Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: 'What do I tell the grand kids?' by Layide

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

What do I tell the grand kids?
by Layide

Mum’s care needs have now changed.  She no longer communicates with words, but with screaming and shouting like Chewbacca from Star Wars!  The screeching is soul piercing, sorrowful and painful.  The Mother tongue (Yoruba language) is more dominant than the English language once fluently spoken . A dark cloud sits over her head, with occasional glimpses of sunshine bursting through the clouds. 

Mum spends all day lying vertically in bed, just waiting like a mascot for some sort of movement or interactions. As you enter her room her eyes gaze at you for instructions for you to either tell her to lift her legs or arms, or to sit up. She waits either for the family, or from the carers to dart in and out of her room doing the same daily routine.  The carers both caring and motherly women, greet mum with “Hello Aunty! how are you doing today?”  Mum smiles, as she recognises their familiar faces, and instantly knows the usual routine.  Anything out of the ordinary can set her back, and needs to be reset like a computer device being put back to factory settings.

The colourful box entertains her all day.  It watches her more than she watches it.  Whenever I phone  and ask her what is she watching, she always says BBC 2.  I know it’s not always BBC 2, as she likes the Food network channel and the Film channel too.  Mum was always one to watch Colombo & Ms Marple.  She was her own Detective, as she always solved the crime before anyone else!  She would watch the Drama and interact by talking and shouting “He’s behind you! “ Or she would guess who the murderer was before anyone else would.  It was a delight to watch mum in her element on a Saturday night watching TV.

I look into mums’ eyes looking straight back at me.  Innocent eyes, memories lost. Whenever she has the need to cry out, she shouts “my mummy oh!” followed by sorrowful cries, sometimes accompanied by nervous laughter just like a little child.  I offer her food or water, then she stops the cries and finds some sort of comfort in the feeding of food or drink.  I extend my hand to hold hers, then stroke her arm.  Simple touching connects and grounds her, she feels safe and secure.  She smiles a very warm sweet smile, then asks a random question.  There are times when she remembers things that have happened a long time ago, or asks me about a particular person that even I cannot remember.  She is still here; she is still present.  If only that were 100% true, and this ghastly disease was not true.

Prayer and faith are what keeps me going strong.  She spent most years in church and praying for other people.  Anytime I had a problem she would say pray about it, there is nothing too difficult for God.  She knew scripture by heart; she would run bible study groups and Caring hearts home groups as a leader.  She was well known and respected in the church.  Now it’s our turn to lift her up to God for healing and encouragement.  

Mum looks very well, her skin unblemished, unwrinkled for 82 years is not bad at all.  The odd grey hair bursting through the dyed black hair reminds you of her age.  Mum never liked the fact that she was growing old.  She would always ask me to pluck out the grey hairs when they made their first appearance.  It felt like effort trying to pluck the slippery grey hairs from her scalp.  Mum made sure I caught all of them before I could leave her presence.  She would keep on checking her head at all angles in the mirror.  Only problem was the more you plucked them the more they seemed to appear!  In the end I had to keep her happy by dying it black which lasted a long time.

Mum was always chatting, laughing, bubbly and very popular at work and in church.  Now, she rarely speaks, only talks when prompted with a few words or grunts.

Mum where have you gone, where are you hiding, what has happened? Are you scared? Are you worried? Are you ok?  

I could hear the grand kids asking, as they play around her.  Every now and then they ask Grandma “are you ok?”

What do I tell the grand kids?

She smiles back at them with that Grandma smile, then closes her eyes to catch a moments sleep.  The grand kids vary in age.  The oldest one remembers grandma’s booming African voice and laughter.  Always shouting and being heard above all voices, cracking jokes as she dominated her space.  The middle children remember her visiting them and going out to various functions where grandma was always in attendance too.  The youngest child only sees grandma at home either in her chair or in her bed.

I now realise there is so much I can tell the grand kids. Grandma has the greatest memory since she has lived long. It’s all locked into her mind and comes out every now and then when she wants to let it out.

 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: Extract by Nicola

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Extract
by Nicola

Days had melted into weeks and Fae had gotten considerably better with the handle of her powers. The anxiety she experienced still crept in from the shadows from time to time but the whispers of doubts were slowly getting quieter. Combat training had been somewhat smooth for her even with a few hiccups Fae was able to pick herself up and try again. Step by step, things began to look up and Fae took it in her stride. Through those same weeks, Fae was comforted with words of courage from Lura when they would meet. It had a profound affect that lingered within her, as if it had caused an internal shift. Fae hoped that whatever was to come would not turn out bad like it had done the last time.

*

There had been a downpour that night as the girls and their parents took refuge in the nearby woodlands. The earthy smell swayed through the trees as the wind blew the fallen leaves from where they had rested. Small puddles of mud were trodden through as the group made their way past, and the animals of the woods scurried through the trees, jumping from branch to branch causing a ruckus for all to hear. The forest looked refreshed after the rainstorm and all the group could hear were the sounds of the forest.

