Spud went off to Sheffield University on Sunday. It’s forty minutes away by train; nearly three hours in a car when there’s no direct motorway, you have to trek through the Pennines, and there’s a big event on. It took two hours to travel two miles at one point.
I have two children, both sons. For all of the similarities they have, I might as well have a dragon and an iguana: they’re both lizards but you wouldn’t let one of them near your princess or the other your salad.
On their respective first days at university, one child kicked us out the minute the car was empty; the other encouraged us to do his unpacking for him.
One boy enjoyed Freshers’ Week so much, he made a point of going back early in his subsequent years; the other had decided by Tuesday night that he’s not a party-party-party kinda guy.
One son was irritated by the amount of food I insisted he take; the other was irritated that I had only packed enough for one term.
One lad didn’t call home for the first three months and when he did, made Marcel Marceau look like a gossip; the other has called home every day, because he knows we want to hear about all of the interesting things he’s doing.
Spud called today to tell us about meeting his tutor – he and Spud are the only males in a gaggle of girls. They discussed the psychology of favourite biscuits for thirty minutes. Looks like it’s going to be an interesting course.
He has signed up for various societies – dramatic, musical theatre, singing…oh, and the psychology society (‘Psychos’) as an afterthought, though he didn’t pay for a three-year membership in case he’s too busy to go because he’s rehearsing.
He mentioned that he had chips on the way home last night. A small chippy owned by Sean Bean’s family offered free vouchers for chips, paid for by Sean Bean. Yorkshiremen are renowned for being careful with their money but he obviously broke the stereotype.
I hope Spud gets talent spotted at one of his societies, moves to Hollywood, and pals up with his chip donor so I can finally ask the questions which have niggled me for years: who on earth named Sean Bean? And why isn’t his name pronounced Shorn Born or Sheen Been?
I’m missing my baby. I missed my other baby when he first left home; but then he kept coming back between moves, leaving more of his stuff each time. I don’t have space to miss him at the moment: it’s taken up with boxes of clothes (a lot), books (a library) and Yu-Gi-Oh cards (some children never grow up). The youngest child has made up for that by taking only what he thought he might need with him (not much); leaving what he wanted to hold on to but which was not essential for uni (even less); and chucking the rest (making a butter mountain look positively frugal).
So, with all of these differences, was my reaction the same to their leaving?
No, it wasn’t.
With Tory Boy, I was caught up in his excitement and it was only when we said goodbye that I surprised everyone – not least, myself – when I burst into tears.
With Spud, I was tearful all week but didn’t sob (much) at our goodbye because I had become so crippled by holding it all in. Of course, he didn’t see the tears flow in the car on the way home, having abandoned me for student dissipation.
Such a good look on me, don’t you think?
The boys do have some similarities. Tory Boy phoned on Sunday night and we had a conversation that I could have had with either one of them after an upsetting day:
Tory Boy:I was worried about you; I wanted to know if you’re okay?
So NASA emailed me to say my haiku had arrived on Mars…
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There’s a sentence you don’t read (or write) every day. And what’s great is, it’s true!
Truth is relative, of course. NASA did email, as they do every day; I’m subscribed to their website.
I did write a haiku, however, and it did go to Mars…along with thousands of others submitted to their competition. NASA put all of the entries on to a DVD in case the Little Green Men like Japanese poetry.
NASA’s Mars Atmosphere and Volatile Evolution (MAVEN) spacecraft successfully entered Mars’ orbit at 10:24 p.m. EDT Sunday, Sept. 21, where it now will prepare to study the Red Planet’s upper atmosphere as never done before. MAVEN is the first spacecraft dedicated to exploring the tenuous upper atmosphere of Mars.
It doesn’t say anything about my haiku but I guess they’re kind of busy with all the, like, sciency stuff and that. Go figure.
But hey – I can say with absolute truth: my writing is out of this world 🙂
On Saturday, it was my church’s Fun Day. We invite local community groups to come and share their info with the local community. It’s free and always popular. I represented Stockport Writers.
