I remember myself as a young woman. Unblemished skin, silk mahogany hair and a slender figure. I yearned for longer legs and would say there was a six-foot supermodel h idden, crouched and stuffed, in this diminutive form, and it wanted to be unleashed. I’m an old woman now, with the vagaries of an ageing body and multiple textures in my hair. Inside I’m a blessed spaciousness but nobody gets to see that. All they see is a cadaver of gelatinous pulp and wretched wrinkles that forge chasms across my chin, along with the tufts of dried grass that make their acquaintance with the soft down that has always existed there. Eyebrows that were once slight and refined, now charge their way towards my hairline. Tweezers that only had an outing once in a blue moon, now have a daily excursion in front of the ten times magnification mirror. Twenty-twenty vision got lost somewhere in the ether and can only be seen now with the benefit of hindsight. I turn my back to my gorgeous younger self, not wanting to abject myself to what I have lost. My eyes fix only on what lies ahead, even though time and space is short compared to that behind me. I console myself with the knowledge of how my younger life felt. Scared, scorned, scarified by my imaginings. I lived a life belied by the external visage. The outer skin, pure and faultless, the inside tormented. My mind, scourged by questions and demands, never allowed me to feel good enough. My mind, fearful and hesitant, never allowed me to step forward in confidence. My mind, a battle ground, a war that raged between two selves, never allowed me any compassion for my tortured soul. From that beleaguered mind, I was blind to the beauty of my physical form. Some days I pretend I’d give my hind teeth to look like I did again, but I’d not exchange it, not in a million years, for the exquisite tenderness I now harbour deep inside. Unless of course you can offer me a pair of longer legs.

I’ve written a few times this week and still I haven’t done the exercise right. It’s harder than it sounds. The others made it look so easy. I start to go down the route of what’s wrong with me but I block that off before it takes hold. I could do a transformation line but that’s not the exercise. So I’ll keep going. I can’t go to class a second time with a weak piece. I’ve got a reputation to uphold. There’s a Jericho trumpet in the morass that swipes left, the scream aghast as Johnny be good begets temptation to raise an army and shut me down before I even get started. I should be used to this by now, but switching class has done something to me. It’s rattled a cage I’d forgotten was there. I try to push it to one side but I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, no matter what I tell myself. I want to quiet the noise, but I can taste it. I am so tempted to jump into the next exercise. But I need to keep going. My mind keeps throwing things at me. I need to ignore them. I tell myself to persevere. There’s an argument going on in my head. My ego wants me to use all my tricks so I can look good, but if I do that I won’t be teacher’s pet. I want to look good for my tutor and the other students. If I don’t do the exercise I won’t look good to anyone. Looking good won’t do me any favours. Yet it still pushes me to look good. Forget looking good. So I’ll write a load of crap and face the consequences. I can see this is more drivel. It’s been the same every day this week. It’s not worth taking anything to class. Well, if nothing else I’ve stuck to the exercise this time. I should’ve done the musicians class. I bet they’re having an easier time of it than I am. I’m nearly at the end of my two pages and it’s my last chance saloon for whistles and bells and elephant’s trumpets. I’ll waddle onto the gangplank, in my barbed wire pants, shove the weeks old bread into the mouth of the knotted talisman and fingers crossed, I hope to do or die. ************** If you like this blog please share on your favourite social media. :)