“We should probably try and set up camp here and rest for a while. Who knows when we’ll next get a break?” Suggested Anthony. The batch started to relax and unload, letting out a chorus of sighs. They had been on constant alert ever since the loss of Althea’s mother, the brutal attack that left her half an orphan and everyone was on edge. Althea’s heart was breaking, and she did not have the time to mourn properly. Hearing something in the distance, Richard absorbed his surroundings and heard roars coming towards them from a distance.

“Dad, what’s going on?” Questioned Althea. She clung to her father in hopes of relief but to no availas her heart continued to race.

“I think I can hear the Algonites. They’re marching towards us, we need to leave, now!” The crew hastily got their baggage together making sure not to leave anything behind, as any trace would give them away. Out of nowhere an explosion erupted a few feet from them, following with a collection of screams.

“We’re too late.” Said Hannah nervously. In the distance a sapphire sea of foul-smelling creatures paced evenly towards them.

“Stop where you are! You are outnumbered and outmatched.” Growled an invader. It scanned the group from left to right as it took a few steps closer to take in their appearances.

“He’s looking for the Elementals.” Whispered Jade to Richard. With his enhanced hearing, he was sure to have heard her message.

“On your knees you insignificant creatures, you are in the presence of the Dark Fleet, you are now our prisoners.” The group started to bend their knees into submission, but Fae took a step forward in defiance and squinted.

“Not today.” Her hands ignited in fury and threw two fireballs which collided with a ball of electric. Fae shot a beam of Fire out both hands and burnt three of the blue beings, smirking at their part melted forms. Another globe of flames appeared in her palm, burning fiercely with her raged emotion, ready to launch. Just before she could throw the fierce flames, her father grabbed her out harm’s way whileburning himself in the process. Daryl cradled his forearm as he grunted in pain, trying his hardest to rock the pain away.

“Dad, I’m so sorry.” Apologised Fae. She crouched down to support her father’s arm to see the full damage, while the others covered them. It had melted through layers of skin and blood flowed from the wound profusely.

“You dare defy us!” Raged the invader. With a roar, the invaders charged their claws and launched a cluster of electricity in their direction. Eva-Rosebolted next to Fae and blocked them from danger with a boulder. The huge lump of stone crumbled on impact and showered dust fragments between thefighting foes.

“Quick Simon, take the girls out of here. They can’t be taken, or we’re all doomed.” Ordered Joy. Althea blew a gust of wind throwing a few invaders back as a cover for her and the girls to reach Simon. Teleporting was a tricky one. The more people he had to move with, the more difficult it was. Richard and Daryl charged towards the enemy, firing lasers from his gun. Hoping to bide time for them to escape. Slashing and shooting their way through the mass they took down a few more blues monsters. Fae, Eva-Rose and Willow placed their hands-on Simon and Joy, and Jade ran to join them.

“Dad no. Come back please!” Screamed Althea, tears falling from her watery eyes. Her yelp of sorrow caught her father off guard. The closest Algonite threw waves of electricity, shocking him to the floor where he trembled in discomfort and laid motionless as his heart came to a stop.

“Father!” Exclaimed Fae.

“Go!” Cried Daryl. In a swift motion the group escaped, leaving behind a teardrop from Althea’sand Fae’s anguish.

*

That was the last time they saw them. 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: 'My Childhood Memory' by Bernadette

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

My Childhood Memory
by Bernadette

 

I remember my first week at my Catholic Boarding High School...

How the fear of leaving my parents, my siblings and my home built up as my drop-off day fastly approached, never had such fear in my ten years of life...

I remember how I was made to cut off my beautiful long hair...

How I watched with ignorance as the hair stylist repeatedly drove her sheers through my head, plucking off my God-given gift...

I remember when the day finally came...

How my heart overweighed my being as we drove pass the extensively lengthy school walls leading to the entrance gates...

I remember having the feeling of being sold away by my parents as they handed me over to the Reverend Sister and drove away...

How my fearful thought of migrating from free to lost became more real...

Being put in their care meant growing up fast, enduring torture, and discovering yourself in hardship...

I remember how the seniors bullied me as a junior...

How they ignored my plea for empathy and allergies from manually cutting wet grass...

I remember how that first week I got home-sick and wrote a letter to my father, asking him to come rescue me and take me home...

How my teared baggy eyes gave me clear insight and acceptance that my father was not going to answer my cry for help...

I remember many more stories of my childhood after that first week at my Catholic Boarding High School...  

How I had to protect my sisters when they were brought in later years to join me in the boarding school life...

I remember that hot sunny afternoon when my mother came to the school gates with tears, feeling empty and lost, to inform my sister and I of how she was forced out of our home and her marriage by my father's family...

How I had to grow up quickly again as a child to care for my mother and my siblings, always sharing my school provisions and teaching my siblings to do the same...

Many stories but a few shared...

Now I've had over forty years of life, I see that my father's rejection to my cry for help was his gift of tough love, to make me stronger to survive the remaining years at the boarding school...

Now I see clearly, that my father's actions helped build my independence, taught me lessons of life and how to face its challenges...

