SALT and VINEGAR diary


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Bridget’s Diary: the making of Salt and Vinegar Do you have a comment to make or something to add? We’d love to hear from you. Email salt-and-vinegar@bucfp.org and include your first name and where you’re from. We'll post your thoughts on the comments page. Diary entries: July 6th July 9th July 16th July 18th July 23rd July 26th July 30th August 5th August 8th August 13th August 15th August 17th August 21st August 24th September 3rd September 7th September 10th September 12th September 18th September 20th September 25th October 1st October 8th October 11th October 15th October 17th October 25th October 30th October 31st November 1st November 3rd November 6th November 21st November 26th November 27th November 28th November 29th December 1st December 2nd December 4th December 5th December 12th December 19th December 20th December 21st December 26th January 2nd January 4th January 5th January 9th July 6th Ten days to go to the first writing workshop. It’s an exciting project because there’s a very tangible outcome: a book that we can treasure and read, keep and pass on. A book that will be a testament to all the creative energy and talent at the Centre but at the moment all we have is the title – Salt and Vinegar. The idea came from the creative writing group who wanted the collection of creative work to have a distinctively Brighton flavour and in a brain storming sessions all sorts of ideas emerged, including a few groan-making puns about the pier. Salt and Vinegar was an instant hit when it was suggested because it has the tang of the British seaside while also hinting at life’s contradictions. Dictionaries define vinegar not just as the stuff you sprinkle on chips but also as: sourness of mood or temper liveliness, enthusiasm, vim Salt preserves and heals. It makes dangerous places safe - when it de-ices roads - and the world more colourful as an ingredient in dyeing cloth. Often used as a form of money, wars have been fought over it. Although essential for our well being, too much is bad for our health. We’re aiming for a similar breath and variety: our book will be a record of personal highs and lows. It’s going to be about the feeling you get when you’re walking across the South Downs with the wind in your hair or down London Road with a crick in your back. It will tell how tough it is to be a parent and how tough it is to have parents. It’s going to be about the light and the dark and all the greys in between. It will be a platform for stories that are rarely told and voices that are rarely heard. But right now all we have is the title… Back to top July 9th Do you have a comment to make or something to add? We’d love to hear from you. Email salt-and-vinegar@bucfp.org and include your first name and where you’re from. Recently I set a creative writing exercise about chairs – everyone had to write about the ones they’ve hated and the ones they’ve loved. It produced a lot of good writing and aroused memories about school days and prickly interviews with irritable employers. Josie’s contribution is much more than a description of a piece of furniture. MY FAVOURITE CHAIR is the Parker Knoll chair in my kitchen. Did you know that Parker Knoll is the caviar of chair makers? The chair was bought by my sensible grandmother in her brown lace up shoes and the chair is not beautiful, chic or luxurious. It is a Presbyterian chair, comfortable and high quality, like a nice piece of cheese. As I lean back I can feel its whole respectable nervous system, and its short wooden legs would never wobble. As I sit there I can see all the way up to my front door and I feel like the captain of the ship with my tribe around me; in the bosom of the house with my dog and my drink beside me, I am safe. I used to sit here and breastfeed, while the afternoon sun filled the kitchen with orange light and the radio bubbled away. If this chair had a name it would be Muriel. I might not know the colour of this armchair. I might have a hard job picking it out of a line of suspect armchairs but at the end of this short passage I know a lot about Josie and her family. I also know I want to visit that kitchen and I wouldn’t mind if she asked me to sit down awhile. Back to top July 16th The first workshop. Would the Monday morning start put people off? Had it been well enough advertised? With a drop-in class there’s always a fear that I’ll end up on my own. It hasn’t happened in two and bit years of teaching creative writing at the Centre but there’s always the thought that this time…This time everyone will be busy, have toothache, got a job interview, slept in, received a much better offer or just forgotten. I needn’t have worried. Nine students were an ideal number and three had never been to the Centre before so it was great to welcome them on their first visit. A lot of the day revolved around food in one way or another. First, there were descriptions of kitchens from childhood. We heard about the Lancashire larder that had to be well stocked because for a few weeks every year the family were cut off from the rest of the world by snow. There was the quaint Essex cottage with a proper stable door and the smart black and white tiled floor in Hampshire that