I woke up at 04.00hrs this morning after a disturbing dream, borderline nightmare; about my late mother.  My mother and I were so different in so many ways, but there is no getting away from the fact that she left her genes on my face.  The older I get, it becomes more evident and I’m constantly scaring myself when I look in the mirror first thing in the morning.  A bit like Freaky Friday, or freakier, because I can never morph back into my younger self.

Back to my dream and my mother.  I don’t think she read any of my literary contributions since I had poetry published, aged eleven and she had high hopes that I would become Gloucestershire’s answer to William Wordsworth.  Oh, and helping my step-father piece together his aeronautical autobiography, of course.


It might be something to do with my decision to write under the pseudonym, Tessa Barrie, when I was nineteen because I didn’t want her to find out it was me writing the avant-garde contributions in the local rag.  She would not have approved.

In my dream, my mother read some of my current work-in-progress and described my writing as having a basic organic charm.  Something I can’t image my mother saying about anything but, you know what Mum… I take that.


eep the sit in your writing.jpg
Picture source: Robbie Blair