Many years I forgave my father and mother, as is the habit of love to keep conquering many actions...

Through life's waves, I am thankful for courage...

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: 'A tree with no Name' by Avril

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

A tree with no Name
by Avril

 

You know how people stare
Photographing my bark and branches
and think I have no emotion or feelings
‘I suggest you leave your world of connection
and obsession with speed, internet and
and fast food and learn patience and
observation’.

In the quiet gardens, I found another tree
Taking in the quiet, noticing my
feelings and observations
What could I find if I took the time?
‘I’m like you weathering storms and all
kinds of weather that come my way’

I started to record my observations
writing in a journal, through a lens
admiring the different colours of
seasonal leaves
The enjoyment of being surrounded by
nature

I researched and found how mature trees
assist with smaller trees in their
neighbourhood by using
Underground fungal networks to transfer
Water, carbon and resources

‘I started to notice how each tree is
unique
Your ridges of bark and veins of leaves
are fingerprints distinctive to each
trunk and branch
As each one is different
I learnt how trees strengthen
Communities
Bringing together individuals and groups
walking, birdwatching, nature trails,
children’s activities

Trees stand full of pride
Roots are our foundation, we are all
grounded
Our roots spread
Spring is a time for growth and
openness
‘You too can be open and grow at your pace

The conversation ended with the tree
with no name
Asking me to look closely and observe
all the shades of green leaves and
different textures of trees in London
growing in the Royal Parks
I’ll finish with a quote
‘We are the longest living species on
Earth
And give a link between the past, present
and future’.
Where I departed feeling calm and
nourished.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: Extract from 'Just another life' by Meliha

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Extract from Just another life

by Meliha

Upon our return, my aunt questioned me about how Harris proposed. She was shocked to discover I accepted it with ‘okay’. She argued that a marriage proposal cannot be accepted with ‘okay’. I argued that it could, since I managed it. She explained what she meant at great length. I listened. We went to bed.

The next day my aunt was back at work, so I was on my own again. I remember lying on the bed, staring at my ring, smiling to myself when the thought of my mother shook every nerve in my body. I have no idea where all those tears came from, but they gushed out in great numbers. I couldn’t even stop them. I got up, got dressed and made my way to the graveyard. The sun was out, I had my sunglasses on, and every so often I had to rub a tear from my cheek.

I arrived to the great big field of gravestones and had no idea where to begin to look for one with Indira Behar on it. I must have felt considerable pain at the time, although I don’t remember that I cried anymore. I remember wondering about the grave yard, passing by stones that seemed too old to be done at the time of my mother, looking to my left and my right; turning back, stretching my sight as far ahead as I could. I wandered about the field of graves for a long time; I remember the sun was fresh on my face on my way to the graveyard, and it was sharp on my back as I walked away from the graveyard. I don’t remember that I thought about anything as I walked towards River.

As I caught sight of River I noticed Benjamin talking to two men and pointing to the window of the café. I was no more than a few meters away from them when the two men departed and Benjamin turned in my direction with a smile on his face.

Benjamin: “Good morning Mrs Stone.”

Me: “Hey.”

Benjamin: “Is everything alright?”

Me: “Err… I think I need coffee.”

Benjamin: “You’ve come to the right place. Come on in.”

Me: “Thanks.”

I took my usual seat by the bar, and Benjamin resumed his position behind the bar. It was cool and shaded inside River. No one else was there; all the other customers sat outside in the garden, by the river.

Benjamin: “Where have you been all morning?” I didn’t respond. “Harris has been trying to contact you. He’s phoned here at least three times.”

Me: “I should phone him.”

Benjamin passed me the phone without a word, I lifted the receiver to my ear and as I was about to dial I realised I don’t know his number. I closed my eyes and returned the receiver back on the phone.

Me: “I’ll call him later.”

Benjamin: “May. What’s wrong? Have you changed your mind about the engagement?”

Me: “No, no; that’s fine. I’m fine.”


---

You can purchase this book at Smashwords, Google Play, and Barnes & Nobles.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: 'The Cleaner' by Mags

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

The Cleaner
by Mags

Over the years she had had cleaners come and go. Some who rushed about with very little to show for their speed, some so meticulous that, frankly, she wished they weren’t, and some fell somewhere in between with their mediocrity.

Then there was another sub-category: those who, not only criticised, but openly berated her for her domestic shortcomings, looking around and tutting, and all because they shared a culture. Their cleaning took on angry undertones - their scrubbing more vehement, the duster grinding the dust into everything it touched, the hoover wielded in such a way it became a weapon, the carpet beaten rather than hoovered. Their lips firmly pursed. Their over-familiarity irritated and hurt. A bit of understanding or kindness would not have gone amiss.

She wasn’t looking forward to the new incumbent coming, she was positively dreading it, but she had reached an impasse at home.

The doorbell rang, she took a deep breath and went to open the door. A petite, pleasant-looking, dark-haired woman stood before her with a hesitant smile. They took a moment looking at each other.

“I am Maria, zee agency, she send me” she said by way of introduction.