I sit in this chair and look out the window. I hear the washing machine churn the laundry in the kitchen. I watch the leaves on the tree turn from green, to red, to orange, to brown, to grey and then fall off. I imagine they carpet the lawn with their tawny hues. I don’t see the ground. I make up half the story, to compensate for what I can’t see, from this chair. People walk outside. Up and down the street. I imagine them going to work, to school, to play, or to the theatre, or the cinema, to a football match or a round of golf. I sit in this chair and make up stories about them. Cars come and go. I imagine them arriving at their destination, breaking down on the motorway, crashing into a lamppost, being lambasted by a forty foot artic lorry. I imagine the passengers end up in a chair, much like this one. I wave at the postman as he passes by my window. He doesn’t stop. No gifts, or parcels, cards or letters from friends, or family, or the double glazing firm that wants to sell me a new set of windows. I want to ask him about his wife, his kids, his work, his life. I know nothing about him, nor him about me, other than I’m the woman who sits in the chair and looks out of the window. He doesn’t notice the look on my face when he passes by without a glance. Next door’s cat comes into the garden. I watch her wander around. She sniffs at the plants, eats the grass, poos in the gravel at the edge of the path. I’d love her to wander in and sit on my lap, while I sit in this chair. But like everyone else, she wanders by the open door, with ne’er a look. The washing machine stops. Someone will empty it later, when they arrive to clean me up, get me dressed, tidy up around me. “I can’t stop to chat.” The nurse will say. “I’ve got too much to do, too many people to get around to, too many others to care for.” Care. That’s what she calls it. No cup of tea. No gossip about the neighbours. No catch up with what’s going on in her life. I’d love to hear what else she’s up to. She knows what I do. I sit in this chair. 

I have fought long and hard for my self-worth. I will not give it up, not for nothing or no-one. Behind this guileless exterior lies a steel rod. I am not to be messed with. I will not lay down to take a mouthful of crud, swilled down with horse-shit and a big dollop of how’s your father. I will not be sniffed at, sneezed over, coughed on. I will not be spat on from a great height. This backbone of mine will not squelch, will not fold in on itself, will not curl into a foetal position in the face of exhorted attempts at my denigration. My dignity is rock solid. Arrows bounce off this impervious exterior. Nothing and no-one will get past the perimeter of my mind to cause untold damage inside. I know who I am. I am proud of who I am. I am who I am. I protect who I am. This protectress is the strongest part of me. The part that stands up to fight when the chips are down. The part that refuses to accept scattergun accusations. The part that surfaces once in a blue moon. The part I’ve always relied on, when I’m in a tight spot, with my back to the wall. It sports a Kevlar jacket, with Doc Martin boots, and a Boadicea shield, yet it has a pink fluffy boa around its collar. It won’t take any punches, nor does it hold any prisoners. All the best parts of me are rolled into this one, corralled into action, at my most strident. It’s the cast iron core of me. I will never give it up. ************************ This poem was conceived during the Wild Dark and Passionate, Level Seven of my writing classes with Jules Swales.

Two senior aides meet at a secret location, to plan how to put a positive spin on the recent breakdown of high profile talks between their respective government parties.

I’m fifty-nine next week. Dad died seven weeks after his fifty-ninth birthday. His dad died at  fifty-one. Did Dad wonder what he should do different in those next few weeks, or did he just flip it aside and pay it no mind and live his life as he normally did and let the chips fall where they may. Did he ask himself how he could make these last few weeks more precious? Did he decide to tell everyone he loved that he loved them or did he just trust that they knew that already? Did he go all out to be present to every moment of every day and notice the little things that matter like milk and sugar on his cornflakes family photos on top of the piano a roof over his head Jesus in his heart. Did he say to himself, or to God ‘Please let me have a few more years’ and did God answer and that’s why he lived to fifty-nine instead of fifty-one. What would happen if I pray the same prayer. Will I get a few more years? Image downloaded from canva.com

Jacqueline Hollows was the instigator of the book A Different Story. In this informal interview with Maria Iliffe-Wood, Jacqueline talks about how her interest in the 'business' of publishing a book led her to suggest the idea of publishing A Different Story, How Six Authors became Better Writers. You can read more of Jacqueline's writing and find out what else she's up to in the world on her website .

The six contributing authors to A Different Story, read a piece from the book then answer questions about their writing process. Questions like: What was your process when you sat down to write these pieces? Are the stories true? How did you manage to remember so much detail? Jules Swales, the method writing teacher who designed the exercises and explained each one in the book also offers a perspective on her teaching of method writing and its impact. You can buy a copy of the book here , and all author royalties will go to Storybook Dads .

This is the full testimonial received from Usha Mayani contributing author to A Different Story.