Wednesday 19 November 2014

Kevin - the unlikely Hero


A bit of work on a character....


Kevin’s Journal

My name is Kevin Franks.  I still live at home with my Mum even though I’m 23.  I’m quite short, about 5’ 7’’, slim, with black hair and I’m not bad looking.  

I grew up with my Mum.  I don’t remember much about my Dad - he left when I was 5 and a half.  Mum doesn’t talk about him at all but I just vaguely remember sitting with him in front of the television when I was little.  I remember the smell of him, warm and strong, his hands ruffling my hair and then he’d pinch my cheek.  When he left I can’t remember how I felt.  It’s all just a black hole in my memory now.  Mum always said we would manage very well thank you.  She worked at the Doctors surgery as a receptionist and would come home from work and scrub the house from top to bottom every evening.  Our house was very clean but Mum would never let me bring any friends home to play.

I know I could be doing something better than working in this charity shop - I did well at school but something had gone wrong along the way.  I always wanted to be a shop manager and could have been one by now - if only things had turned out differently.

I’m a hard worker and was doing my A levels when something happened and I lost the plot a bit.  I think I was trying too hard and would go over and over every piece of work I did before I could hand it it.  I got to the point when I believed that my work would never be good enough.  That’s when I suffered my little ‘breakdown’.  That’s what Mum called it.  To be truthful, I can’t actually remember much about it and anyway, I’m all over that now.

I don’t have a girlfriend at the moment.  Well, I’ve never really had a girlfriend although there was this girl at school I used to hang out with for a while.  I don’t see her anymore though.  

I plan to get a proper job soon - I just need to get a bit of experience under my belt.  When I’d applied for jobs they said I had no experience so that’s why I’m here, just to get experience.  Not because I’m not good enough for a real job in a real shop.  I try hard to pretend that this is a real shop with real customers.  I know presentation is important.  That’s why I always wear my suit to work.  Once I have my own shop I’ll make sure all the staff are smartly dressed at all times.  I don’t like the way Catherine, the Manager, wears jeans and paints her toenails which peep out through the holes in her sandals.  But she is the manager of this place, so I have to keep up the pretense that she’s in charge, and we do make a good team after all.

The best part of the job is helping the customers, showing them the new items that had just come in.  I take great pride in my customer service.  Everyone who comes in is important - well you never know who they are do you.  Take that old lady who comes in every day at the same time.  She smells slightly of cats - or is it urine?  I’m not sure but you can’t take any chances, can you?  If you are nice to people they always remember you, don’t they?  In a good way, that is, not like the people who went to school with me, remembering what I was like in those bad old days.  Anyway, that old lady will die one day and may leave a lot of money to someone - and it could be me.




Sunday 16 November 2014

Caught in the Web - Chapter 49


An excerpt from Caught in the Web.  New download version now on Kindle.