“Yes of course, please come in…”

The dogs rushed up to her sniffing. The pup immediately launched itself on her, at 13 months already a large size, standing on his hind legs his head approaching Maria’s shoulders. The carer started to apologise pulling the pup off her, but Maria took it in her stride, not showing any concern. Surprisingly she had not been bowled over by the strong pup. She just smiled and said “eez okay”. The carer suggested that the dogs be shut in the garden for the duration of her work - other cleaners had absolutely insisted on this - but Maria looked surprised and said “no, I… I okay weez dogs”. She did wonder if the woman was just being polite.

She showed Maria around and explained the circumstances for calling the agency. She felt guilty for needing help and felt even more guilt for feeling the need to explain. Her insides fluttered as she heard herself justifying, her wringing of hands betraying her nervousness and shame of bringing a stranger into her home and asking for help. Her eyes asked that this stranger would understand how her 24/7 caring role jarred with basic home management, while in her head pleading that this woman was gentle when passing judgement.

The cleaner kept nodding throughout while looking around her. She was clearly formulating a plan. She patted the carer’s arm and said quietly “eez okay”. Maria started working in the kitchen, moving about efficiently.

The carer left her to it and was about to walk back into the kitchen when she caught sight of the pup sidling up to Maria at the kitchen counter, and leaned against her legs. She drew breath to call him to stop bothering the cleaner, but stopped herself. Maria hadn’t seen her, but bent down to the pup and stroked his silky, black and amber fur. She whispered “mi amor”.

The carer watched for a moment in the doorway, and smiled. This cleaner would be staying.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: 'The Anti-Poem' by Jo

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

A note from the author:

I enjoy writing stories about observations I make of people’s lives. Sometimes a conversation may trigger a thought. This poem was inspired by a conversation I had with a teenager who had to analyse poetry for their English literature course at school. Poems can sometimes intimidate the reader as I have experienced myself, and before joining the Wandsworth carers writing group I would not have had the confidence to write a poem and put it out there for anyone to read.

The Anti-Poem (a teenagers lament on poetry)
by Jo

What is a poem but a bunch of words stuck on a page.

Who cares?

Who wants to know who’s written it and why?

Why?

I don’t always get it, and it fills me with dread.

I like the ones that rhyme and make me laugh, and some are quite clever and stick in my head.

What is a poem?

A piece of art of what’s in your heart?

A feeling?

A thought?

A memory?

Oh please…..

How do you know if you understand it if it doesn’t make any sense?

And what is the point if you don’t understand it? Just make it stop, the thoughts in my head!

I’d rather be dead than read another one. It makes me feel physically sick!

But why? I ask myself,

do I have a reaction to a written piece of infraction that seeps under my skin, and why should I care?

Don’t ask me why, I’ve just written a poem.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2023: 'From my window' by George

This piece is part of our 2023 Community Writing Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, in observance of Carers Rights Day 2023. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

From my window
by George

From my window, I see many, many things. Why? Because my dining room window overlooks my Amazonian garden. I have spent many an early morning eating my breakfast cereal and sipping my tea with my window as a portal to another place. Who needs a TV, who needs David Attenborough, who needs Netflix when I can transport my eyes and mind to somewhere else merely by viewing my garden.

So, what do I see?  On the animal front, I see a family of four squirrels frolicking furiously and frantically along the fence and jumping joyfully from branch to branch. They are a source of great amusement and entertainment. I see a couple of foxes basking and bathing in the sunlight, fast asleep, dead to the world. I see several parakeets effortlessly swooping and gliding in an astounding and outstanding display of aeronautical acrobatics. I see a robin redbreast hopping around with its chest proudly puffed out. I see multi-coloured butterflies flitting and fluttering nonchalantly and care-free from beauteous and bounteous blossom to blossom. I see the humble bumble bee going about its daily bizzzzzznesssss!!

On the plant front, I see a rainbow of hues, shades, tones and colours aplenty from the variety of flowers and plants growing wildly and abundantly in my garden. The colours are both breath-taking and awe-inspiring in equal measures. It is as if a giant had come into my garden and broad brushed a kaleidoscope of colours on nature's canvas. The colours are vivid and bright. They are glorious and beautiful, bursting alive with colour. Mere words cannot do justice to the sheer variety and complexity of the natural tapestry involved.

As the seasons change, my view of the garden changes. From the snowy branches of January to the life-affirming April showers, from the parched grass in August to the russet fallen leaves in October, my garden never ceases to amaze me in its monthly metamorphoses and transformations.

All in all, as I sit and watch my garden world go by, I feel a contentment and tranquillity that I rarely experience anywhere else on this planet. 

An Introduction to Today's Community Writing Series: Wandsworth Carers Series 2023

The 23rd of November is Carers Rights Day, and is an annual observance in the United Kingdom dedicated to raising awareness about the rights and challenges of unpaid family carers.  To mark Carers Rights Day, we are honoured to present work from the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group, the latest in our of Community Writing Series.  Throughout the day,  we'll be posting eight pieces of new writing from this group.  These range from flash to poetry to memoir to extracts from longer works. You'll find a new piece posted each hour on the hour from 11:00 - 18:00 today, but first, we'd like to give you a little introduction to Wandsworth Carers Centre and its Writing Group from one of its organisers....