You may recall that last year I offered free poetry workshops and not one person came. This year, I offered to write poems for people. I asked for their name, age and five random facts, and then wrote something in the style of the birthday poems I have written for you, my readers.
For the first takers I said, Come back in ten minutes. More people signed up; I told them to come back at the end of the day to collect their poem. Eventually it was, I’ll email it to you tomorrow. And finally, You’ll have it by the end of next week, I promise.
Forty people wanted poems about themselves! I’m still busy typing them up and emailing them out.
At the same time as writing the poems, I invited people – at my friend Pam’s suggestion – to write a community poem: the theme for the day was joy, so I asked people to name three things that brought them happiness; and why. Roughly forty people (not the same forty people) completed that form, resulting in a poem three pages long, in fifteen five-line stanzas. I’ll post it at the bottom, in case you’re interested.
I cut out the answers and sorted them into themes and voilà! One community poem! It was a fun activity and easy enough to coordinate; you should try it.
Sunday, I chaired the monthly meeting of Stockport Writers at the Hatworks.
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Spud & Mum Do World War One
On Monday night, Spud and I read poems for an hour, to an audience of nineteen. Not a bad turn out for a Monday night poetry reading. It was a commemorative event for the start of the war. I had intended to read poems written only in 1914, but there aren’t that many; I suppose because the war was only a couple of months old in that year.
I chose poems written about the period, and ordered them roughly chronologically in terms of event. I began with an Andrew Motion poem about Archduke Ferdinand between assassination attempts; moved on to jingoistic poems and songs intended to encourage enlistment; followed by first time events e.g. going over the top; and concluded with poems about the effects of the war. I used War Poets, modern poets, and female poets. Spud complained that to listen to poetry for too long was tedious, so I introduced each poem with pertinent information, which also helped the chronological flow. It seemed to go down well.
Spud and I read for thirty minutes and then there was a break for tea – very English. In the second half, we read three of my own poems, to prove to the audience I am a poet (I hope); and then he read poems by Wilfred Owen and I read poems by Siegfried Sassoon, taking turns. We finished with Spud reading two in succession: Anthem For Doomed Youth (my favourite) and Dulce Et Decorum Est (Spud’s favourite). I wanted to close with the war still ongoing, as it was, 100 years ago to the date we read.
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Boast Post
Spud was good. When he shouts, Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! it sends shivers down your spine. When his voice breaks on we were young at the end of Houseman’s Here Dead We Lie, you get a lump in your throat. His plaintive Why don’t they come? at the end of Owen’s Disabled is pathetic in the best sense of the word. To paraphrase I’ll Make A Man Of You, it makes me oh so proud to be a mother.
Almost a quarter of the audience was made up of Spud’s friends, and I was under strict instructions not to say anything embarrassing. That’s usually a forlorn hope – at the award ceremony when he won the Drama prize, I managed to confuse his First Year tutor with a rugby player we know, asked about his wife (he’s not married), and compounded the problem by explaining my confusion was because he had ‘a rugby face’ i.e. broken nose.
This time, however, I was good; though he did tell me off for roping two of the girls into Stockport Writers and suggesting they friend me on Facebook.
I think Spud’s poetry performance was helped by appearing in The Tree of War. You may recall that he was amazing in that. Not that I’m biased or anything, but his a cappella singing of Pack Up Your Troubles was a moment when, according to X Factor thinking, he made the song his own. Not bad for a song that’s a century old. He played drunk pretty good, too; and I fervently hope that’s not based on experience. But it was the moment he was huddled at the bottom of the trench, terrified, crying, that made me realise he had something special.
Thinking about his character Bert, he imagined what it would be like at eighteen – his age now – to go blithely off to war; and then to learn of its horrors and sacrifices. Some of that informed his poetry reading. For someone who dislikes poetry, he did an incredible job; although not according to one critic, who told him, ‘You murdered that Ivor Gurney poem, didn’t you?’
Those who can’t, critique those who can, is my motherly response.