Chapter Forty-nine
The cobbles were warm beneath Evelyn’s toes.
Sitting on the kitchen chair outside her childhood home, she’d slipped off her shoes. Her mother came out of the back door with a plate of home-made cake and offered her a slice. Evelyn smiled as she took a chunk of the moist, rich fruit cake in her hand.
‘I should have given you a plate,’ said her mother. ‘But we won’t have to worry about the crumbs out here. It’s so nice to sit in the garden, don’t you think?’
Evelyn looked up at the older woman. She felt something thawing inside as the sun warmed her skin. The cake crumbled as she took a bite, the sweet fruit soft on her tongue, the spices bringing memories flooding of her childhood, sitting in this very spot, watching her brother playing in the dirt amongst the vegetables. She sighed, remembering the happier times before....
‘How’s the cake?‘ Her mother sat down beside her, bringing her thoughts back to the present.
‘It’s lovely. Just like you always used to make.’ She finished the cake slowly, savouring each mouthful before washing it down with the strong tea that Grace had left on the garden wall beside her.
Two weeks had passed since her mother’s visit to her and she’d been home three times now. Home. How easily that thought had tripped from her mind. How hard it had been at first. That nurse, Sheila, had stayed with her the first time but for the past two visits she’d been left alone for the afternoon. At last Evelyn was beginning to feel more relaxed with her mother and even though she knew that it would take time to forget the past, she wondered if one day she could forgive what had happened. She thought about Joe, her little brother, lost to her since she’d been taken to Highclere.
‘What’s Joe doing now?’ she asked.
‘He did an apprenticeship in engineering.’ There was pride in her mother’s voice. ‘Then he emigrated to Australia fifteen years ago. He’s married with two sons. Wait a minute.’ She got up and went indoors, quickly returning with a photo album.
‘I’ve never met his wife or the two little boys but they write to me.’ She opened the album. ‘This is his wedding photo.’ She pointed to a photograph of a grown-up Joe standing beside a young woman in white, smiling at the camera across the years. She turned the page.
‘These are their two boys. That one is Michael. He’s nine now and this is Andrew. He’s six.’
Evelyn gazed at the photographs of her brother and his family, feelings of regret welling up. She felt an echo of pain before pushing it away again.
She felt her mother’s hand on her arm. ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ she said.
Evelyn handed the photo album back to her and smiled.
‘I’m glad, too,’ she said. Each visit had been turbulent, painful at times but also seemed like a step forward to a future which was rooted in the past.
The older woman took a deep breath.
‘I wanted to talk to you about what happened all those years ago,’ she began.
Evelyn recoiled inside. She sat for a moment, then consciously made herself relax. ‘I tried to forget it all,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’
‘I suppose not. Not really,’ said her mother. ‘But it would make me feel better if I could only understand more about what happened.’ She paused and looked sideways at Evelyn. ‘I sensed that something bad had happened to you. Was it something that Bob said to you?’
Evelyn said nothing, wishing that her mother would stop.
‘I remember you two being so good with each other, then it seemed to change.’ She paused again. ‘I think it was difficult for him knowing that you were pregnant and not yet married.’
‘Don’t Mum,’ Evelyn interrupted.
‘No, let me finish. I still can’t understand what happened.’ She stopped, seeing the distress on Evelyn’s face.
‘Oh, my dear, I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about this if you really don’t want to. I just thought it would help you as well.’
Evelyn took a deep breath.
‘I’ll tell you but you won’t like it and you probably won’t believe me.’ She felt her mother squeezing her hand in encouragement.
Evelyn sat in silence. She felt the sun on her skin and felt the welcome breeze gently brush against her face whilst she thought about how to say it.
‘It was him.’ The words were spoken clearly and quietly. ‘Uncle Bob was the father of my child.’
‘What do you mean?’ The question was asked but her mother’s face revealed that she was half expecting this.
‘Uncle Bob. He was the one. I was a good girl - never went with any boy. He came to my room at night. He hurt me Mum. I couldn’t tell you and I couldn’t make him stop. He did it to me over and over again. When the baby came, he took it away. He took away my baby girl. He took away my life. I just wanted to die then. I’m sorry Mum.’ The tears were flowing from her eyes but she couldn’t look at her mother, afraid that she’d said too much.
Suddenly she was in the older woman’s arms.
‘My poor, poor girl,’ her mother sobbed. ‘I knew something awful must be happening to you but I had no idea. I had no idea that Bob was like that. I thought he was such a good father to you, stepping into your real Dad’s shoes like that. I should have known. You should have told me. I would have stopped it.’
‘You must have known,’ Evelyn accused. ‘How could you not have known?’ She could feel the anger burning again.
'I didn’t - really.' Her mother faltered.
'I couldn’t tell you. I thought you’d be angry with me. Like it was my fault. He said you wouldn’t believe me. Then he said other horrible things, like I’d led him on, thrown myself at him. I didn’t lead him on. You do believe me, don’t you?’
‘Of course I do,’ her mother said. ‘He wasn’t a good man.’ She stopped speaking and turned to look at Evelyn.
‘I found out things after you went into hospital,’ she said. ‘I found out he was already married to a woman in Southampton. He went back to her in the end. I suppose he only stayed with me to get at you.’
‘Well, it’s in the past now.’ Evelyn felt sorry for her mother for the first time in her life. She sighed. ‘I’m glad you came to see me,’ she went on. ‘I’m glad I can visit you.’
They sat in silence, each enveloped in their own thoughts and private regrets. Eventually it was Evelyn who spoke.
‘I love you Mum,’ she whispered. She smiled through her tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ was all her mother could say. She paused before going on. ‘I love you too. I always have loved you. I don’t know how I can make up for all the lost years but I would be so happy if you could come and live here again. I don’t suppose you’d want that?’
Evelyn swallowed down her feelings of alarm.
‘I would. But I’m scared,’ she finally replied.
‘I understand. But we could do it gradually if you want to. You could come home for a night first, then see how it goes. What do you think? I’ve talked to the Charge Nurse and he said that’s what usually happens.’
‘Alright.’ Evelyn smiled.
She lay on her bed allowing these unwelcome thoughts to intrude into the calm hopefulness she’d been feeling the previous evening as she’d slipped into sleep. It was a relief when the nurse opened her door some time later and called for her to get up. It was Linda.
‘Come on Evelyn, breakfast’s here. Up you get,’ she said briskly before she tu

Five Beaches - Review

Yesterday afternoon I was fortunate to get along to St. Faith's Church Hall at Lee-on-the-Solent to watch this amazing production of Five Beaches, a stark play about the D-Day landings written to commorate the 70th anniversary of D-Day.

After spending time in London last week, looking at the poppies at The Tower, and thinking a lot about the hundreds of thousands of men killed in the first world war, this play really brought home to me something of what it may have been like for the young men who fought and died, or survived the second world war - specifically the D-Day landings.  Just a generation ago for me, as my father was a soldier in the second world war so only a lifetime away.

It says on the programme that Five Beaches is 'powerful, raw and challenging'.  It certainly is that!  Without use of scenery or props, light or sound to support the play, the ten young men portrayed the wait for the command on this side of the channel, the journey across the sea to France and the landings on the five beaches on the morning of D-Day in 1944, showing the fear, the bravado, the horror as they witnessed their friends drowing or being slaughtered as they went ashore.  All this was achieved with the use of their own voices and the use of movement in a stylised way.  Physical theatre at its best.  The cast tugged at the heart strings of the audience with the use of hymns, belting out with gusto For Those in Peril on the Sea, Land of Hope and Glory and Jeruselum.

It would be unfair to pick out any of the cast as shining above the others.  This was truly an ensemble piece and  all of the following should be proud of their achievement:

The cast:
Cam Holding, Tom Irving, Fergus Ross, Jake Wright, Jake Young, Leighton Huntingdon, Aiden Hammond, Adam Connor Shaman Falvey Enfield, Isaac Ross.

Directed by Helen Jones.
Five Beaches is written by Bay House Writer in Residence, Zella Compton.


It was announced at the end of the play that this was to be the last performance of the piece.  I certainly hope that these young men get a chance to perform it again.  It's a play that needs to be seen.