*

Wandsworth Carers Centre is a registered charity and limited company that has been providing support to unpaid Carers in Wandsworth since 1995. It is part of the Carers Trust network. 

The vision for the Centre is a society where Carers are recognised and valued for their contribution and have choice and control that enables them to care, to stay healthy and to lead fulfilled lives.
 

A Carer is someone, who without payment, provides help and support to a partner, child, relative, friend or neighbour, who could not manage without their help.  This could be due to age, physical or mental illness, addiction or disability.  The term Carer should not be confused with a care-worker, or care assistant, who receive payment for looking after someone.
 

The writers group aims to encourage beginner and intermediate writers to explore writing as form of finding time for themselves, and of catharsis and self-expression. The group write fiction, non-fiction and poetry, about their experiences of caring and about anything else they would like to write about. To this end, we are pleased to share these of pieces of work produced by our Writers group

Wandsworth Carers Centre | carerswandsworth.org.uk
On X/Twitter at WandsworthCarers | @CarerWandsworth)

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Flip flops' by Anita

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Flip flops

by Anita

So this story isn’t about me.

It’s a normal March day, not really sunny and with those grey rain clouds. I’m bundled up against potential weather: black jeans, black puffa jacket, the blue scarf my mum knitted.

It’s the first day I’d felt like walking after the lumbar puncture. I don’t usually start with that, I mention the giant Co-op cake I’m carrying.

I’m walking home through the park, my legs are just starting to get tired, but I keep going. A man brushes past me, almost sends the cake flying. He’s wearing black-framed glasses, a faded blue tracksuit with the bottoms cut off, and dirty black plastic flip-flops. He’s just had his dark-brown hair cut, cos he had those red bumps you get if they razor.

Next thing, this other man’s yelling something, and he’s running. He’s blonde, wearing Saturday afternoon clothes. You know, jeans and a crumpled Homer Simpson t-shirt.

The conversation goes like this:

“Stop him!”

“Whaaat?” I clutch the cake tighter.

“That guy, stop him. He tried to break into my car!”

Running-man looks me over, and I know what he sees. A tall, Asian bloke, muscly enough to be handy. What I used to be. He doesn’t see I can’t help him, but enough strangers know my business. Those muscles don’t always work now. Luckily, my mouth does.

“Mate, I’ve got cake.” Gesture with my chin, in case he’s missed it. “But he’s just there, by the swings. You’ll catch him, no problem.”

And he is still there, you know, shuffling, not even half-way through the park. Not much faster than me now. The worst getaway in the history of crime. He edges down the slope to the sand-pit, and running-man is off. I never see either of them again.

It’s a good story, isn’t it? It’s got everything: action, suspense, cake. I tell it a lot. It helps pass the time with blood tests, in waiting-rooms, bored or nervous, listening for “Hello Iqbal, we’ve got your results.”

I don’t usually explain the cake, because if you’re ever going to buy a carrot cake bigger than your head, it’ll be after you’ve seen a neurologist. It’s a normal reaction, whatever that means.

Everyone sides with the running man, his actions don’t need explaining. But I can’t remember his face.

Sometimes I need an ending, and running-man catches up. Traps him between two parked cars and calls the police. Or punches him, right in the gut. Flip-flop man never gets away.

I could draw you a picture of flip-flop man, down to those bumps on his neck. With his ragged unravelling tracksuit and doomed way of responding to a crisis. Would I have chased him, before?

I see him now, slowly, slowly, shuffling away from his fate. Did he have a plan?

Does he think he’s going to win?

I hope the ending wasn't too painful.

 

 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Loneliness' by Jaycee

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Loneliness

by Jaycee

 

They say “no man is an island”, maybe it’s more of a truth to say everyman is his own island. How often it is in the depths of loneliness, that we reach a deeper understanding of what is truly needed in order to nurture ourselves fully? There can be no clearer truth than to look in the mirror and see the reflection standing in front of us. How often are we looking on the outside for our needs to be fulfilled? when the things we seek the most can so easily be sourced from within. Often it is the things we seek most from others that holds a clue to the things we deny most for ourselves.

It’s a sour pill to swallow, feeling on the outskirts, invisible and alone even if surrounded by physically people or in a group. To hear the Soul, scream out to be seen and heard and to belong has been a common thread throughout my life. Yet where I have felt it the most has been in my role as an unpaid carer where I’ve struggled most with the empty void of loneliness. Somehow, it felt easier to cocoon myself in a bubble of self-protection, rather than face the risk of not fitting, being seen and not heard, judged or misunderstood. So, I kept myself to myself and purposely cut myself off.  It was only when I enquired within?  I realised that it was “I” who was casting the finger of judgement towards myself. “Could it be that the situation I was in, was mirroring my internal environment?”