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Hot Stuff
Spud and I dressed in vaguely period costume to enhance the mood; and I wondered how women managed on summer evenings in long skirts and hats. The church was warm and I felt a hot flush come on. I thought I was going to faint at one point, particularly when the poetry folder on the music stand in front of me began to recede. Then I realised that it wasn’t the menopause so much as a not-screwed-tightly-enough bolt: I was merely glowing but the stand was slowly lowering. I had to bite my lip to stop myself giggling during Spud’s moving rendition of A Dead Boche.
Honestly, I don’t know why he finds me embarrassing.
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St Matthew’s Community Poem:
Happiness is a Serious Business
The smile of a child when they find something funny.
Seeing other people smile.
Seeing people smile when I’ve baked them a cake.
Cuddles and tickling.
A good laugh with anybody.
Miles of sandy beaches. The smell of the sea.
Looking out over Kent Estuary and Lakes –
mountains meeting the sea. Going on holiday.
Sunshine, because you can go out with friends.
A sunny day. Sunshine.
Being in the garden.
Growing my own veg in the garden
(shared with many, many slugs).
Being outdoors in the fresh air.
Getting caught in the rain. The seasons.
Bus rides on the top deck of a double-decker.
Going to Cornwall to see Nana.
Spending time with Grace (granddaughter).
Running around after my daughter.
Happy daughters playing together. Daughter.
To see my Sarah smiling and full
of energy all the time –
my greatest gift from the Almighty!
My greatest blessing!
Sons – utter happiness, contentment.
My sisters and my brother make me feel
really warm inside. Children.
My beautiful children. Kids. Family –
people I am close to. Spending time with my family
makes me feel happy because I feel loved.
Auntie Alison! Mummy. Memories about the bond
I shared with my Dad – love for my family.
Seeing my Mum and Dad happy makes me feel
very happy. My two parents make me feel calm
and loving. My family. Smartie the cat; she plays with me.
My two teddies are my only best buddies
and they make me feel less alone inside me.
Sweets, sleepovers and playing with friends.
Seeing my friends. Having good friends.
Big network of lovely friends.
Facebook – you can keep in contact with people
you normally couldn’t. Christmas, when we see everyone.
Church. Reading in church makes me feel I utilise a gift,
a talent God has given me – makes me fruitful.
Having time with my church family.
Jesus – joy, peace, fulfilment.
Four hundred voices singing a song
they really love, in collective worship.
Singing – the joy of it. Singing.
Singing: it puts nice pictures in my head.
Music. Music cheers you up.
Finishing a fantastic book.
Walking the dog. Knitting. Walking –
I like to ‘breathe’ in the hills.
Riding my bike in the sunshine.
Driving – I’m in charge. Painting – I’m good at it.
A day in my sewing room.
Baking cookies…and eating them.
Eating real food (especially love green smoothies!
With avocado, coriander, spinach and berries).
Chinese Buffet in Stockport – I always go for comfort food.
Cricket: it’s fun. Alex Park.
Clouds of pink blossom on cherry trees in Edgeley Park.
Music & Lyrics by Oliver Mills. Book & Lyrics by Rachel Mann
On Saturday afternoon, I saw the second-ever performance of The Tree of War. I mention this because – well, have you ever been in at the start of something big, and known it was the start of something big? That’s where I was at on Saturday afternoon.
The Tree of War is a musical about life in the trenches in WWI. Written, scored and directed by a poet priest and a twenty-year-old music student, it was a community theatre project at St Nicholas’ Church in Burnage, funded by Manchester City Council. A précis: Grandpa Bert tells his granddaughter the story of his time in the trenches. That’s it; that’s the whole story. And what a marvellous, rousing, moving story it was.
I had better declare an interest here: my son, Alex Cosgriff, played Young Bert – ladies’ man; loyal son; good friend; cannon fodder. He played him well: his singing was wonderful; he really can act; I burst with pride. But he wasn’t the whole play – a strong community choir and a good amateur cast was headed by Mike Law as Grandpa Bert: he was warm and cosy, sad and regretful. Sam Gilliatt as Bert’s friend Greville has a voice with the sweetest tone, and his duet with Alex was a thing of beauty. Jamie Rahman played Dougie McBride as a dour Scot; with a gorgeous voice, his solo sent shivers down many a spine.