Wednesday 12 November 2014

Christmas Shopping at The Book Shop, Lee-on-the-Solent


          After spending time at the computer working on new writings, I decided to treat myself and do some Christmas shopping.  I thought about going into town and having a look in the chain-store book shops, knowing that I would probably be buying books for some of my family.  But something was drawing me to Lee-on-the-Solent.  A lovely little bookshop, small on the outside, becomes tardis-like when you enter through the door.  This is a place you could spend hours in browsing, and be tempted to spend more than you intended as the store is stocked full to the brim with wonderful goodies: not only books, but a range of cards for all ocassions, gift paper, stationery items, diaries, calenders, dvds, crayons, balloons, to name but a few.

         
          This is the wonderful Rick Barter, the shopkeeper - a font of knowledge who will help you with your book choices.  Rick and his staff are very welcoming to all customers, especially those with doggy friends in tow!  But you don't need to be a dog lover to love this shop.  I always enjoy myself in this Aladdin's cave and would recommend a visit before you spend all your Christmas shopping money.




A large choice of books, paperback and hardbacks.









Stationery supplies

Childrens' crayons, paints and sticky stuff

Books for children

Gift wrap and more!

Christmas cards and gift bags

An amazing range of greetings cards

More Christmas stock on display

Calendars

DVDs



When I'd finished browsing and shopping I dropped in next door to The Tea Party for a coffee and slice of lemon sponge cake.
A fitting end to a well-spent hour.

So, if you fancy doing a bit of Christmas shopping in a lovely atmosphere I'd recommend the extra bit of travelling down to Lee-on-the-Solent.

The Book Shop can be found on Facebook or you can telephone on 02392 556592.

The Tea Party's phone number is 02393 070760

Billy's Journal

After attending Will and Diana's workshop on crime-writing last week, I've been working on a character for my next novel.    Doing the workshop has given me a good springboard to get on with this project which has been hanging around in my head for over two years.  This is the first rough draft of Billy's journal:


Billy’s Journal

My name is Billy Jackson.  I’m 24 years old and a mess.

My childhood was OK. I suppose, except for having to watch my Dad and all his mates when they came round to our flat to shoot-up.  It didn’t really bother me mind you, I just had to be careful not to step on the needles they sometimes left on the floor.  My mum loved me in her own way but she was a bit of a mess - Dad called her a slag but he didn’t seem to care when she took his so-called mates into the bedroom while he sat on the sofa in the front room getting out of his head.  Sometimes there’d be a knock at the door and Dad would let in men I’d never seen before.  Then Mum would disappear with them into the bedroom.  I didn’t understand what was going on at the time.  Dad said they had a bit of business with Mum.  I used to sit and watch the telly and try not to listen to the noises coming from behind the door.

When I was twelve my Dad let me try some of his gear.  He said it would make me feel good and it did.  I remember floating and feeling really loved, so much so that I didn’t really care when one of his friends took me into my bedroom and started touching me.  I don’t remember if I liked what he did or not, but I liked the floaty feeling and was up for it the next time that man came round.

I didn’t do so well at school, used to scive off all the time and consequently failed my GCSEs.  Well, didn’t actually even sit them to tell the truth.

What makes me tick?  I don’t really think anything does - I spend all my time ducking and diving for the next fix of heroin.  Been addicted since I was a kid and it’s taken over my life - it is my life.  Even though I moved out of my Mum and Dad’s when I was sixteen and moved in with my Nan it was too late for me to get out of the drug life-style.  

I lived with my Nan for a few years and they were the best years of my life so far.  Nan would listen to me without shouting back when I ranted about stuff that was getting to me.  She used to sit me down and let me talk while she cooked my tea.  I can’t remember my Mum or Dad ever cooking my tea.  For a while I stayed in with her in the evenings and she would tell me stories about when she was young.  Stories about Grandad and how he used to spend time on his allotment with Dad when he was little.  She said my Dad was alright then but he got into trouble with some lads when he was in his teens and that was when he started on the drugs.  

Nan made me feel good about myself and I stopped using for a few months.  It wasn’t easy though and gradually I slipped back into it, bit by bit. I thought I could handle it but life got so boring and although I tried to keep busy and even went looking for work, it was too hard.  I started back on the dealing, just a bit now and then to pay for my own use at first.  Then it began to take me over and I was out all the time, day and night.  Nan tried to talk to me, she tried so hard but in the end even she couldn’t stand it so she and told me I had to leave.  I was gutted but didn’t let her know.  

For a while I lived with this girl I’d met at the drug clinic - Gem was her name.  I really loved her but I messed her about too much and she chucked me out too.  She got fed up with me bringing people back to her place to use I guess.  I wasn’t very good to her to be honest.  I  never trust women after what my Mum was like and my Nan throwing me out didn’t help.  I admit I did hit Gem sometimes but she used to drive me to it.  I’d be different if she’d only take me back.

What do I look like?  I’m not very tall, about 5’ 10” I suppose, skinny because I never eat very well.  I suffer quite a bit from bad skin and get quite spotty at times.  I’ve shaved my head but sometimes it grows out to look quite spiky if I can’t be bothered to shave it.  Same with the facial hair.  I only shave every few days or so.  When I lived with my Nan I looked much smarter - she used to wash and iron my clothes but I don’t bother much these days and haven’t bought a new pair of jeans or top for ages.  My favourite thing is my leather jacket.  It’s black and a bit battered now but wearing it makes me feel good.  My  Nan got it for me from a charity shop - it didn’t cost a fortune - but it reminds me of better times.

Monday 10 November 2014

More thoughts on working at Uplands Independent Mental Hospital

Working with people with enduring and severe mental illness is challenging and can be difficult, but can also be extremely rewarding.  The staff at Uplands work hard and are committed to making the lives of the residents as fulfilling and happy as possible.  Not an easy task.