I wanted to be included, yet how much of myself was I including in the world around me? How present, curious, proactive was “I” being? How often I was I picking up the phone and reaching out? Was it that I felt so disconnected to myself that I lacked confidence and felt resistance connecting with others?  If this was so then surely it was “I” who held the key to the solution.  

I wanted to be acknowledged. Yet how much was “I” acknowledging my strengths, qualities, successes? I wanted to be heard? Yet was “I” really listening to myself? my needs, my desires, my boundaries. I wanted to be seen, yet what was the self-image “I” was creating? I want to be loved? Yet in what ways was “I” creating a loving relationship with myself?

The formula was simple - change the way I think, change the way I feel. And do it with a full heart. When the heart is full it gives and receives unconditionally, without expectations or the need for validation from external sources. And so, the answer came “think love, give love, be love” Love is nourishing, kind and forgiving, where love exists there can be no fear. The homework now, was to put it in practice. 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Summer 1981' by George

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Summer 1981

by George

Summer in Riakia, a small village outside Katerini in Northern Greece (near Thessaloniki) in 1981 was both blissful and idyllic. The days were long and sunny, but tempered by the gentle breeze rolling and strolling from the multitude of mountains surrounding the peaceful and sedate village. My uncle was a sheep farmer, and I helped him with his flock on a daily basis. We also harvested the hazelnut trees, an event made more memorable by my mother's frantic, frenetic, frenzied dance (due to being stung several times inside her blouse).

The other reasons for these memories being firmly entrenched in my mind were the cafe society of men drinking strong Greek coffee, playing both backgammon and with their komoboli; and, the cold bitter nights made comfortable by heaps of hand-woven blankets being plied high on my bed.

However, the most enduring memory was the food- simple, rustic, nutritious. For 2 whole months, I literally lived off 4 staple foods: hot, fresh, crusty, delicious, home-made bread; scrumptious, juicy, mouth-watering watermelon sold for 10 drachmas a piece; shop-bought strawberry thick-set natural Greek yoghurt — a pure taste of Heaven. So much so that I would lick the inside of both the lid and the pot. However, the piece de resistance was number four, home-made (by my aunt) Greek feta. It was tangy, salty, zesty. You could almost taste the sheep and the goat. It was to die for literally.

Speaking of which, it was the Summer of no meat. I had become a voluntary or involuntarily vegetarian depending on your viewpoint. The only time that I ate meat was to celebrate the huge country-wide festival of 15th August (the Assumption of the Virgin Mary) when copious amounts of pork and pitta bread did pass my lips. 

Oh, how I long for those unforgettable days and nights of Summer 1981. The memories will have to suffice.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'When The Light Fades' by Veronica

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

When the Light Fades

by Veronica

In Bed Six lies the Sleeping Princess,
At her side, in Bed Five, is the Duchess with loyal Duke.
Each night when the ward lights dim
And sounds are dampened, apart from
The constant beep of the drips
A transformation begins.
While sleep escapes me
And weariness drives over me,
Holy pictures appear,
Visions from a childhood prayer book,
Icons from a richly embroidered tapestry.

The Princess, with her head gently tilted to one side,
Propped up with pillow clouds,
Dozes in a morphine mist whilst
The biting pain is briefly swept away
Her frail hand hovering over the Mercy Button.
The Duchess tightly clutches Duke,
His stuffing peeping through the seams,
Careworn, wear worn, comforting.
She rests, motionless on her back
With her mouth wide open
Ready to call
“Will somebody help me please”
So softly that nobody hears....

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Who Cares about Unpaid Carers' by Charlie

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Who Cares about Unpaid Carers
by Charlie

My mum raised me in a very loving joyful and kind way.
Now she is 89 and has dementia, it's my turn to care her for which I feel honoured privileged and blessed to be able to repay.

To keep mum safe I have left my job as a paid care support worker so now I am an unpaid care worker. My hours have doubled and duties increased. The government does not contribute to my pension and no paid holidays.

What I'm learning about this caring role is the work is invisible to and unrecognised by the government.
This is reflected in the carers allowance of 69.90 a week which if worked out as 35 hours a week is 2 pounds an hour. The reality is I do much longer hours so it works out even less is spent.

I get 2 pounds an hour for being an advocate, defender, protector and care provider, looking after my mum's health and welfare with empathy, compassion and candour.

As this cost-of-living crisis hits I am being forced to use my savings.
Having to cut back on food, holidays and other things.

I don’t understand why when the chancellor announced a cost-of-living support package, Carers Allowance was excluded from the benefits listed as qualifying for the £650 payments. This lack of humanity, and dignity fills me with rage.

My mum worked for many years in a south London hospital as a psychiatric nurse caring for the most vulnerable in our community.

In return the government pays me 2 pounds an hour as the amount they have calculated to give back and show they don’t value or recognise her contribution when she worked on those difficult wards with such kindness and generosity.

I am grateful to all the unpaid carers you are a special group making life more pleasant and joyful for our older generation.

It's an honour to give back and to every unpaid carer I see you, I value you and you give me hope in your courage to follow a selfless path of care, love and dedication.
 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'It's a Myth' by Laura

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

It's a Myth

by Laura

It’s a myth, but a beautiful myth.

