When death arrives in your life, it cracks open layers and destabilises you. Will life ever be the same, no it will not, the challenge is how to walk along the path at a different speed.
Here is my take on it:
AFTER DEATH
Searing pain, dark earth
tell me how I leave you behind
and return to the light.
The light returns
so slowly
and sometimes the searing dark earth
pulls me back down.
But the light returns,
a different light - hazy, elusive; and sometimes
I am in it and sometimes I am not.
© Vivienne Sansum
Monday, 26 November 2018
Saturday, 3 November 2018
My first post
Hello to anyone who happens to see this. I have been writing for a few years now and thought it would be a good idea to harness all my words in one place. I hope you enjoy/get annoyed/jump up and down/laugh a bit/cry a bit but most of all just read them!
This story is the first thing I put down, a few years ago, with a slight change at the end, I guess you would call it an experience...
The Fitting
"Because you don't want to spend the rest of your life with the hitting them floor, do you?"
"Well, I don't think they do, a little bit lower than 30 years ago, I mean I can't do the pencil test any more, not unless I place it strategically and leap into the air at the same time but I don't think they are hitting the floor."
"I still think you should be properly measured. There's a little woman in Debenhams who could sort you out."
"I'm not going to Debenhams, I am an M & S girl." I protest, I am weakening though at the image being thrust at me, unwilling to cave in and admit the dire state of my bottom drawer. A murky grey box where old, discarded, bought on a bad boob day, mistakes lie plotting. A place no man would dare to go and where I only occasionally poke an exploratory finger about from time to time.
I have spent a year adjusting to my new body, the result of unexpected illness, (do we expect any illness?) Its component parts now seemingly slapped on by an incompetent potter who decided it wasn't worth the effort of pulling out a beautiful pot, maybe his tea was ready early that day... The unexpected weight loss meant that everything slid downwards. I suppose the time has come to salvage some womanliness but I'm not going to do it in Debenhams.
There is a lingerie shop in, of all places Keynsham. Do the ladies of Keynsham have a particular problem in that area? Are they all spectacularly clad in corsetry? Do they all stride out everyday in Fantasie, Boux Avenue and Victoria's Secrets? Are they all wonderful in their Wonderbras? It makes you think doesn't it?
So, I allow myself to be persuaded that my bosoms need boosting and we arrange a date. My dear friend is convinced it will change my life and sooth my soul. I, on the other hand, am convinced it will cost me the housekeeping and then what? I can hardly say to the family, 'sorry chaps, baked beans for a month, I'm wearing the groceries."
Still it won't be the first time, I have never been very good with money except at spending it. One particular guilty memory rises when we made the children hand over the remains of their holiday pocket money. We had run out of money and needed to pay the electric bill before we could vacate the cottage. "So what" we said "we could have left you as payment." Their little faces were very glum. And this could change their lives, after all a happy mother means happy children doesn't it?
A bright sunny gusty day in August. What do you wear for a bra fitting? Best pants and whitest bra, oh and a hasty last minute trip back to the bathroom for a shave. How awful to have your fitter rummaging around in the undergrowth trying the establish the whereabouts of your boobs.
The car is packed, one dubious child in the back, not sure how this outing rates on the 'summer entertainment list' and we find ourselves driving up and down a slightly tired Keynsham high street. A beautiful church set incongruously against the grey concrete boxes of the seventies but the sun shines optimistically and the gale we hit on getting out of the car is soon swept away in the excitement of the outing.
Are lives transformed here? The Bristol Evening Post certainly thought so. They once did a feature about the shop we are about to visit and recommended every female takes a trip here, so on that basis it must be true. Eventually we spot it. It sort of looks vaguely seedy the sign could almost say "Lydia's Lovely Lingerie and Accessories." You would be forgiven if you had other thoughts but we bold enter carefully sidestepping the shifty looking man outside. I then realise that he has been barred from entering and is merely minding his children.
How odd, I think, men have mosques and gentlemen's clubs and we have a lingerie shop. How far have women's rights come, first we burn our bras, then we build a shop to fiercely protect them. What does that mean?
I have no time to dwell on this as we navigate the maze of truly magnificent corsetry. Where does one, even a female, look? Emma is busy mustering shop assistants, she knows even at this stage I could make a break for it and is determined to see her plan through.
I'm frogmarched into a changing room and a cross looking woman, who must spend her whole waking life repacking women's bosoms, frogmarches in after me. I stand there awaiting instructions and shrinking under her assessing gaze. I feel I must apologise for letting the side down and not taking this bra business seriously. Obviously there are careers and lives carried out far more successfully. OBE's, CBE's, baking shows, talent shows and brownie badges all won because they were correctly fitted.