Last week I attended a Positive Risk Assessment training day which was facilitated by Peter Kaye, an experienced RMN and a talented trainer.  Below are his thoughts on the difficulties and challenges faced by those of us who work with people in this client group and the care provided at Uplands Independent Mental Hospital.

"I've been providing the occasional training course for Uplands Independent Hospital for about two years, on mental health issues, risk management and staff management skills. I work throughout the country with care homes, hospitals, housing services, charities, social services departments etc and sometimes I go into care services which look very "posh" but when I scrape below the surface I find that the care is not as good as one might imagine it would be, and that, once you get beyond the chandeliers, care is negligent or, and this I often find in these "posh" services, the area set aside for the staff (rest rooms, training rooms etc) is downright grim. If staff are treated badly by their managers, you can guarantee that this will be reflected in the care given. 

"Uplands provides care for some of the most mentally ill people in our society, and, whilst we must always strive to help people to mesh effectively with the expectations of the wider society, it is unrealistic to expect that such unwell people will always be able to maintain the standards that our society may expect regarding personal conduct, dress or cleanliness of oneself or one's personal space. 

"From the perspective of service users such as those at Uplands, many of whom are likely to have experienced terrible traumas in their lives and who may well be tormented by horrific delusions or hallucinations, keeping oneself smartly attired or keeping one's room immaculately tidy may be low in the list of priorities. What may be far more important is to feel safe and respected in what we might think of as a refuge from a wider world which can seem overwhelmingly frightening. One of the great skills needed in working with such traumatised people is to build up their trust by being sensitive, gentle and supportive. If staff were very directive about tidiness or grooming of the service users they would alienate them. Indeed, such over-prescriptive care would be abuse in itself. The dilemma in mental health work is always how much do we allow people to be self-managing - even if that means the client may not conform to wider social norms - and how much do we intervene and "manage" (or over-manage) the client. 

"I believe that the management and staff at Uplands understand this dilemma and generally get the balance right. Why do I believe this? It's obvious: when I visit, I watch the clients: they have easy-going relationships with the staff, they do not look afraid, they come to the staff with their difficulties. These are signs of well-being despite the ravages of chronic mental illness. Yes, Uplands may not have the smartest of decor, but that's not important. It's the spirit of the place which counts, and on that crucial matter, I believe Uplands is very healthy. 

"When visiting any care service, I watch the way that staff interact with each other and with the residents. I have learnt over my 35 years in this business that anxious, withdrawn staff are a marker of an abusive care environment. But at Uplands, there is an easy-going, relaxed atmosphere. Staff do not look frightened, controlled or inhibited. One specific example: sometimes clients come into the training session to see what is happening. In many care services when such things happen, clients are ushered out by the staff in a fairly brusque way. At Uplands when this happens, staff talk to the residents politely and genuinely take time to explain to them that the room is in use for staff training. A little thing maybe, but it says a lot. Uplands provides a high standard of care to very unwell people and I am always pleased to work with the hospital in developing the staff's skills even more.

Best wishes

Peter Kaye
BSc(Soc) RMN RGN DPS-CPN AIfL

The Kaye Partnership
www.kaye.org.uk

Thursday 23 October 2014

Portsmouth Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups

After months of hard work by Life is Amazing (the incredible Matt Wingett) and the awesome Tessa Ditner, we are pleased to announce the launch of Portsmouth Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups in paperback version.

About a year ago I received a tweet from a certain Tessa Ditner, a woman I had never heard of, asking me if I wanted to be involved in a writing project in Portsmouth.  I was instantly suspicious.  Why would anyone want me to be involved?  Who was this woman?  I knew a lot of the writers around Portsmouth and had never come across this one before?  I ignored the tweet.

Several tweets later, I replied, asking who else was involved and that's when I realised that she already had on board several very talented writers, people I'd worked with before and had the utmost respect for.  So I was in.

A year on, I can honestly say that this has been a great experience in many ways.  I have been given the much needed kick up the arse to get on and write again.  Three of my short stories are now published in the ebook version of Portsmouth Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups, I have been involved in The Portsmouth Festivities, presenting one of my stories to an enthusiastic audience.  I then performed in a promenade event at the locations of the stories in this collection.  This evening I will be reading a story at the official launch of both the Portsmouth BookFest and the launch of this brand new paperback version of Portsmouth Fairy Tales for Grown-Ups in the Lord Mayor's Room at Portsmouth Guildhall.

The stories in this collection are all set in locations in Portsmouth.  Some are dark moral tales, some are complete fantasy, some are historical, some futuristic, our own collection of tales of mystery which spring from the imagination of eleven writers who have a fascination of this intriguing City.

I am now looking forward to, hopefully, more similar projects in the future.  Who knows....



Special thanks to Tessa, Matt, Jon Everitt (Cover art and design) and Nick Ingamells (Photography).

Sunday 19 October 2014

Thanks and Portsmouth BookFest events



Well that last post stirred up a lot of people.  Thanks for all the comments on facebook, mostly supportive but not all.  I just wanted to put an honest account of life at Uplands out there.  It's easy to take photos of a moment in time, instead of getting on and cleaning up the mess which is what we, in fact, do.

Today I am preparing for the up and coming events of the next couple of weeks.  On thursday I shall be at Portsmouth Guildhall, attending the launching of both the Portsmouth Bookfest and the paperback version of Portsmouth Fairy Tales.  I am looking forward to performing one of my short stories at this event and looking forward to working once again with some amazing local authors.

On the 31st October, I will be performing a brand new piece of writing - still being worked on - for the Day of The Dead: Hello Darkness event at the Square Tower in Old Portsmouth.

Both of these events are park of the Portsmouth BookFest and places can be booked online through their website.  Anyone interested in writing, please come along and meet the team.

