There I was, in a high-rise council flat in Hollington by the sea, mother of four.  Kerry thirteen, stays up till 11pm, Sean ten and a half, goes to the ramp park with his friends after school, to show off his skills with the mountain bike uncle jack happened to find, in the back of an abandoned lorry.  Lisa who’s six drives me Barbie mad and Timothy who is three, is still in the throws of his ‘terrible twos’.  Their dad left when I fell pregnant with Timothy.  We agreed on just two kids, but the other two sort of popped out as fate dictated. Well thirteen years since my first pregnancy ended and a lot of comfort eating and bickie-breaks later, I’m pretty voluptuous, as I like to think of myself.  I’ve still got a waist, well sort of, my thighs have ballooned, my buttocks expanded, my boobs have bloomed and my arms and tummy have a healthy covering of insulating puppy fat.  Okay, I’m fat!  Well so what, get over it, most of Brittain is overweight, so join the club.  It doesn’t help that I drive everywhere either.

     My story begins when for the first time I got a real break from motherhood, when Timothy went to nursery full time.  That’s two and a half hours a day, five days a week in real terms; the blasted council wouldn’t pay for anymore.  In London, parents get tokens from 8am to 6pm, so their job centres can tell them to get back out to work, something I’ve longed to do.  There’s only so much child time you can have a week and then you need some descent adult company, I mean girlfriends, boyfriends, just platonic, you know, but adult talk, no curfew rules.  Our parents used to kick us out on the street to play, “Just be back in time for tea”.  Do you remember? no such luck now-days, motherhood’s a prison sentence, or so it seemed until that late April afternoon, when I dropped Timothy off at the Hippo club and walked down with Tash and Beckie to the beach opposite the pavilion.  It was closed that day, so we went back up to street level and bought some bubbly, (Lambrini, not the real stuff), a whole five-litre giant size bottle.  We were so busy talking about exes and what we’d have done if we’d never met them or got pregnant, we got a little carried away with drinking ourselves into the realms of fantasy land.  None of us had much time for drinking now, (what with the kids ‘n’ all), we got tiddly quicker I suppose.  Anyhow, there we was, saying how we’d have done the catwalk in glitzy south of France, lowering our cardigans and prancing about on the pebbles, (nearly killing ourselves in our ‘Next’ healed shoes), and falling over in peels of tiddly laughter, when Beckie pulls out this camera and starts clicking.  Well, we all jumped at the chance of being caught on camera in our sexiest positions (dressed of course) each of us snatching the camera and snapping the other two making complete fools of themselves.  The film didn’t last long; all thirty-six exposures were used up in a matter of minutes.  We went to a café, and had some coffee to sober up before collecting the kids. The next day we all agreed to destroy the film, but Beckie, silly cow, had reloaded the camera, and put the used film in with the other undeveloped ones of her and her brood on holiday, and forgotten which one was which, cause they all looked the bloody same, well they would wouldn’t they.  She’d bought them from Lidl, four in a pack for a fiver special offer.  That’s Beckie for you, head in the clouds as usual.  She’d sent them all off to a photographic lab up north, you know one of those packet things, that come in with the junk mail, so no one who knew us would see them.  I was terrified; post was going missing all the time, what if one of the posties who knew us opened the damn thing.

     It was May 16th when Beckie phoned me; eight bloody thirty in the morning, school run for me.  All right for Becky, both of hers take themselves to secondary school, and have each other for safety and all.

I remember her screeching down the phone, “ The photos have come! get over here! you’ve got to see them, they’re bleeding amazing.”

     Kerry went to school early to meet up with her mates, but I still had to drive Sean and Lisa to St.Pauls for 8.50am and take a buggy and bag of nibbles and bits for timothy.  Tim wet every now and again, if we didn’t make it to a toilet in time, so a few extra sets of clothes were in order.  I rushed all the way to Becky’s and still arrived after Tash.  We put CBBIES on for Timothy, and huddled on Becky’s sofa to see the photos. Beckie was clasping the closed packet, keeping us in suspense; Tash and I went to snatch them. “Now, now” Said Beckie, holding them up high “All in good time” and she slowly opened the packet, pulling them out like they was valuables. We looked at the photos alright.  Wow was that really me!  All these years, I’d stood in front of mirrors thinking, ‘Fat cow’ and look at me there, I might be a big girl, but Christ I was still young and beautiful.  Everything in its’ place, slightly exaggerated proportions, but still sexy. 

     It started from there really.  Beckie was awaiting her city and guilds diploma in photography, Tash had done a business start up course via the benefits agency, and I came up with the alternative modelling agency, called ‘Vintage Beauties’.

     We started off by making our own calendar and advertising in the Friday add, for voluptuous oversized models, no experience necessary.  We even got a grant from the Hastings Trust and patented our idea.  Now we’ve had national exposure via the News and put Hastings back on the map for creativity, imaginative ingenuity and modelling with a difference, putting the voluptuous woman back in fashion.

     By the way, that picture of me is on the cover of the Lady Magazine.  Oh, and I’m buying my own home with a garden in West St. Leonards, very posh.  I have a laugh, get tiddly, get my kit off and get paid for it.  Who said you can’t have your cake and eat it!   

Tentative, gentle

fingers through hair

lovingly say,

mummy's still there.

Caringly touches

the I. V. tube feed.

Earnestly watching

a new born babe breath.

Remembering others

for told and warned

the child I carried

would be born deformed.

Looking him over

so tranquil, so still.

Eyes brimmed with tears,

yes, he was ill.

My little bundle

of overjoyed love.

I've grown so attached,

and lovingly hug

Two eye operations

at Great Ormond Street.

His whole in the heart,

healed up a treat.

Three years on,

he's grown so fast.