Walt Disney himself would be proud to portray,
The jokes that we shared, the smiles and the play
The fun and the laughter on old tattered rugs
In the flat that we shared, the kisses and hugs
Awake to a mug of both coffee and tea
Cucumbers bob in a salad cream sea
Coppery curls and a serious frown
The softest of foreheads all covered with down
Our holiday chalet, the stroll to the sand
The sun shining down as you held my hand
Naively, I played with my two little daughters
To the sounds of a bridge over troubled waters
Then had I known what the future would hold
That the warmth of the sun would turn so cold
That the fire you lit when you entered my life
Formed the blade of the steel of the very same knife
Used to stab and to wound and to blame and to shun
With the aim and the hate of a loaded gun
With sadness I dream of times that were shared
At times I wonder if you ever cared
Does a path still exist to a place we can meet -
Will this forever be a one-way street?
The pain of missing you is so very real
The liquid black eyes of a baby seal
Curly dark lashes and the trusting stare
I‘ll never forget you,  though you no longer care
The hands of mothers I’ve held at their last
The futile questions they continue to ask
The white lies I’ve fed them, they’ll turn up one day
Sometimes I hardly know what to say
As my own heart aches to know that others
Share the precious bond of daughters and mothers
The ups and downs of fast modern living
Annoyance, conflict, as well as forgiving
Shedding of selfish introspection
Merging into mature affection
Seeing us mothers for who we are
The same frightened girls who’ve made it so far
Since that’s all we are.
I hope one day your heart will grow
And maybe too, your mind will know
That the faults I have are truly real
But they’ll never match the love I feel
For my daughters who I’ll never leave
However much they make me grieve
For now, reality has to be
That a caring future cannot be
The dream of years ahead of me
With my grown up daughters, regretfully
Is a myth, it’s a myth, it’s a myth,
It’s beautiful, but a myth.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Can you hear me?' by Megan

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Can you hear me?
by Megan

Author's note: This story is just a reminder how easy it is to forget the person we are looking after has a tale to tell and how we can lose the fact that they are trying to tell us in some way, a reminder to stop talking and just listen.


"Sal, he had his breakfast did not eat it all, he is like that sometimes. He should eat his lunch, he’ll be hungry by then."
 

"Kim, You know when they get old they don't eat much."
 

"That's true, poor thing."


Can you hear me? you are rushing me. I am trying to tell you to feed me more slowly, can't chew fast, you did not put my teeth in, they’re still smiling at me in the glass.


"Come on we have lots to do today, Bob is taking me and the kids to that new place."

"What new place?"

"You know, it was the old factory at the corner of Newmarket street, have to put on my best frock, kids don't like dressing up but they’ll have to, it says smart dress."

I remember the old factory from my first job at fifteen. I could tell you a tale or two. I remember one time...

"Come on let's get him out of bed. Come on Larry, move your feet."
 

"I think he does this on purpose, Sal."

Can you hear me? Please look at me. I am trying but my body will not follow instructions from my mind. Please, can you hear me?

I too have a tale to tell, I recall the wet cold mud, we were packed like sardines in the trenches, would have been glad for sardines then. instead we had the dead and the living all packed head to toe in the trenches, wish I could tell you but like everything else it’s now silent. But it will go with me.

Can You Hear Me?

"Come on Larry, get a move on. Try to shuffle to the end of the bed."

"Sal did I tell you about that stuck up cow from next door? Her girl’s in the family way.”

"Didn't know she was married." 

"Come on Sal, these days it's always the cart before the horse."

 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Untitled' by Layide

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Untitled

by Layide

Yellow, orange, pink and brown
On the seafront I am down.
I love the colours, I love the sea
I love my life just being me.
I am free to do what I want today,
Why? Because it is my birthday.
They gave me these balloons,
A little skip a little run
Up in the air I am having fun
If only I could fly
Up in the sky
I am so happy with my red balloons
Can you hear the sound of the tunes?

 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Outlook' by Cheryl

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Outlook

by Cheryl

As I gaze aimlessly through my window my vision is interrupted by tall slender but powerful huddles

A clear indication of the next stage of nature’s striking clock notifying the jubilant approach of the summer months by the bursting of tightly wrapped buds awaking and stretching into symbols of beauty, elegance, strength, resilience arising from the supportive beginnings of its ‘stems’, its ‘green leaves’, guarded by sharp obstacles providing protection and growth.

Blooms in a vibrancy of colour and direction gliding tall with their fragrant sweet smell

The jubilant arrival of summer, our half year marker to embrace & review with gratitude and thankfulness, the burst of enchanting, nourished buds into open roses

Obstacles of life symbolised by the thorns, as we push through thorny experiences; growth with elegance and grace is possible and endless.

Though paths may be thorny, take time to nourish and nurture, it is attainable and worth every little effort.  Times may hold tight like a delicate bud...but  each season brings a new spray of hope, a new beginning.

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'Untitled' by Nicola

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

Untitled (Excerpt)

by Nicola

 

“Fae, may I have a word?” Asked Lura.

