was “move on, move on” which she did, often.

It’s Mental Health Awareness Week so I’ve dusted off my old trumpet from its case under the sofa and just tried to play it. Thinking about my wonderful mum I’ve tried a chromatic octave scale in her honour and now need to lie down. Another reason for not persevering with the trumpet was that my dad was never keen. I couldn’t really understand why not as he’d played the trumpet himself in the past. I finally got it out of him that he was worried I’d end up in the brass section of an orchestra and as a professional violinist he knew how raucous and misbehaved brass players could be; a bit harsh I thought, however it cemented my love for jazz and the sound of a big band which will never leave me – another thing that Mum did, often.

Having grown up with my mum’s unpredictable, hilarious, embarrassing antics I realise now that I never sought her out for comfort or re-assurance and never really confided in her about anything. God forbid I ever spoke badly about friends or teachers – Mum would be there firing on all cylinders, mis-quoting me (always the worst bit), screaming and probably throwing things. So I kept it all in. My lovely dad was always working showbiz hours, so I didn’t see an awful lot of him. All in all, the only person to really rely upon was myself when I was little. Looking back I can remember being quite happy prancing around in ballet dresses, singing songs and pretending to be a famous performer. I even managed to crow-bar a little dance into the nativity play when I was the Virgin Mary. I don’t think she did pirouettes and arabesques, but who really knows? In my world she did with her skirts hitched up high, a big grin on her face and proper pointy toes.

I must have been about 6 or 7 when I was told that I was going to be adopted. The family who were going to give me a new home lived in a huge house in Swiss Cottage with instruments everywhere, a massive garden with dozens of balletic fuchsia bushes and a very loud daughter who thought it was funny to boss me around and remind me that she was the rich one and that I was the poor one. That bit didn’t resonate really, because I don’t think you’re really aware of income snobbery at such a young age – well, I wasn’t. The bit that did resonate was the hope that this might be the end of all the abandoning. Mum was always leaving me with different people, some of whom I knew, some not. My teachers were nice enough, however I didn’t really trust them as they insisted that you can’t get a sun and moon in the same sky or that ALL leaves are green, not red – wrong. It felt as if my dad wasn’t there much and it has only been in later life that I’ve realised that he just didn’t know where I was. He had no real control over Mum’s spontaneous off-loadings and tried to make things seem as normal as possible when I came home again and carried on as normal. it was a bit confusing as I often wondered if he cared that one family used to send me out to the allotment grounds (now Brent Cross Shopping Centre) to dig up earth for their garden with a tiny spade and a whicker shopping trolley. It didn’t matter – I quite enjoyed it really as it gave me time to practice my dance moves and sing songs to myself. I didn’t get adopted of course, because it turned out that the adoption was one of Mum’s stories that made a lot of sense to her as they would have had the money, status and opportunities for me that she didn’t think she could offer. How wrong she was on that count – all I wanted from her was to be there, no matter now crazily she was behaving. OK, maybe without the mis-quotes such as “Sonia tells me that you don’t wash your bottom.” WHAT??? Or ” Sonia won’t be writing an essay about birds because she hasn’t stopped crying about the one you cooked and brought to school.” No amount of protesting would ever convince “that” teacher that I had no idea she ate chicken sandwiches and no, I didn’t expect her to go veggie.

The reason for mentioning all this is that I feel pretty much like the same me as I did back then. I still love joking with people, pulling silly pranks, putting Mum’s antics into anecdotal stories and seeking out the good in most situations. Children make up their minds about what life means when they’re little – I know I did. Mum loved me, but not enough to stick around, so I was probably doing something wrong or had something about me that people didn’t like. Ring any bells? I see it a lot with coaching clients; those old rules we made up for ourselves when we were far too young to make them. I’ve been very lucky to have been able to re-programme my relationship with my mother and see her for who she was – quite simply a woman who wanted everything, but was mentally unable to cope with anything for very long. Her heart was the size of a planet, her voice as shrill as a whistle. She enchanted and infuriated in equal measure and is about to be immortalised in a children’s book which aims to help adults laugh along and explain mental health issues with their kids, classes, grandchildren and friends. It’ll also be a way of children seeing that other mums do silly things too and that talking about it is better than hiding food, breaking things in secret or retreating into your own little world.

It’s been a year hasn’t it? We’ve all lost people we love, been scared into avoiding each other and missing those we’ve been unable to hug. Soon we’ll be able to start venturing out again, enjoying the world around us, seeing loved ones and making lots of noise. And what’s really making me laugh right now is the idea that if my neighbours start up with their 4am loud parties again, I can always get the trumpet out and start practicing in the garden. Now, where did I put that mute?

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