Some simple words

he's grasped at last

I look back on our lives,,

now I've time to reflect,

on hectic appointments,

with cool respect.

For out of all chaos,

it's clear to see,

the most lovable child

God saved for me.

Liberate, conceptualise,

invigorate and tantalise,

the realms of your subdued imagination.

For here at Shorelink writers group,

the aim is ‘come and have a hoot’

fill the air with peels of jubilation.

Write about Count Dracular,

being slain by wooden spatula;

paint a picture out of words on paper.

Comedy or drama style,

horror stories to compile;

poet or a budding story maker.

What ever turns you on my friend,

twist of tail and screw the bend. 

Fantastical erotic compilation.

Make Monday eves a sacred date,

seven thirty, don’t be late,

Southwater centre near St Leonards station.

Oh dear father,

Won't you take a look at me.

Oh dear father,

please tell me what you see.

Do you see a woman

capable and kind,

or do you see a little child

behind the woman’s mind?

Oh dear father,

won’t you take a look at me

and see all of the damage,

mum let dad do to me.

Now I’m left a woman,

in pieces on the floor;

Left to walk an adult life

and bolt up memories door.

When I told my mother,

she looked at me in shame

and said, “ABUSE was not the same”

So now I bear the pain.

Oh my natural father

is of the cup the Devil sips

and my natural mother,

speaks through the Devils lips.

Still I find I’m grieving,

though it happened long ago;

I guess I am the product

of the Devils overflow.

Here I am, in a little red shell

Stuck to a leaf, as I swell.

In a few weeks time, I shall be free,

As the warming sun beckons me.

I eat my shell and out I scamper.

New green growth, my hunger pamper.

Fatter and fatter, and longer still.

I will eat and eat, but never fill.

My hungers need, my bulging greed,

All from the size of a poppy seed.

Now I am ready to spin my silk,

Compulsively to form a quilt.

Cocooned for winter I reside

Where I metamorphosize.

To emerge as one who needs to dry

The wings of a pretty butterfly.

Mum listened to Mikes’ heartfelt plea,

as he said “It wasn’t me!”

Chocolate stains were on the table,

on the chair and on the floor.

Chocolate handprints everywhere,

on the walls and on the door.

“Oh my goodness gracious me!”

Said mum, with shocked reality.

“So who made all this chocolate mess?

I think I know, let me guess”

Mike looked up so desperately,

“But mum” he said “It wasn’t me!”

The chocolate stains around his mouth,

matched those printed round the house.

It wasn’t quite how mike had planned,

for mum had seen his chocolate hands.

“So, you say it was not you!”

“Tell me Mike, if not, then who?”

Mike looked up so desperately

“But mum” He cried “It wasn’t me!”

He cried and cried, a real sob.

Mums heart broke; it did the job.

She picked him up onto her lap

and said “It was that naughty chap.”

“Mr No-one came today,

made this mess and ran away.”

“Will Mike help mum wash and tidy?”

Mike just said “It wasn’t me!”

I saw a squirrel

sitting in a tree,

purposely aiming

acorns at me.

“Don’t throw that!”

I shouted out loud.

By talking to a squirrel,

I had gathered a crowd.

I looked away

in shame and disgrace,

trying to find a way

of hiding my face.

I retreated to the shade

of the acorn tree,

where the squirrel

dropped acorns, gleefully.

The people looked up

and saw it was true,

just what this squirrel

dared to do.

They looked and laughed

then walked away.

I felt uncomfortable

the rest of the day.

Painfully slowly,
memory crept through,
I had laid out a place
at our table for you.
Terror and pain
bombarded my brain,
the loss of you
will drive me insane.

Dad looked up
with eyes full of sorrow;
Unspoken words
in tears for tomorrow.
Slowly but surely,
removing your place,
I served out the food,
couldn’t look at his face.

Only this morning
we cried you away
with a wreath of fine flowers
where you are to lay.
A stone full of scripture,
To depict your whole life,
will tell of love for a mother
and wonderful wife.

I sit at our table
and prod at the plate,
not feeling hungry,
‘How cruel is fate!’
Not wanting to know
there is no more you,
painfully slowly
memory crept through.

If women were from Venus

And men were from Mars;

Mars would be a football

Made entirely out of cars.

Venus would have mood swings

And feisty fiery words,

While Mars would host the footy cup

Venusians thought absurd.

Venusians expect courtship,

To be greater than the stars.

Cunningly Martians woo her

With their super sonic cars.

Venusians laugh at Martians

Little puffs of air,

Stuffed into leather sacks

And booted everywhere.

She couldn’t see the goalposts,

There right before her eyes.

Luckily for Martians,

They’re right between her thighs.

Separated, divorced, mother of two,

surviving on Income Support.

Thank God for Lidl and charity shops,

without them perish the thought.

One hundred and twenty five pounds a week,

includes child benefit too;

don’t party or drink it or smoke it away,

but I know of people who do.

Problems begin when I need to move home,

good landlords want rent in advance.

Housing benefit take eight long weeks to pay,

so people like me stand no chance.

So I’m forced to choose from the dregs left untouched;

they offer ‘the house that Jack built’,

with its caved in ceilings and woodworm to boot

and the walls have a strange sort of lilt.

The decorative order, bare wires everywhere,

plug sockets that work are so few,

and the musty stench of urine and dogs,

is enhanced by the smell of mildew.

The carpets are worn threadbare and torn,

not a cupboard or shelf on the walls.

The gutters will strain when it’s pouring with rain,

so we even get free waterfalls.

So this is my life now as an ex-wife

raising the kids on my own,

in ‘the house that Jack built’ with its walls with their lilt

and the carpets that welcome us home.

All works copyright  © Tania Oriol 2004 - 2005 

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