The exploration of life in the trenches was well conceived – boredom, fear, letters to and from home; and the drinking…ah! the drinking! The best number among a raft of great numbers was The Lads’ Drinking Song: bawdy, irreverent, rousing and huge fun.
The staging was excellent. The tree of the title was out in the foyer, and that’s where the action began. The audience stood to watch until directed to move into the trench area, which was set almost completely in the round. We were in the trenches with the lads and shared their laughter and tears; their hopes and fears. We could see their sweat and almost smell their breath.
In any play about the Great War, of course, the lads inevitably go over the top. They disappeared to the sounds of mortar shells, through smoke and noise; and when it was finished and Young Bert lay huddled, terrified, guilty, sobbing, he had the whole audience riveted. Tears for all of those boys flowed like their blood, and didn’t stop until after the final, whole ensemble’s rendition, specially arranged by Oliver, of Jerusalem. As I fruitlessly wiped my own tears I heard a woman behind me say to her friend, ‘I can’t stop crying!’
If I have a criticism of The Tree of War, it is that it needs another twenty minutes and at least one more song – possibly a ballad for Young Bert – because it will have trouble getting to the West End otherwise. And believe me, this is a play that deserves a wide audience. If Oliver and Rachel don’t take it to Edinburgh next year, they’re mad. They could take it at this length and then extend it when it gets picked up. Look out for Oliver Mills because he is a massive talent. To write such music and direct with such flair at his age…words fail me.
After the show, I went up to congratulate Oliver. I think I frightened him a little because I wanted to throw my arms around him and hug him to death; I settled for grabbing both of his hands and refusing to let them go while I raved about what I’d just witnessed. I understand the impulse of the woman who clutched Alex’s arm and said, ‘I don’t usually grab strangers but I want to be able to say I touched you before you were famous.’
I want to be able to say I reviewed Rachel Mann’s and Oliver Mills’ premiere production of The Tree of War before it was a massive worldwide hit.
I woke up at three in the morning last night and saw the hall lamp was on which meant that Spud was still out and hadn’t let me know he’d be back so late.
Tory Boy was asking me about Holy Communion and I told him about the time I influenced a vicar.
She always used a piece of bread from her latest open loaf at home for the communion bread and, discussing it one day, I mentioned that I loved it when she used the occasional bun because of the symbolism of its wholeness/completeness/the actual breaking of bread, and so on. She didn’t say anything but she must have liked the idea because after that, she always used a bun at communion.
Tory Boy: So what you’re saying is, your vicar thought the bun was the best thing since sliced bread?
The story so far: Tory Boy’s guts are about to explode.
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Sunday 17 August
The Hub’s scapula was badly bruised but not broken, but he found it difficult to drive. Tory Boy was taken into hospital on Saturday evening; I was on the first train next morning to Lancaster. Which means I caught the bus because they were doing maintenance work on the tracks. Didn’t they know I was in a hurry?
Tory Girl was making her way up to Lancaster from Darn Sarf, booking in at a Lancaster Travel Lodge on the way (hooray for wifi). The train took five hours but it was worth the wait – she brought him a dinosaur sticker book, a Ninja Turtles notebook, a Spiderman pencil set and the Sunday Telegraph. She knows him well. She promised, if he was good and didn’t complain about the nurses’ needles, that she would buy him some Lego next day. She made good on her promise, and threw in a dinosaur teddy for good measure.
The expression of love
Tory Boy had been admitted to hospital on the Saturday evening but it was Monday afternoon before he had his appendectomy – car accidents and other emergencies kept bumping him down the list. I didn’t mind that, but I didn’t like that he wasn’t fed for 48 hours. I suppose it helps the NHS catering budget to starve the patients. They wouldn’t feed him because they believed he’d be next to be operated upon; but people kept crashing their cars. It didn’t help that Tory Boy wasn’t in dreadful pain. If it wasn’t for his rising temperature and pulse rate, you’d never have known he was one internal explosion away from writhing on the ground in agony.
