A short-ish update (You know me...)

It's now under a week until I leave for university. Facebook and Twitter are humming with university posts. Many of my friends moved in this weekend, so today's speciality has been pictures of beautifully decorated university rooms. I have some plans for my own room: I have two rolls of 'Poetry on the Underground' posters, one of my cosy IKEA rag rugs, and a box of multi-coloured, flower-shaped fairy lights. 

(By the way - where does the phrase 'fairy lights' come from? Is it old? I like it. It makes the fire-risks and all that seem a lot less realistic)

Half of my belongings are now in bags and boxes ready to travel. This has not been an easy process. I am a hoarder. I invest deep stored emotions in everything I won. Throwing things away for me is like being Voldemort and throwing away your Horcruxes. Still, the process proceeds, and this move is becoming more and more real. At the same time, we are preparing to move house as a family, and my long suffering Dad has just painted my new room in the exact specification of red-y orange I demanded, a sort of Heinz tomato soup colour. I have decided that I do not feel at home without my orange walls, so although I shall have to survive without them at university, I'm glad that for at least the next few years there will be somewhere familiar, and orange, for me to return to. For some strange reason, other people do not seem to appreciate the radiance of my orange walls. Each to their own.

So what is, or where is home? Moving to our fifth house, it's a question that's ceased to both me. Around the age of thirteen, and living in my least favourite house, I took to reading with great care the property sections of the newspapers, and grading the houses based on whether I'd live there or not, and preference. My ideal house had at least six bedrooms, looked beautiful, ideally included a study, pool and attic conversion, and sat in the middle of a sprawling landscape garden, stables optional. It was a vindictive, childish way of hinting at my parents that what they'd provided wasn't good enough, and it makes me wince to think back to it. Thirteen is a difficult age. But then we moved to our current house, and I turned fourteen, and stopped reading the property section. The worst thing you can do is long for things you can't have, especially whopping great grade-II listed mansions. 

Our family has two mottoes when it comes to 'home'. Firstly, and most importantly, home is where your family is. Secondly, home is where you make it. It could be a flat in Cornwall, a castle in Yorkshire, a suburban semi in London, but as long as we were all there, safe and sound, it could become home for us. More than that, 'home' isn't the building, or the locality: it's where we find ourselves in each other, where we belong. This makes 'homelessness' worse: not only are you without the physical comfort of a shelter, you loose the sense of belonging attached to shared living and to an extent, property ownership. Alden Nowlan, a wonderful Canadian poet, ends his poem 'He sits down on the floor of a School for the Retarded*' with these wonderful lines: 

'It's what we all want, in the end, to be held, merely to be held, to be kissed (not necessarily with the lips, for every touching is a kind of kiss.)  

Yet, it's what we all want, in the end, not to be worshipped, not to be admired, not to be famous, not to be feared, not even to be loved, but simply to be held.  

She hugs me now, this retarded woman, and I hug her. We are brother and sister, father and daughter, mother and son, husband and wife. We are lovers. We are two human beings huddled together for a little while by the fire in the Ice Age, two thousand years ago.'

These lines never fail to bring me reassurance and comfort. If you're interested in reading the full poem, I found it online here. The Selected Poems of Alden Nowlan was one of the first poetry books I ever bought myself, so it's very dear to my heart :') 

So my physical home is changing drastically, splitting into my university home and my 'base', with my family, but I'm not loosing anything. In fact, I think I'm gaining more than I'll miss. I really love my home here, in my little town, but not one but two new homes offers me the chance for a complete, fresh start. The chance to live the adult life I've been dreaming of and become the person I aspire to be, starting again with a clean slate. Besides which, I am completely in love with Norwich, and I can't wait to live there. The first time I stepped onto the campus I had an instinctual feeling that this was where I am meant to be, and God's been so good to me, guiding me this far. I honestly doubted I'd get there, but I shouldn't have. He's got me under his wing. I think I'll be okay. 

So next time I update this blog - unless I get really bored during the rest of the week - I will be somewhere new! I love the idea of a new landscape and a different setting to work in, with new inspirations, a different atmosphere. (I promise not to use the word 'new' again now, okay!) 

As always, thank you for your patience, your time, and your forgiveness for my enthusiasm for the semi-colon, hyphen, and bracket. 