the children could only walk on wearing slippers. There were kitchens that smelt of cabbage and washing – both boiled – and the Saturday treat of fried fish. Again and again, portraits of hard working, harassed mothers emerged from the writing, revealed by the big meals they produced in tiny kitchens. Next we focussed on food itself, writing and eating at the same time, trying to pin down a flavour or texture. There was the extraordinary melt-in-the-mouth crispness of TUC wafers that one student described as being so salty they were sweet. However, it was the silver paper on the Kit-Kat as much as the melting chocolate that aroused memories and we soon moved on from the food we were eating to the food that we once ate. Or saw being eaten. The description of the curry sandwiches that a father consumed with relish at lunchtime will stay with me forever, as will the taste of herrings bought fresh on Worthing pier. I’ve never much fancied herring but I want that one. Back to top July 18th We didn’t know if one to one tutorials would be popular. Although it seemed like a good idea, I imagined there was a pretty good chance I’d have two hours to myself watching the Wednesday afternoon Art Group in action while I wrote this diary entry. I couldn’t have been more wrong. I didn’t have a spare minute and I felt a bit like a commissioning editor. Yes, to a poem on flying ants, especially after I read it. Yes, to five hundred words on an all night cafe and trade union rights and a very emphatic yes to something on the bonfire societies of Lewes. Each time an idea was suggested, it was clear that no one else could tell that story. And it was a story that should be told. Back to top July 23rd Eldest son’s twenty third birthday and the last creative writing class until after the summer break, although of course there will be an all day workshop in August. The exercise I sat was simple but the work that emerged from it was anything but. On separate slips of paper everyone wrote down two things that were impossible to describe. The slips were placed in a pile in the centre of the table and everyone then had to take two from the pile, honour bound not to draw their own slips. They then had to write for 15 minutes describing these impossible-to-describe-things and linking them in some way. The class produced subtle, emotionally intelligent work, often touching on difficult subjects such as death and dying. One writer found heaven in the touch of a cobweb on her face while others had to link electricity and orgasm and an old pair of trousers (not sure why that was thought hard to describe) with bereavement. The aim of the exercise was to demonstrate that writers can describe anything if they put their mind to it. And in a quarter of an hour today they did just that. Back to top July 26th Salt and Vinegar isn’t going to be an exclusively Brighton book – people will be able to write about any of their personal experiences – but it has been called Blow-in City and why we’ve come here, or why we’ve stayed, is something that writers will explore. This passage from BERNIE is a reminder that there are some things we shouldn’t take for granted. Why I live in Hove Hove is a staid, boring place, Brighton’s next door but straight-laced aunty. You need a zimmer frame to be allowed across the border. I lived in Deptford, inner London. It was an exciting place. I’d had three burglaries in a year. Exciting. In my road pay parties could start on a Saturday and continue booming out till Tuesday morning. Exciting. Water poured from the ceiling of my flat. When I went upstairs the drug dealers would swear it wasn’t coming from their flat. Sometimes they actually believed it. My girlfriend would beg me not to confront these dealers – you didn’t know who you’d meet. Exciting place. My friend from Hove moved to Australia and wanted me to house sit until his place was sold. It was deadly quiet. No two-day parties. No burglaries. No fights outside drug dealers’ dens. The windows were still there in the morning. Hove’s boring. Back to top July 30th Laurence Olivier, who made his home in the Royal crescent, Brighton, was asked at the height of his fame what success smelt like. He said, “There is a phrase ‘the sweet smell of success’ and I can only tell you I’ve had two experiences of that and it just smells like Brighton and oyster bars and things like that.” Ok, so what does Brighton smell like to you ? Click here to answer the questionnaire... Back to top August 5th Glorious weekend. Spent Sunday evening on the beach near Black Rock. It took an hour to drive along Kings Road from Hove – we really should have gone via Lewes. The good weather is a flashback to the long hot summer of 06. The creative writing group produced an exhibition to capture what it felt like. Here’s an extract from the Summer Alphabet that was displayed at the Centre A Avocados grew like weeds on the hills of Hanover. B Bush fires blazed in Hove Park C Churchill Square was declared a desert D Duke of York’s legs shed their stripy stockings E Eggs were fried on the pavement at Fiveways And my personal favourites: N Nudists took off their skin at Black Rock O Otters got even otter at Ovingdean Y Yellow brick houses of Hove turned golden brown To capture just how hot it was