I hope to see some of you there.

Friday 17 October 2014

Working at Uplands Independent Hospital







Anyone who has ever worked in Mental Health will understand how challenging it can be sometimes to motivate those we care for.  We all have our own standards of personal hygiene and routines for when we get up in the morning, when we shower, bath or wash, how often we wash our hair or like to shave.  Our personal space is important to us as human beings and we each have the right to our own privacy.
If a person suffers from an enduring and severe Mental Illness such as Schizophrenia or other forms of regular Psychotic episodes, often this results in self-neglect, not just in their personal hygiene but also in the way they maintain their personal space.
When I started working in the Mental Health sector, way back in the 1970s, our patients were “well looked after”.  We had routines of when people had baths - we had the “bath book” which had columns for “hair washed”, “nails cut” and “shaved”, to make sure that every patient on the ward was kept clean and well-groomed.  Baths were done after breakfast and usually two at a time in a large bathroom with two baths and a row of basins.
Patients were turned out of their rooms first thing in the morning when the beds were stripped and made up with clean linen.  Usually after that, the doors were locked and the patients were able to sit in the Day Area unless they went off to Occupational Therapy or Industrial Therapy, two departments in another part of the hospital.   Anyone visiting the ward would see only clean rooms, tidy beds, and patients who were washed and dressed in clean, if ill-fitting clothes.
It’s not like that anymore, thank goodness.
For the past couple of years I have been working at Uplands, an Independent Mental Health Unit which caters for the rehabilitation of people with enduring Mental Health issues.
O.K., to an outsider perhaps, if you look into a resident’s room and see that it is untidy, with spilt coffee on the bedside table, the dregs of several roll-ups on the bed, the sheets awry and the mattress soiled, clothing and rubbish on the floor, you may think this is a sign of neglect.  But it is only one moment in time, any one moment during the day of that resident .  The task of the nurses and support workers is to assist and encourage the resident to have pride in their personal hygiene and their personal space.  Their rooms are the only space that they can go to get away from others that is theirs alone.  They have the key to their own door and they are not locked out of their rooms after cleaners have been in.  Many of our residents have their own tea and coffee facilities in their rooms so that they are able to make themselves a hot drink whenever they wish rather than having to rely on a trolley in the dining room or a ‘beverage point’.  Whilst this makes their lives more independent it needs to be monitored and often their rooms can be messy.  
The work is demanding and challenging but the team is committed to improving the way it delivers the care for which we are employed.  You may find yourself repeating the same tasks day after day, or even several times every day, with residents who need constant support and encouragement to be motivated in doing what to many of us, are simple daily living skills.  Our job is to ensure that our residents receive the best possible care and that their lives are the best that they can be with the limitations that they experience.
I feel privileged to be working with the amazing team at Uplands, a group of hard-working, dedicated professionals who, in the face of adversity, have come together as a strong team.  Over the past year I have attended training on First Aid, De-fibulator, 2 sessions of training on restraint and de-esculation techniques, Safeguarding, Aspergers, Recovery Star, and Mental Health Act.  Over the next few weeks I am attending training on Fire extinguishers, Risk Management, Drug and Alcohol Awareness, Suicide Risk/Self Harm training.  I know there is always room for improvement but after so many years of working in this field, I can honestly say that Uplands is one of the best places I have worked.

Saturday 12 April 2014

Southwick D-Day 70 - Pirate talk - and Round and Round a Garden!

Things have really been hotting up here in Southwick over the past few weeks.  It's now 55 days to D-Day.  Well, the 70th anniversary of D-Day, and Southwick village played a very important part in this event in history.  For more information on the day, please log into our website at http://www.southwickdday70.co.uk  Of course, the lead up to the weekend has been fun and eventful - more about that later.

Today I have been practicing talking like a pirate for an event I am performing at tomorrow.  Aaaarrr!  The venue is The Groundlings Theatre in Old Portsmouth for which I have written a short piece entitled "Lady Mary's Downfall".  I won't paste the story on here until after the event - don't want to spoil it for the audience.  The rest of this lovely sunny morning I am off to sort out a costume for myself for this event.

On another note, I have been directing Round and Round the Garden which went into the performance run this week.  We have already had a review which is on The Southampton Echo Curtain Call page.  Not a bad review.  What I would call "nice".  Aside from the review, many of those who have come along to Titchfield Festival Theatre in St. Margaret's Lane to see the play have given good reports both on line and to me in person.  So thanks to all of those, and if you want to see the play you can check out the details on the website which is www.titchfieldfestivaltheatre.com . The show is on tonight and all next week, including Good Friday, so come along and have a laugh.  The set alone is worth a look at.  The acting is pretty good as well!  A great fun play by Alan Ayckbourn - one of the Norman Conquests which was a trilogy of plays he wrote over 10 days back in the early 1970s.

Just a reminder though, if you do come, wear warm clothes - the theatre heating's not that brilliant.
Hope to see you there....

Tuesday 25 March 2014

Southwick Writer Woman News

Today has been an interesting and quite exciting day.  I spent a while at the theatre watching my brilliant set building team getting the set together for Round and Round the Garden, a play I am directing at Titchfield Festival Theatre.  It's great to see something fantastic growing out of a few bits of wood and some fake grass!  Still early days of course but by tomorrow evening we should be able to at least use the entrances and exits and have a feel for the acting space.