Until then, God bless.

J.R. x 

* Retarded - This was written in 1982, so no offence meant. 

On the High Street

Warning: May contain over-dramatic metaphors


I am now firmly convinced I live in the best town ever. Four years ago we moved to a medium-sized market town on the verge of being swallowed up by a fast growing city. Having moved from the city itself, this isn't something I particularly resent, but the longer I live here the more I fall in love with little town life. Out of some appeal to originality, I'm trying to avoid the word 'vibrant', but I can't think of any other way to sum up the atmosphere in this town. It's so full of history and culture and life. Like many towns, it's experienced it's losses, such as the closure of the branch line (now a lovely, shady walkway) but it hasn't become a dead, commuter town. Old families stay. People move here and never move away. The churches and the clubs and societies and the multitude of coffee shops and the scout groups and the festivals teem with happy locals. I love it, and when I move away in September, I'll miss it more than anywhere else I've lived. 


The high street is only five minutes away from my doorstep, so this morning I went up into town to raid the charity shops. As you may or may not have guessed, I am a book fiend, and as it happens we have a particularly excellent selection of book-selling charity shops here. After visiting Oxfam (my favourite, but smelt weird this morning), Willen Hospice (always excellent for books) and Age Concern (spotted useful book on Hitler in window display) I was meandering towards the co-op to pick up 4pints of milk (thrilling) when I remembered that I'd heard about a new book shop opened down one of the side-streets, so I thought I'd take a look.


And then I was transported to book lovers heaven. 


Maggie and Josie's Bookshop is an independent shop, selling a wide selection of second hand books. Walking around, it was obvious that they'd been selected with love and taste: everything was in good quality and the selection was fantastic, from sports biographies to 50p Danielle Steels to Dr Faustus and English A-Level textbooks. The shop itself felt quiet and homely, with a few beautifully kitsch touches like the front of the desk, papered in book-leaves. Clutching my armful of books, I had a lovely chat with the lady who runs the shop about books, and unashamedly dragged my long suffering mum back later in the afternoon so she could buy some too. In the end I purchased 5 myself, plus 1 mum bought for me, at only £12.50 in total, which was fantastic! Having also bought three books in charity shops earlier, I now have nine new books. It's too good for words, so here's a picture instead: 

Courtesy of Maggie and Josie's bookshop: 
The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger. 
The Buddha of Suburbia by Hanif Kureishi
Peter Pan and other Plays by James Barrie 
Save me the Waltz by Zelda Fitzgerald
A glossary of literary terms &
a palgrave book of 20th century literary theory.


I am so happy to have been able to get the original play version of Peter Pan, which I have been looking for for ages. I was also tempted by Yann Martel's Life of Pi and Vladimir Nobokov's Lolita but I had to stop buying at some point. Also Lady Chatterley's lover, but somehow it does not feel quite decent to own it. I had to get it out of the library by the self-service checkout. 


I also bought Animal Farm by George Orwell from Willen Hospice and The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins and Burning your boats: collected stories by Angela Carter from Oxfam. We already have the Moonstone, but I am a Wilkie Collins fanatic and require my own copy to attend university with me! 

The other high street shop I want to talk about is Queen of Threads, a relatively new vintage clothing shop at the other end of the high street. This used to be my opticians and I was gutted when they closed down as they were really lovely, but all that changed when Queen of Threads opened. At present, it is the only clothing shop on the high street. Quirky and colourful, it sells the most amazing range of jewellery, bags, shoes, dresses, skirts, tops and trousers to be found in the county, all at affordable prices. Being reasonably conventional in my tastes, I haven't been brave enough to buy any of the more exciting pieces yet, but I love going in to browse. Although my 'sleeping mouse' ring broke, I still have a gorgeous dress with a woolly dog on it and this wonderful, hand-knit jumper photographed right. It's the perfect jumper for snuggling up in on a winter's evening, but it also looks great and makes me feel confident. What more can you ask for? Love it! 


So that's my materialistic outpourings for the month. I hasten to assure you that I am a deep, fulfilled, spiritual person and did not jump up and down with joy at the prospect of double-stacking my bookshelf...




Till next time, God bless & stay groovy!


J.R.