"Arms up," she barks. "No need to take your top off." I am instantly embarrassed as if I was inappropriately trying to lap dance in front of her. In a loud capital letter sounding way she pronounces: "You are obviously wearing a bra far too big for you." Her second utterance is wearily breathed out, "and much too small in the cup," as if she has the collective weight of the world's bosoms on her shoulders.
At this point, standing with chest squeezed into a tape measure, she announces my size as if presenting a coveted award. "36F". My shriek pierces the air. "Surely not," I whimper to the expert.
Emma hurtles across the shop, smashing into cups and corsets, they attach themselves to her like flags. "Do not touch anything," the command is issued to the only male in the shop. As he is under 4ft, Ted has been allowed into the shop. He has been left under the 40Gs with strict instructions to keep his hands to himself.
Emma races to rescue me, "what happened," she says whipping open the curtain. "I'm 36F," I confess in a whisper. "Is that all, I'm a G." In what becomes a bizarre game of cup upmanship. Although as Emma bossily points out later, "what could possible happen in a changing room in Keynsham..."
Her grin is malicious as only a friend's can be. She has been proved right and she is revelling in it. The cross looking woman meanwhile, goes off to forage for 36Fs. She returns and instructs me to strip and place them, in inverted commas, into the cups and "I will do the rest."
By now I am almost hysterical, there are three of us in the changing room, performing a complicated step routine, a summery afternoon beckons outside. I think about making a dash for it but am held back by the sight of all my upper clothing on the changing room floor. Emma is hysterical too but with laughter as I allow myself to be shaken and pushed and squeezed into the garment. My armpits sweat and I flap like a chicken to cool myself. Cross woman grabs at my breasts in such a way that I have to strongly resist the urge to slap her off as one might an annoying fly.
The difference though, is astonishing. I decide to wear the bra out, a sort of breaking in time, much like a child with new shoes. My breasts leave the changing room and it is a full five minutes before I follow, attached. Cross woman sniffily wraps my 40Bs. She can barely touch it and I am surprised she doesn't just bin it there and then on Health and Safety grounds. I guess she assumes I will take it home and give it a decent burial.
Ted has been quietly playing with his toys cars, using the 40Gs as a launch pad, we scoop him up and leave the shop feeling we have conquered Everest, actually I resemble something like Everest. Emma's eyes constantly slide over to me. "Sorry," she says, "I just can't stop looking, only as a friend," she rushes to point out.
We celebrate by treating ourselves to pies and cakes and eating them in the park, whilst casting ex-smoker style glances over the uninitiated population. We smirk, cohorts in cleavage. I cannot help but think about my new bra as I eat, it constrains me in such a way that I feel secure and ready to take on the world. Or at least navigate a way through Brexit. I may get in touch with Teresa May, check she is uplifted....!
© Vivienne Sansum
This story is the first thing I put down, a few years ago, with a slight change at the end, I guess you would call it an experience...
The Fitting
"Because you don't want to spend the rest of your life with the hitting them floor, do you?"
"Well, I don't think they do, a little bit lower than 30 years ago, I mean I can't do the pencil test any more, not unless I place it strategically and leap into the air at the same time but I don't think they are hitting the floor."
"I still think you should be properly measured. There's a little woman in Debenhams who could sort you out."
"I'm not going to Debenhams, I am an M & S girl." I protest, I am weakening though at the image being thrust at me, unwilling to cave in and admit the dire state of my bottom drawer. A murky grey box where old, discarded, bought on a bad boob day, mistakes lie plotting. A place no man would dare to go and where I only occasionally poke an exploratory finger about from time to time.
I have spent a year adjusting to my new body, the result of unexpected illness, (do we expect any illness?) Its component parts now seemingly slapped on by an incompetent potter who decided it wasn't worth the effort of pulling out a beautiful pot, maybe his tea was ready early that day... The unexpected weight loss meant that everything slid downwards. I suppose the time has come to salvage some womanliness but I'm not going to do it in Debenhams.
There is a lingerie shop in, of all places Keynsham. Do the ladies of Keynsham have a particular problem in that area? Are they all spectacularly clad in corsetry? Do they all stride out everyday in Fantasie, Boux Avenue and Victoria's Secrets? Are they all wonderful in their Wonderbras? It makes you think doesn't it?
So, I allow myself to be persuaded that my bosoms need boosting and we arrange a date. My dear friend is convinced it will change my life and sooth my soul. I, on the other hand, am convinced it will cost me the housekeeping and then what? I can hardly say to the family, 'sorry chaps, baked beans for a month, I'm wearing the groceries."
Still it won't be the first time, I have never been very good with money except at spending it. One particular guilty memory rises when we made the children hand over the remains of their holiday pocket money. We had run out of money and needed to pay the electric bill before we could vacate the cottage. "So what" we said "we could have left you as payment." Their little faces were very glum. And this could change their lives, after all a happy mother means happy children doesn't it?