The play is to be performed from the 9th to the 19th April, so less than a couple of weeks rehearsal time left.  We have an amazing cast with Georgie Gulliford as Annie, Kay Fraser as Sarah, and Mandy Watmaugh as Ruth.  The men are played by Rick Barter as Reg, Laurence Lloyd as Tom and Randy Vince as Norman.  The play is the third in the trilogy The Norman Conquests, written by Alan Ayckbourn.  A masterpiece of theatre.  I just hope we can do it justice.  By that I mean me, as the director.  I have great faith in all the cast and still laugh out loud at rehearsals over and over again.  Not hysterical laughter either although there is a little of that!

For the past few days I have been promoting my novel Caught in the Web by giving it away free on Kindle.  Today is the last day, all those I've been pestering will be pleased to hear.  Just wanted to say that it has been a great success and has been downloaded all over the world by nearly 1,800 people so far.  Even though I haven't received any cash for this, it feels good knowing that I am reaching out to so many people in so many countries.  Wow!

Then, as if I didn't have enough to do, I'm involved in the D-Day 70 commemoration weekend in the village of Southwick and have to get off to a meeting in the local pub in about 20 minutes - so I guess I'd better get going.

Monday 24 March 2014

Caught in the Web - Chapter forty-eight


Caught in the Web is free to download on Kindle until tomorrow - 25th March.  Here is the next chapter.........

Chapter Forty-eight

Another long night stretched ahead.
Karen tried not to sleep. She wasn’t sure what staying awake would achieve but felt too vulnerable to let herself relax into oblivion.
It was nearly dawn when she felt herself finally slipping into sleep. Her head was aching from all the thoughts which were fighting for her attention. Her body was sore from Peter forcing himself on her. She was frightened. Afraid to stay with Peter and afraid to leave him.
She could see no way through this.
In the early hours, she started to wonder if Peter was right and she was mentally ill. The darkness brought its own demons which fed on her tired brain and troubled emotions.
When Peter got out of bed at seven, Karen was immediately wide awake and on edge. She kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, hoping that he would go to work and leave her to make her escape somehow.
But he was in no hurry to leave.
She could hear him moving around downstairs and fearfully heard him clanking up the stairs with a laden tray.
‘Wake up darling,’ he said. ‘I’ve made you some breakfast.’
Karen opened her eyes and watched as he fussed about with placing the tray on the bed. There was a single red rose in a vase on the tray. ‘Blood red,’ Karen thought.
Peter pulled open the curtains.
‘It’s a lovely day.’ He turned and smiled at her. ‘Now, I don’t want any nonsense from you today,’ he continued. ‘You will eat this all up and then I’m taking you out for a drive. You need a change of scenery I think.’
Karen panicked.
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked. ‘What about Margaret? She said she’d come round this morning.’
‘I told her not to come, remember?’ he said.
‘But... what about your work?’ Karen clutched at a straw, already knowing the answer.
‘No work today. You’re my priority,’ he said. ‘Now, be a good girl and do as I ask for once.’ He pushed the tray towards her.
Karen looked at the tray.
‘I’m not hungry,’ Karen began, wondering what was hiding in the marmalade.
‘Don’t be like that,’ he snapped back. You’d better eat now, we could be out for a while.’ He sat and waited.
Karen ignored the tray, pushed the covers back and got out of bed. She gathered her clothes together. ‘I’m getting dressed in the bathroom,’ she said and left the room with a flourish of bravery that she did not feel inside.
‘Silly girl,’ she heard his loud whisper as the door closed.
She stayed in the bathroom for as long as she could, trying to work out what she would do next. Eventually, she had to come out.
Determined that he would not get the better of her, she went straight to the kitchen and made herself some toast and tea. Peter said nothing, just stood watching her from the doorway. He moved out of the way when she took her breakfast into the lounge and watched her as she ate each piece, carefully brushing the crumbs from her mouth when she’d finished.
‘Are you going to take your pills now?’ he asked, as she sipped her tea. He took the bottle from his pocket.
‘I don’t know why you think you have to look after those,’ she replied. ‘I am an adult you know. I can decide whether to take them or not without your help.’
‘We both know that’s not true,’ he sneered. ‘Now you make sure you take them properly or I’ll have to get the Doctor back again.’
‘I wish you would,’ Karen said.
He stood over her. ‘Take the bloody pills,’ he held them out to her. ‘Or do you want me to make you?’
Karen shuddered. ‘I’ll take them.’ She took the pills from him and dropped them into her mouth, quickly swallowing a mouthful of tea. She managed to conceal them in her cheek again without them going down.
Peter smiled.
‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now, get your coat on. We’re going out.’ He ran up the stairs to the bathroom. ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ he called.
Karen slipped the pills from her mouth into her pocket. She could feel her strength returning now that she wasn’t drugged all the time. Maybe getting out of the house would be her chance to get away. It was with a certain hope that she got into the car a short while later.
The countryside flashed past the car window.
Karen gazed out at the fields and wondered what Peter hoped to achieve by all of this subterfuge, keeping her away from Margaret, Dr. Wright, and her work friends. He’d have to take his eyes off her eventually, she knew that. Sooner or later, people would see that it was Peter who was off his head, not her. She just needed to bide her time and keep calm.
Peter drove in silence. Karen was left with her thoughts, hoping that they’d stop somewhere in a town when she stood the best chance of giving him the slip. She was lost in her own thoughts sometime later as they pulled into the driveway of a secluded house. The nearest neighbour was just beyond some trees which surrounded the house.
‘Who lives here?’ Karen asked. ‘Where are we?’
Peter said nothing. He pulled the car up outside the house. The windows were dark and gloomy, giving the place an air of abandonment. He got out of the car and went round to the passenger side, opening the door.
‘Hop out,’ he said. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’ He reached in and took Karen’s arm.
‘Who?’ Karen tried to push down the feeling of panic. ‘Who lives here?’
‘Just come along and you’ll see,’ he said. ‘It’s a surprise. You like surprises.’
As Karen was pulled from the car she looked up at the house. A black crow sat on the roof, eyeing her. She shivered.
‘You’re cold,’ Peter said. ‘And such a nice day. You must be coming down with a chill.’
The keys jangled as he opened the door. He held onto Karen with one hand. She struggled in his grip but he had already ushered her in, the darkness in the hallway enveloping her.






