Charlotte x

Mummy, can my friend please come for tea?
I know I have my sister, but she is only three!
I can't to talk her about her about music, or singers that I like,
She still plays with dolls and can't yet ride a bike.
And another thing mum, she keeps on breaking my things,
She talks too much and rhymes are all she sings.
Please mummy, let my friend come for tea,
Because we're the same size and she can sit next to me.

A few years have passed and not much has changed,
But me and my sister have grown and our room's been rearranged.
She rides her bike with her friends and they laugh at me when I pass,
'Just you wait till you get home' I spit, 'I'm gonna kick your arse!'

I'm now in my early twenties, with a child of my own,
And all I feel in recent times is down, scared, alone.
My friends don't understand my troubles and that really hurts,
Even my little sister is out socialising at parties and concerts.

Life has now moved on, and lessons have been learned,
And after four years of parenthood, my happiness returned.
My parents I should thank, for giving me a friend,
Who hugged me when I cried and on whom I can depend.
I wish I could go back and say sorry, make things right,
But I think she's already forgiven me, for she is coming here tonight.
Yes my little 'Big' sister will be joining us for tea,
And I have laid a place for her, right here next to me.

xxx

Colour

I have seen you here before and as always you are grey. I stand behind you in the queue and the emptiness that fills you seeps from your skin and singes my nostrils. My stomach lurches, so I breathe through slightly parted lips.

The bulge of your middle wobbles with each uninspired step and your arms lay heavy by your side. To swing them would bring attention. Colour. You have not always walked this way, but life has not been kind to you. Your hair is a reflection of yourself - grey, short, blunt. Unloved.

Stains display themselves like a portfolio of meals eaten over time and your trainers, with laces pulled tightly, have seen better days. While I was behind you I heard you humming a tune and it was nice. I don't know what it's called but I got the impression it takes you back to your better days. Colour.

I see a child equally as stained and unkempt, tugging on the sleeve of your sun bleached coat and you smile at him. Colour. He is relentless in his quest for a hit of sugar from the sweet machine and as usual you are too tired to fight, you give in. The story of your life. He gobbles up the little rainbow and enters the lions den with determination and gusto, navigates his way over obstacles and snarls his sweet stained teeth at his fellow Sleeve Tuggers.

I watch as you walk to a table, to rest your lead limbs. Next to you sits the mother of the Sleeve Tugger. She does the telling off and is the apple that didn't fall far from the tree. With the same grey look, she sees the world through colour blind eyes, framed by dark puffy circles that teeter on the edge of sunken cheeks. She sits with her stocky arms folded across her bulging tummy, like huge gates keeping love, faith, anger, sadness, all colours locked away. It's safer there.

Yet you all come here week after week and I can't help but wonder why? This place is noisy, full of energy and innocence. I see you looking at your Grandchild who tugs at your sleeve and he has climbed to the top. He calls for you, waving his arms, swaying and swinging them 'Look at me! Look at me!' And then I see it. I understand that he is your second chance. He is your chance to make up for your mistakes and for you to have better days. For you to have colour.

For my friend - The Birds Did Sing.

I noticed when you looked at me today, you recoiled.  You have never done that before.

You recoiled like you'd seen something new. Something unnerving.

But when you looked at me yesterday, you smiled and batted your eyes. You liked what you saw.  You liked what you saw in me.

So what has changed since then? Did the sun not rise this morning? Did the birds not sing? you look at me unknowing and I wonder, do I not present to you today the same beauty? Do I not show those striking eyes, that rest on prefectly high cheek bones? Do I not still show the love and joy that seeps through warm flesh?

Look at me. Can you not see it all? It's still there. For today I reflect you as favourably as I do every day, you have just chosen not to see it.

In My Shoes

I am one. I have just started to walk and I wobble here and I wobble there, but have you seen my shoes? They are bright red t-bars that I refuse to walk in. I can't walk and look at the them at the same time.

I am four. I rush around the house fussing and moving things like my mummy does from the moment she wakes up, but have you seen my shoes? They are black shiny ones, with round toes and sparkly buckles and I like to put them on in the morning, as soon as I wake up.

I am seven. I like to hit and kick boys in the shins so it hurts, but have you seen my shoes? They are white 'Mercury' trainers from the market, which have plastic soles that make me slide here and make me slide there. I love to run fast with the boys but these have no grip, so I am always last.

I am eleven. I have a lead part in the school play - I shine, and have you seen my shoes? They are brown ankle boots with elastic on the sides. My best friend gave them to me and they click when I walk. They are three sizes too big but today my confidence fills them.

I am fourteen. I have a short tie, a short skirt and these days an even shorter temper, but have you seen my shoes? They are black Palladiums that my friend bought for me because she is kind and she knows how much I like shoes.

I am seventeen. I am loud and I laugh a lot and I have a weekend job, and have you seen my shoes? They are black and blue Nikes, with a zip going up the middle. I can run really fast for the bus in these.

I am twenty-one. I am now the mother of a one year old, I don't yet drive and winter is coming, but have you seen my shoes? They are black slip-ons with paper thin soles that fail to protect my feet from the frost and stones. Have you seen my daughter's shoes? They are pink winter boots with fur lining that she refuses to walk in but they keep her tiny feet warm and she likes to sit in her buggy and look at them.

I am twenty-seven. I work here and I work there, and have you seen my shoes? They are brown strappy sandals which show my painted toe nails. When I get home from juggling life here and juggling life there, I will kick them off in favour of my black wedge shoes, which are more fitting for a night out with friends.

I am thirty-three. I am married, I have two children and I have a wardrobe full of shoes.

1987 - Leona and I

There was a White girl and a Black girl and they were friends.

The White girl was older than the Black girl, but the Black girl had nicer hair - big soft curls dressed in flamboyant beads.
The White girl was slim and athletic, but the Black girl was plump with beautiful chocolate skin. 

The Black girl could wear bare legs all year around but the White girl had to wait for the sun to give her a loving kiss. Then they were sisters.

The Black girl would share her buttery corn on the cob with the White girl and the White girl would sing and dance a silly dance for the Black girl. They would smile at each other.
One day, the White girl and the Black girl were on the swings trying to touch the sky with their feet, when a group of White girls called the Black girl a name. 

Neither the White girl or the Black girl knew what it meant, but both thought tomorrow looked a better day to touch the sky.

Later on, the Black girl and the White girl bought a lemon ice each from the ice cream van, and licked and slurped them contentedly. Then they got on their bikes with their yellow tongues and raced each other in big circles.
The Black girl and the White girl were different, but the same.

Memz? What is this...word?

Welcome to my new blog, 'Memz'.  For those of you who may not know what this means, it means 'Memories', just the TOWIEfied version. I've chosen this title as it's an appreciative nod to a very good friend of mine who absolutely cannot stop herself from shortening any word she can. If she can't shorten it, she just leaves it out. For example, 'I love you' is now just 'Love.' Some might think this text talking, busty, blonde bombshell has nothing between the ears but let me tell you, one day while sitting at our desks when we worked as receptionists, she absolutely floored me with a beautiful poem she wrote for her dad - I felt dumb all of a sudden. Never in a million years did I think that under the fake tan (which was always streaky) and fresh highlights, there would be an amazing brain that could produce such beautiful words. So as I've now decided I'd quite like to write some poetry myself, I thought it was perfect.

My poems might be crap, they might not even be based on a memory and for all I know might not even qualify as poems as far actual Poets are concerned. But I'll give it a go because, why not? So I hope whoever reads them when they're posted likes them.

And to my beautiful friend who will know who she is, LAAAAAAHVE xxxxxxx