I didn’t starve, of course: I had a surprisingly tasty lasagne in the inappropriately named Skylight Restaurant; which was in the basement.
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Monday 18 August
The surgeon finally whipped out TB’s appendix around 2:30pm. He said it was full of pus, septic, gangrenous and as close to bursting as he’d ever seen without actually bursting. How Tory Boy hadn’t been screaming for 24 hours was beyond his understanding. My boy, the medical conundrum. Typical of a child who failed the HEAF test because he had the tuberculosis antibodies already, despite never having been inoculated. His brother is the same – he also failed the HEAF test for the same reason; plus had his appendix out at eleven. Spud is currently winning the battle of the freaks, however, because he had Shingles at age nine.
Weirdly, neither of them have ever broken any bones.
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Tuesday 19 August
While all of this was going on, Spud was preparing to leave for the Leeds music festival. The five day trip was his main gift from us for his 18th birthday (back in January). There was a lot of last minute shopping for camping equipment, etc. I helped him pack on Tuesday evening; which is to say, I packed his bag on Tuesday evening: the child was prepared to survive on one packet of biscuits and ten litres of alcohol for almost a week, yet couldn’t pack a towel without his mother’s help.
The expression of dopey
Tory Boy was supposed to have been at a job interview Darn Sarf in the afternoon, but he had to cancel, for obvious reasons.
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Wednesday 20 August
Tory Boy was released, after a flurry of texts and calls to say, I’m coming out – I’m not coming out – I’m allowed home today – No I’m not…. There was some dispute; but they must have needed the bed because they let him go. I was on the train – a real train this time – as soon as he texted, I’ve got the drugs.
I brought him back by train (the Hub’s shoulder is going to take some time to heal – I hurt mine in January and it finally stopped aching around the beginning of August). He went straight to bed as soon as we got in. He lives in Lancaster but he needed his mother to look after him during his recuperation.
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Friday 22 August
Tory Girl came for the weekend. Tory Boy began to feel better.
Tory Boy no longer needed his mother. Sigh.
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Monday 25 August
Exactly one week since his operation, Tory Boy was on the train with Tory Girl, travelling five hours Darn Sarf and five hours back (without her), for the rescheduled job interview.
Spud came home, starving and stinking; not too drunk, but full of stories which can’t be repeated in a family blog. Come visit us, however, and I’ll happily allow him to share.
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Tuesday 23 August
Tory Boy got the job!
The expression of tolerance for a doting, blogging mother
So that’s been my week (or two). We are still busy, however, because Spud is rehearsing for The Tree of War, a play funded by the council and written by a poet vicar and a music student. Details here. Spud plays young Bert.
He is also packing up for university. Or he would be, if he wasn’t spending all of his time rehearsing. It’s going to be a last minute job; I know it.
Tory Boy went up to Lancaster at the end of last week to pack up his lodgings, came back to Stockport and went straight to hospital because he had some complications after his op. I didn’t need a medical degree to know that they were caused by over-exertion. They didn’t keep him in but he is on strict instructions to rest this week. Apart from a couple of excursions to the shops, he is resting. He needs to leave here next week to start his new job and move in with Tory Girl – as soon as they find a flat. What it is to be young and heedless.
Apart from this weekend’s performances, Spud is also doing a poetry reading with me in 12 days. We’ll start rehearsing that next week. Then we dump him and his stuff at Sheffield University at the end of the month – and I can start breathing again.
I am a little fat. I like food; what can I say? I have dull hair: mousey. I don’t wear much make-up and have no need of a dressing table. If I look like a bag lady, I chose my own clothes. If I look nice, the Hub picked them for me. Despite all this, I am a little vain. This photograph is from 2003. I had to go back that far to find one of me that I liked. But I don’t really care: my husband still thinks I’m beautiful and if he doesn’t, he loves me enough to lie about it. I’m lucky. I have two boys. They never lie to me. Still, you can't have everything.
The story so far: Tory Boy’s guts are about to explode.
The Laughing Housewife 
I have the funniest readers in the blogosphere (not necessarily ha ha…)