Saturday 15 February 2014

My Love

My Love

I have compared thee, O my love,
     To a flock of seagulls on the shore,
Stoically standing against the wind
     Only to rise up in alarm
Whenever I try to be near you.

Your eyes are to me, the eyes of the raptor.
     They stare unblinkingly
Into someone else's distance,
     Awaiting elusive prey
Far beyond my sight.

Your broad shoulders, like eagle's wings,
     Lifting you far into the sky,
To float and soar high above me,
     Always out of reach.

I compare thy heart, my love,
    To the tiny robin
Who flits and hops about my garden,
     Greedily tasting all I have to offer
And fericiously attacking all who come to call.


Friday 14 February 2014

Bearskin

This one's for St. Valentine.  But weird.


     Bearskin

It is white in the land, and cold. The forest is dark and all the gentle animals who have not left for the warmer, seductive lands in the South, are either hiding in caves, or deep under the ground, where all God-fearing creatures should be. In the villages, the people stay hidden, too, warm and safe beside their fires, only ever scurrying out when there is no choice, to find more wood, or perhaps to creep into the edge of the dark, treacherous forest to hunt for a morsel of meat to fill their hollow bellies.

It was the boy's turn to do his duty by his Grandfather who lived alone in the deepest part of the forest, only ventured to in the Spring and Summer, unless the bitter months drew out, as they were this long, long Winter. The wind howled around the chimneys as the boy wound his bear-skin cloak around his lithe and innocent form. He carefully wrapped the still-warm, freshly baked loaves of bread in the blood red cloth his mother had given him, and placed the parcel in his satchel, together with the small cask of wine, essential foodstuffs to ward off the bitter winter's chill.

Before he began his journey, the boy's mother handed him the long bladed knife once used for skinning the great Black Bear whose hide he wore. The boy slipped the knife into its sheath and, embracing his mother, turned and left the cottage to begin his journey through the pure white landscape to his Grandfather's house.

The forest became quieter and quieter as he trudged. No sound, not even his footsteps broke the virginal membrane of silence in his ears. He had walked for perhaps an hour when he saw the girl. She came from nowhere. One moment he looked up from the snow in front of his feet, and she was there. He had noticed no footprints, just the eternally smooth, white blanket covering the land.

The girl was naked, her jet black hair falling in seductive ripples the length of her mottled blue and white-skinned back, her body swaying with the rhythm of her stride as she walked just ahead of him. As she turned to look at him, he caught a glimpse of her nipples, erect with the cold. A flood of emotions rushed through the boy's body. He had never seen a woman naked before. It never occurred to him how cold she must be as he felt the heat of desire pumping through his veins. He just knew that he had to have her, to touch her skin, to caress the hair, to feel her nakedness against his own young body. He called out to her and she turned again and smiled. How red were her lips, full of the promise he had never experienced. She was moving too fast, away from him, as he broke into a run, realising fleetingly, but not caring, that the familiar part of the forest was long ago left behind.

At last in a clearing, she stopped and turned to me, opening her arms, with a welcoming look in her eye. I was entranced with the beauty of her nakedness, her black hair flowing over the curves of her breasts, her nipples inviting me to her, the same blood red of her lips, in contrast to the whiteness of her skin. I drank greedily of the sight. Before I had taken more than a step towards her, I see that there other other women here, almost blinding me with their voluptuous bodies. I long to touch them, to feel and taste them, but they are always tantalizingly just beyond my reach. At times I am close enough to smell the muskiness of their bodies, and know that they desire me just as much as I want them.

In my frantic dance, I notice the bread tumble out from my satchel, still half wrapped in the blood red cloth. As it lands in the snow, some of the women break away from the dance, and ripping the cloth, devour the bread in a frenzy of hunger sated at last. The wine cask falls too, crashing to the ground, the soft snow breaking its fall, the stopper bursts forth and the wine bleeds into the pure white snow, the stain spreading ever outwards.

The first girl is taking my hand, guiding me to the centre of the clearing. I see nothing now but her perfect body, knowing that I will soon be fulfilled. I feel hands gently undressing me, caressing me into a state of full arousal as my Beauty lies on the altar, her hair flowing down like black water to the snow-covered ground, her legs long and inviting, her thighs white and firm as she lies willing me on to lie with her. I am helped on to the altar and can wait no longer. I cannot even see the women surrounding us, my eyes are blind to anything but desire.

A knife flashed and a roar filled my ears. The pure skin of the girl became mottled. Hair - no! Rough fur was growing across her perfect breasts. Her face was changing, blurring. Her seductive lips drawn back to reveal drooling teeth and tongue, her tiny nose thrusting forth into a wet, black snout. The arms around me growing stronger now, her claws tearing into my back. As I arched my back in pain and ecstasy the bear-skin cloak which was so carefully taken from me earlier is once again wrapped around my form. As I reach the inevitable climax, my seed bursts forth into the willing belly of the Beauty, I realise I am fusing with a Great Black Bear. Part of my mind is fighting against this, recoiling in horror, but I know deep inside myself that I am fulfilling a terrible destiny.

Still, I try to break away. Wildly looking around the clearing, I see the women have all gone. There is just myself and my terrible bride.

I raise myself up on my rear legs and roar from the depths of my soul.

