The thought of writing a memoir had never crossed my mind. I’ve listened intently as members of my writers’ group read from their life writings. One member decided to defy convention and sail around the world with her children. Another lived in India for years to learn the practice of Ayurveda, a form of traditional Indian medicine. Both amazing life experiences. But, consciously thinking about writing about my life experiences might not have occurred to me but, the fact was, I’d been doing it for years.
My Life to Date (and how I’ve Survived It)
My life to date, and how I’ve survived it. The life and times of Sally Edmondson.
“I’m not someone who has left glittering gongs in my wake, nor have I led an intrepid or inspiring life. I don’t plan to blame my parents for my ineptitudes and failures. I consider myself to be a reasonably intelligent person, although some might say, I am delightfully vague. Either way, I’ve always been quite capable of cocking up my own life, without parental intervention or outside influence.’
I first became aware of Gerald Durrell when someone gave me a copy of one of his books. After reading that book, My Family and Other Animals, I learned that Gerald Durrell had started a ‘zoo’ in Jersey, Channel Islands. As I would find out later, through my own first-hand experience, it was – and still is – so much more than a ‘zoo’.
Whilst on safari, I lost weight fairly quickly and it wasn’t just to do with the heat. After enjoying a sundowner watching impala gambol happily in the bush, we would return to camp to find them on the dinner menu, which was just too hard to swallow. The only time I have ever been offered a gin and tonic for breakfast at 5.00a.m. was on safari and it was the only time I have ever refused one, sensibly realising I was getting enough quinine in my anti-malarial tablets.
I’ve suffered from Dentophobia, ever since I can remember. My first dental check-up, aged about five, ended in tears. My mother took me to a revered dentist in Cheltenham called Dr Dagger. I kid you not. Since my, ‘oh woe is me, I’ve got a Humpty Dumpty face’ post earlier this week, it turns out that …
At the start of our lives, we view the world through rose coloured glasses. We believe and adhere to the pearls of wisdom fed to us by our parents – those halcyon days when everything in the garden seemed rosy enough. As we grow older and start viewing life from our perspective, we rebel. I …
I’m a Baby Boomer, it’s Lockdown, and I woke up yesterday with Mumps-like symptoms. It’s unlikely because I’ve had Mumps. I was about eight-years-old and, surprisingly, I remember my Rubulavirus encounter quite well. Wandering around in my dressing gown looking like Humpty Dumpty, when I was supposed to be in bed, for what felt like the …
Yesterday’s post was an inkling that I might be suffering from a bout of Lockdown Nostalgia, and more than just a craving for a night out with friends, or jumping on a plane to get away from it all. I have always believed in drawing a line under things from the past. You can’t go …
I was born at my parent’s home in Fulwith Mill Lane, Harrogate. A stone’s throw away from the viaduct on the south side of town. I remember little about the house, as my parents decided to uproot my tender sapling self, aged three and replant me down south.
Despite my roots being pulled out from underneath me at such an early age, the draw of the place of my birth remains strong. It will forever be etched upon my heart.
In May 2000, I took three months out and went on a much overdue sabbatical. We were travelling light, although my Yamaha keyboard found its way into the boot. I still believed in my abilities as a songwriter in those days. On the back seat of the Mazda, was the ultimate in carefree holiday accessories, P’s fourteen-month-old daughter, G, whose favourite toys were the talking Teletubbies, La La and Dipsy.
In response to WordPress Discover Prompts, Day 18: New, I started this piece in philosophic mode, again. It really doesn’t suit me. I’m a humorist, not Eckhart Tolle. It’s all very well trying something new, in my case, writing in a different style but, not if it’s going leave me looking like I’ve just slapped a pie in my face.
When I was young and slim , I loved granary bread. I bought it fresh from the local baker on the way home from work and demolished it before burning off its calorific content in the gym.
One day, my love for granary came to an abrupt, crunching end. I enthusiastically bit into a soft slice, excited for the nutty, rich taste to flood my taste buds and bit down onto something hard. A piece of wire wool.
The trauma was too much to bear, and I’ve never eaten granary bread again.
School friends are the best. If you had bestie at school, the chances are that you will stay in touch for the rest of your lives. Well, that’s how it was with ‘my twin’ and me. Somewhere between discovering that we shared a birthday and the end of the spring term, we had gelled.
We shared the same sense of humour, which is always a good start. After that, we never went anywhere without each other. We shared family holidays and supported each other during our early adult lives. The boyfriends, the first tentative steps on our chosen career ladder, as well as celebrating all our significant birthday’s together. The building blocks of a lifelong friendship.
My pièce de résistance is probably a toss-up between tuna pasta and stew. We have only been lying low for a couple of weeks, but I have already received a few pointed comments wrapped in sarcasm and drizzled with a little innuendo.
I have more cookery books than I have ever cooked anything sensational, so I’ve no excuse, and I am making an effort.
My parents always celebrated Bonfire Night with much enthusiasm, and I’ve been terrified of fireworks all my life. So I can’t think they repeatedly kept the tradition going for my benefit, but I seem to remember enjoying the Parkin though.
I think we might have celebrated Halloween a boarding school but there are no memories of carving pumpkins ingrained in my mind. The dormitories were housed in a building first erected in the 16th Century. As with most creepy old houses, well-crafted stories of ghouls and ghosties roaming around the corridors at night probably put us off celebrating Halloween, as it might have felt a bit too close to home.