On loss and Gain

I lost a dear friend a few days ago in the most tragic way. We are just a blink of an eye in time. I thought I couldn't write but now I find it's all I can do. I've written a poem, a short story about a cat and a new beginning to my novel. I've stayed away from writing how I feel - too self indulgent - maybe later.



I've written a new first page to my novel, Sitting Pretty and will carry on editing for content for probably the next six to nine months and then line edit. That sounds very organised and organised is what I'd like to be. Washing out before I go to work, lunch boxes made, ironing every night, both socks matching,no driving kids to school in my pjs. No more trying to write like I think I should, I'll just write from the heart.



New first page:



Chapter One. Sian.

If I told you that my husband travelled the world and, occasionally killed people, you probably wouldn’t invite me in for coffee. But if I said that he served his queen and country in the British army then maybe you would.

The truth, I guess, is somewhere in between which means it’s easier for me to stay here, behind the wire, safely in the camp with the other soldiers’ wives.

Ten years ago at seventeen, I was just a bolshie girl from the valleys, newly married to my Private Evans and carrying my father’s chip on my shoulder. A miner’s daughter who wanted to change the world. Now I know my place and my place is here; Aborfield Garrison where I clean the NAAFI and support my husband.

I’m Sergeant Evans, ‘Wife of’. That’s right, I got a promotion but you can call me Sian. And now we want another stripe and that’s why we’re dressed up like Ken and Barbie, with a freezing January wind whipping round our legs. We’re waiting with another Ken and Barbie - our mates, Mo and Alan, for the army transport to take us to the Warrant Officers Mess Ball. We get a tick in the box for socialising you see.

‘Fucking transport’s always late.’ Steve flicks a cigarette butt which lights up the black sky like a scud missile before landing, burning red, a few feet from the defunct tank, the symbolic watchdog of the base.