Caught in the Web Chapter 47


This chapter may upset some readers, so apologies.  You can purchase Caught in the Web from Amazon either as an Ebook for Kindle, or as a paperback.  It is also available from bookstores and Fareham Museum.  Over a thousand copies have been sold to date.


Chapter Forty-seven

Karen tried not to sleep. She kept thinking about what Peter had said at the table. By the time he came to bed her mind was in a turmoil. She had managed to get through the evening without giving him the chance to drug her but wondered how long it could last.
Peter sat on the edge of the bed. In one hand he held a glass of water. He passed it to her.
‘It’s time we stopped all this pussy-footing around,’ he said. ‘I’ve brought you your tablets, which you will take, my darling, but not before I’ve finished with you.’
Karen froze.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘What I should have done weeks ago,’ he said. ‘Maybe if I had, you wouldn’t be pregnant with someone else’s kid.’ He placed the water on the bedside table and pulled his t-shirt over his head.
‘Are you going to rape me now?’ Karen’s voice broke.
Peter laughed, undoing his trousers. He turned to her. ‘It’s not rape, you silly girl. Just taking what I’m entitled to.’ He stepped out of his trousers, peeled off his underpants and got into bed beside her. Karen shivered, pulling away from him to the other side of the bed.
‘You can’t force me,’ she began. ‘Please, Peter. I don’t want to do this.’
‘Of course you do.’ He was stroking her leg beneath her nightdress, his hand rough against her skin. She felt herself shrinking further away from him.
‘Kiss me.’ Peter’s face loomed over hers, his mouth was wet and sour with whiskey. Karen tried not to gag as he kissed her lips, his tongue forcing its way into her mouth. He moved away again.
‘There, you see. You do like it don’t you?’ His hand was at the top of her leg now, the other hand forcing her nightdress high up over her breasts.
‘Get off me!’ Karen was pleading now. ‘Please, don’t do this.’ She struggled under the weight of his body as he pushed her legs apart. He rose up above her, looking down at her nakedness. ‘I love it when you’re feisty,’ he laughed. ‘We should do this more often.’
‘You bastard!’ Karen shouted, desperate to make him stop. ‘Get off!’ She struggled, pushing him away.
‘Oh, yes, do that,’ he said. ‘You’re making me really horny. I like a fight,’ he groaned as he reached down and forced his fingers into Karen. She screamed in pain.
He laughed again, pulled his fingers out, rolled back on top of her and thrust his penis into her.
‘You’re hurting me,’ Karen sobbed, but he wasn’t listening any more.
She knew then that the only way to get through this was to detach herself from it. She felt herself floating, the pain between her legs fading into a numbness. She seemed to be watching the scene from a point somewhere above them, the unreality of what was happening her only defence. Who was this grunting animal forcing himself on this young woman? Who was the young woman? Karen watched in horror, wondering why it had come to this and how she could get through it all. She watched as he reached his climax, rolled off her and lay on his back snoring. She watched the young woman’s body go limp and watched herself sobbing silently beside him.
Gradually Karen felt herself in her own body again, sore and angry, but with something like a faint hope in her mind.
He was asleep. Maybe she could get away now.
Almost as if he’d read her mind, he woke up with a start.
‘You thought I’d gone to sleep,’ he accused, sitting up and looking down at her.
Karen reached under her pillow for a tissue and wiped her nose.
‘It’s no good turning on the tears. You know you enjoyed it as much as me,’ he said. ‘Now, it’s time for your pills.’ He reached for the glass of water and the dreaded tablets. He turned and smiled at her, holding them out to her. ‘Sit up,’ he ordered.
Deciding that it would be best to go along with what he wanted, Karen pulled herself up to a sitting position and took the pills. He watched her as she put them on her tongue, then pushed the glass of water into her hand.
‘Swallow them,’ he said.
Karen remembered the patients on the ward and how they’d sometimes hidden pills in their cheeks but realised that it was harder than it looked.
‘Come on, drink the water,’ he insisted. ‘Wash them down properly.’
Karen took a sip of water.
‘That’s not enough,’ he said. ‘Have a proper drink.’
He watched as she drank the whole glass.
‘Now open your mouth.’
Karen opened her mouth.
‘Under the tongue,’ he said.
Karen lifted her tongue to show that the pills had gone.
‘Good girl,’ he smiled as he pushed back the covers and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Where are you going?’ Karen asked.
‘Only to the bathroom. Don’t worry I’m not going to leave you on your own tonight,’ he said. ‘I’m already feeling horny again, just thinking about it.’
Karen’s heart sank at the thought. As soon as he’d left the room, she hooked the half-dissolved pills from the side of her mouth and stuffed them inside her pillow case.
Peter was back within minutes. He climbed back into bed and reached for Karen. She tried to pretend she was asleep, but he didn’t seem to care whether she was awake or not.
‘Come on, Karen,’ he said. ‘Show me what a good wife you can be.’
‘I’m tired,’ she complained. ‘It’s the pills.’
‘Don’t give me excuses,’ he said. ‘They don’t work that quickly.’
Karen felt sick but knew he would never give up until she did what he wanted. Sighing, she rolled over on top of him and pushed his penis into her, hoping that it would be over as quickly as possible.
‘Show me you’re enjoying it then,’ he said.
Karen started to moan in his ear and felt him getting harder inside her, until at last he reached his climax with a groan of ecstasy. Karen lay still for a moment, then slid off him onto her side of the bed, grateful that it was over at last.
‘You could at least have said you loved me,’ Peter complained. Karen said nothing.
‘Well?’ Peter said again.
‘I love you,’ Karen whispered but she only heard the soft sound of his snoring in answer.