Poem: I left you sleeping

I left you sleeping to worship

Our God in heaven.

I left your warmth and comfort

And walked into the cold wind

And the icy rain.

But when I sat before God

And asked him to bless you,

To greatly bless you

A new comfort, like no other

Settled over me.

A love, like no other

Enfolded me.

He teaches me how to love you

How to greatly love you.

Poem: Let me count the ways

Let me count the ways you love me…

An eon’s not enough in time.

You call me, call me, call me.

And I continue to hide.

While your love spans the ages,

And I have turned away

You love me, love me, love me.

But I never stay.

It’s only when I’m on my knees

And I can no longer run

You bless me, bless me, bless me

And I come undone.

Lord carry me, carry me, carry me.

And I will count the ways

You love me, love me, love me

I will sing your praise.

Waiting To Know

Thoughtful.

Sadie Hasler

The question “when are you going to have a baby, Sadie?” is like coleslaw. I get it about twice a week. People who barely know me feel fine asking it irrespective of whether they know I can or want to. They come straight in with the “when?” It seems it’s open fodder for anyone who can see you’re carrying a vagina somewhere about your person. It’s more permissible than enquiring about people’s finances or true feelings on love. It’s almost clinical. But the ‘when’ is important. Because time is of the essence.

I’ve always fobbed off the questions, light and smiling, as though having a baby is like going on a hiking trip around Guatamala; possible, but not likely. I’ve been paddling at the luxurious deep end of biological grace; the right side of the right time.

I’m writing a play about the choice that women have to make, about two women –…

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Up the hill

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Slick pavements,
Water dappled cars.
Air heavy as the blacked sky.
But, it’s not raining. Yet.
Snippets of swoosh, spish of
Six am traffic,
And Kings of Leon play
In a Cold Desert.
This time, I’m faster, further.
But the hill feels steeper.
Burning lungs, knee twinge,
and embarrassment,
As an old man cycles past me.
Slowly.

‘Keep Your Distance’

I woke up this morning with remnants of my dream echoing around my room. One of my new work colleagues talking about me to another, “Keep your distance…” Whispers…glances that judged me..

Fiction, a dream…but obviously something that’s been playing on my mind. I didn’t feel angry or indignant, because deep down, I know people should be keeping their distance. At least for a while anyway. It should be this way. I’m praying for it to be this way.

I can’t bear to put some of the things I’ve done in the last couple of months into Arial 11pt. And part of me questions, why, if I’m committing myself (throwing myself) into God’s hands, why it’s panned out this way? There’s a
nudging, insane part of me that feels i’m being torn…that I’m being tested (?) that satan is playing with me…and, yes, I feel so very vulnerable; and there’s no one to watch over me anymore.

By the same token, I’m playing too. And I do like playing. I actually can’t physically hurt anymore, so whoever it is that decides to ‘date’ actually puts themselves in jeopardy. It’s in my saner moments that i feel guilty.

When my lips are numb, from too much Merlot…i often look around and realise I’m on my own.

Alcohol is a funny thing…

Too many of these are bad for marriage

Alcohol is a funny thing. It’s like an annoying friend. You know the type; you get on hilariously with them and have had some rib achingly good times together. But there’s that selfish streak about them that you’re not keen on. They always have to have their pennies worth, sometimes to the detriment of you.

Although hubby and i were home last night, we drank our way through three bottles of wine! Add to this the fact that i hadn’t much lunch, and dinner was a slimming salmon fishcake and salad, the result was emotionally messy.

If i already have a bee in my bonnet about something, i’m a hurtful drunk. I suddenly have a right to speak my mind; what’s the point of not being honest? All the niggles that i would usually just swallow and not say anything about, (i’m thinking sawdust and plank here..Matthew 7:3-5) come spilling out of my mouth like Chenin Blanc into stemmed Ikea.

So saying, i deserve my headache.

Roald Dahl

And so, one of the hardest and full on weeks started on Monday with me travelling to Great Missenden, the home of Roald Dahl. Twentieth Century Fox organised a press junket for Domestic and Brit press ahead of the World Premier of Fantastic Mr Fox, at BFI London Film Festival yesterday. It was a beautiful day – the sun was shining, the schedule ran more or less to plan and i got to take a second look at Roald Dahl and his fabulous story telling.

I realise that i need a writing hut just like Roald Dahl’s if i’m going to get published. It needs a battered old chair, family photos and an old filing cabinet. Dahl has his own hip bone among the nick naks on his desk, but I’d probably stick with pencil sharpeners and maybe a rubix cube or two. Liccy, his widow, has left the hut untouched, so it looks like Roald Dahl has popped out for a stroll and will be back at any moment.

I visited the Roald Dahl museum gift shop and bought a collection of his short stories and his autobiographies; Boy & Going Solo. Boy has already made me lol on the tube.

The Premier last night was amazing. Leicester Square was completely taken over, with a bridge between the Odeon and the Empire cinemas. BFI Director, Artistic Director, Amanda Nevill introduced the 53rd LFF, and then introduced Wes Anderson, who in turn introduced George Clooney, Bill Murray, Jason Schwartzman, Eric Anderson (yes, his brother!) Jarvis Cocker and Liccy Dahl.

I wondered why Sophie Dahl has not been involved at all. I think she’s too busy launching her own book to help promote her Grandfather.

roald dahl writing hut