A bright sunny gusty day in August. What do you wear for a bra fitting? Best pants and whitest bra, oh and a hasty last minute trip back to the bathroom for a shave. How awful to have your fitter rummaging around in the undergrowth trying the establish the whereabouts of your boobs.
The car is packed, one dubious child in the back, not sure how this outing rates on the 'summer entertainment list' and we find ourselves driving up and down a slightly tired Keynsham high street. A beautiful church set incongruously against the grey concrete boxes of the seventies but the sun shines optimistically and the gale we hit on getting out of the car is soon swept away in the excitement of the outing.
Are lives transformed here? The Bristol Evening Post certainly thought so. They once did a feature about the shop we are about to visit and recommended every female takes a trip here, so on that basis it must be true. Eventually we spot it. It sort of looks vaguely seedy the sign could almost say "Lydia's Lovely Lingerie and Accessories." You would be forgiven if you had other thoughts but we bold enter carefully sidestepping the shifty looking man outside. I then realise that he has been barred from entering and is merely minding his children.
How odd, I think, men have mosques and gentlemen's clubs and we have a lingerie shop. How far have women's rights come, first we burn our bras, then we build a shop to fiercely protect them. What does that mean?
I have no time to dwell on this as we navigate the maze of truly magnificent corsetry. Where does one, even a female, look? Emma is busy mustering shop assistants, she knows even at this stage I could make a break for it and is determined to see her plan through.
I'm frogmarched into a changing room and a cross looking woman, who must spend her whole waking life repacking women's bosoms, frogmarches in after me. I stand there awaiting instructions and shrinking under her assessing gaze. I feel I must apologise for letting the side down and not taking this bra business seriously. Obviously there are careers and lives carried out far more successfully. OBE's, CBE's, baking shows, talent shows and brownie badges all won because they were correctly fitted.
"Arms up," she barks. "No need to take your top off." I am instantly embarrassed as if I was inappropriately trying to lap dance in front of her. In a loud capital letter sounding way she pronounces: "You are obviously wearing a bra far too big for you." Her second utterance is wearily breathed out, "and much too small in the cup," as if she has the collective weight of the world's bosoms on her shoulders.
At this point, standing with chest squeezed into a tape measure, she announces my size as if presenting a coveted award. "36F". My shriek pierces the air. "Surely not," I whimper to the expert.
Emma hurtles across the shop, smashing into cups and corsets, they attach themselves to her like flags. "Do not touch anything," the command is issued to the only male in the shop. As he is under 4ft, Ted has been allowed into the shop. He has been left under the 40Gs with strict instructions to keep his hands to himself.
Emma races to rescue me, "what happened," she says whipping open the curtain. "I'm 36F," I confess in a whisper. "Is that all, I'm a G." In what becomes a bizarre game of cup upmanship. Although as Emma bossily points out later, "what could possible happen in a changing room in Keynsham..."
Her grin is malicious as only a friend's can be. She has been proved right and she is revelling in it. The cross looking woman meanwhile, goes off to forage for 36Fs. She returns and instructs me to strip and place them, in inverted commas, into the cups and "I will do the rest."
By now I am almost hysterical, there are three of us in the changing room, performing a complicated step routine, a summery afternoon beckons outside. I think about making a dash for it but am held back by the sight of all my upper clothing on the changing room floor. Emma is hysterical too but with laughter as I allow myself to be shaken and pushed and squeezed into the garment. My armpits sweat and I flap like a chicken to cool myself. Cross woman grabs at my breasts in such a way that I have to strongly resist the urge to slap her off as one might an annoying fly.
The difference though, is astonishing. I decide to wear the bra out, a sort of breaking in time, much like a child with new shoes. My breasts leave the changing room and it is a full five minutes before I follow, attached. Cross woman sniffily wraps my 40Bs. She can barely touch it and I am surprised she doesn't just bin it there and then on Health and Safety grounds. I guess she assumes I will take it home and give it a decent burial.
Ted has been quietly playing with his toys cars, using the 40Gs as a launch pad, we scoop him up and leave the shop feeling we have conquered Everest, actually I resemble something like Everest. Emma's eyes constantly slide over to me. "Sorry," she says, "I just can't stop looking, only as a friend," she rushes to point out.
We celebrate by treating ourselves to pies and cakes and eating them in the park, whilst casting ex-smoker style glances over the uninitiated population. We smirk, cohorts in cleavage. I cannot help but think about my new bra as I eat, it constrains me in such a way that I feel secure and ready to take on the world. Or at least navigate a way through Brexit. I may get in touch with Teresa May, check she is uplifted....!
© Vivienne Sansum
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