“Of course.” The rest of the girls continued on after Fae reassured them she would be fine.

“I know you’re scared of Fire, and I wanted to know why. Yes, I have seen it, but I would like you to be able to tell me.” Fae looked the Fixie in the eyes as she made her statement.

“All my life I’ve seen what Fire can do. I have never seen a force so,”

“Destructive?” Added Lura. Fae nodded at the comment, she had hit the nail on the head.

Who would want to control something so harmful?

Fire which caused pain and fear, the same fear that she had been living with most of her life.

“Fire is only destructive without control. Take Light for instance. With the right amount of balance, it can help us see. It shines on the truth and exposes deception. In the wrong hands and with bad intentions, it will leave people in the dark forever; blind. Power in the right hands deliver good deeds. You must want self-control to be able to do better. Please Fae, do not give up. It is you and you are It.” Fae snapped her head up to the Lura. The comment had brought her back to happier times, to a time where she had both of her parents.

“My mother said something similar to me once. It was a long time ago though.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong. The powers you were gifted are not coincidental. It would seem the Elements were ready for you before you were born. Listen to the Flame Fae, trust it.” After the words of encouragement, the Fixie of Light levitated a few inches back and disappeared in a flash bursting Light. Fae sighed as she replayed the guidance the Princess had said. Trust it.

Trust it?

To her it was easier said than done. Other than the invaders, Fae had ran from having to use her powers. As she came out of her thoughts, she turned to see fairy Sparkle Rain floating in mid-air waiting for her, which caused Fae to jump back as she grabbed her chest. The fairy hovered a few steps back to give her space, and shyly tucked a strand of multicoloured hair behind her left ear.

“Sorry, I didn’t know you were still there. I thought you had left with the others.”

“Oh no worries your Grace. If I had left, who would be here to show you to your chambers?” She replied with a shy smile. “Please, follow me.” The fairy glided past Fae and towards the metal doors. Fae followed her subconsciously, she took the chance to think about the path they had just embarked on. The power of the Elements, the prophecy and not to mention the immortal part to it all. On top of that, everyone on Earth needed their help. All the pressure started to give Fae a mild headache and rubbed her temples as she came to the door of her new room. Fairy Sparkle Rain flew forward and opened the door with minimal effort, then glided back to give room for Fae to enter.

 

Wandsworth Carers Series 2022: 'The Perfect Gift' by Jo

This piece is part of our 2022 Community Flash Series showcasing new writing by the Wandsworth Carers Centre Writers Group. You can read more about the background to this project in our introduction to this series, find out more about Wandsworth Carers Centre on their website, and find them on Twitter @CarerWandeworth.

 

The Perfect Gift

by Jo

 

She wanders around from charity shop to charity shop looking for the perfect gift: Mind, Farah, Royal Trinity Hospice, they are all so appealing to her. She rummages, she inspects, she feels — ooooo what a thrill. Every time she visits one she has to come home with something, but not just anything, it has to be that something special. Why not an ordinary gift shop? Too new, too bland, too  expensive.

On Wednesday she finds a knot, a rope with a knot in it. ‘Ah, this knot has something unique about it’, she whispers to herself. On Thursday it’s a piece of blue glass, she holds it up to the  chink of light coming from the glass door of the shop, ‘beautiful’, she mutters, ‘just like that ring, what happened to it I wonder?’ Friday, it’s a patchwork quilt, the mosaic colours taking her back to something amorous. Saturday, a battered and frayed peacock feather, ah, she always loved the colour turquoise this was a special joy! Sunday is a leather belt, cracked and pale with wear, she strokes it with her own worn and weathered fingers, sighing and smiling a knowing smile. Monday, just by chance a tatty straw hat, she puts it on and it’s the right kind of floppy, over one eye; just how she used to wear it. Tuesday, a bouquet of dried flowers, faded and crispy, the smell long gone but no matter, in her memory there are delicate wafts of Jasmine.

These objects, she takes home and taking her time she strategically arranges on her old wobbly bookcase. Perfect! Standing back she admires her work and for a brief moment she is transported to a distant place where deep within her heart she is overcome with intense emotion.

‘Oh, mum! More junk, what is all this stuff? Rusty old belt, tatty old hat, and these dried flowers, they’re falling apart, what a mess!’

‘Well there was a reason for buying these things darling.’   

‘You mean you paid for them?’

‘Yes I did, but for the life of me I just can’t remember why.’  

They were in Bali when they tied the knot all those years ago and in bare feet on the day of their wedding. Those were their carefree days back then, free spirits as they were, hand in hand. She wore a resplendent yellow wide-brim hat - Brigitte Bardot style.  He wore the tan leather belt with the Navajo stitching she had bought him, how handsome they both looked; the epitome of ‘hippie chic’.  That something borrowed and something blue - he gave her a sapphire ring and a bystander, a tourist, had loaned her a peacock feather as part of her bridal bouquet to go with the white Jasmine flowers. It was all so perfect then, when they both said ‘I do’. And ahh later, that patchwork quilt....