you really need to write outside the box. Here’s a contribution from TONY. I am naked in Sainsbury’s. Nobody seems to notice. I can’t find my clothes. Lost my pockets. I am cool and nude by the organic vegetables. Perhaps I shall buy some produce to wear. Mangoes and curly kale. Back to top August 8th The signs in the shops are already screeching ‘back to school soon’. KATHY remembers her very first day as a betrayal. The word “Girls” was an integral part of the ironwork. Above it, carved in an arch of sandstone, were the words ‘Saint Josephs RC School”. There was suddenly a crush of too many children, none of whom I knew and when Mum let go of my hand that was it. I could feel the panic rising. “Goodbye” she said, “Have a good first day and I’ll see you at four o’clock.” As she bent to kiss me, I pulled back saying ”But aren’t you coming in with me?” horrified by the realization that the moment had come when she was going to leave me all alone. “You promised you’d come to school with me, you promised” I whined. “I know I did, but only to the school gates. You didn’t think I’d be coming into the classroom with you did you?” By now I could see that all the other Mums were saying their goodbyes at the gate, not even coming into the playground, never mind about any further. I could see I was defeated, but didn’t want to let go. “Please Mum,” I pleaded, “don’t go.” The children behind me were gradually pushing me. At this my lip started trembling. “You lied to me and I want to go home.” Her tone quickly changed. ”Look here young lady, stop being such a baby. I’m going now” The bell was in fact ringing. She almost pushed me forward as she said goodbye. I slowly walked away from her following the path of the other children. I turned to look back at her and she waved with a weak smile on her face. Never before had I felt deceived by her. As I entered the school building, jostled and fearful of the other children around me, there was not a friendly face in sight. I knew that she was the one who had put me here. Not in the nice place with the lovely friends she had promised, but in a hideously grubby building that smelled of unwashed children, sawdust covered vomit and smelly plimsolls. At that moment I wondered if I would be able to trust my Mum ever again. Finally when I saw Sister Finbar my hopes were raised, but the face with the kindly smile now was graced with a dour look. She walked briskly through the classroom gruffly telling us to sit at one of the desks. These were double wooden desks, with flip up lids, inkwells and cast iron legs. She stood at the front of the class, holding a cane in her hand and said sternly “There will be no talking in my class. Those who do will be sorry. You may speak only when spoken to.” I looked at the tiny window that was high above the blackboard wall at the front of the class and knew at that moment that the life of any child in her class was going to be a life filled with fear. I was not wrong. ****************************** Thirty years later I went for a trip down memory lane and took my lesbian partner past the school. (The nuns would have loved that.)It was in the process of being converted to a Muslim centre. Ordinary coloured brick had replaced all the blue-brick crosses that had been inset into the high walls of the building. At the “Girls” gate the arch sandstone that had said “Saint Josephs RC School” was lying in broken pieces on the ground. Some of the letters were still intact. My partner climbed over the “girls” gate and picked up the letter “A” for me. I still have it to this day. Back to top August 13th Great workshop. Twelve in all. Nice to see so many people who have never been to the Centre before or who come to the Centre often, but hadn’t thought of putting their experiences down on paper. The first exercise was on names. Everyone listed all the names and nicknames they had ever been called. I won with 11 (12 if you count Mum) and everyone wrote about their favourite name, the memories it aroused and their feelings about it. One student revealed a nickname he had at school, which he didn’t like at the time and still didn’t like. That showed remarkable trust in the group when we were still getting to know each other. He was right though - his secret is safe with us…. Back to top August 15th One to one tutorial sessions are a great chance to chat. Although Malcolm is a stalwart of the Centre – we’ve all tasted his cooking – Monday was the first time he’d attended a creative writing class and it was good to know that he’d enjoyed the experience. One exercise was devoted to first jobs. We heard about being a Saturday girl at Woolworth’s and getting paper cuts when working for unscrupulous debt collectors but MALCOLM’S first job made our jaws drop. (It was temporary, which was perhaps just as well.) My first job was when I was still at school. I worked in Harvey’s Brewery and they had to put me in the van or get a taxi to take me home. Yes, you got it. I was drunk everyday. I cannot remember a lot about it. To my mates at school, it was the best job ever. Back to top August 17th Felix Dennis was the guest on Radio Four’s Desert Island Discs this morning. Once an editor of OZ, the underground newspaper that was the subject of an obscenity trial in the early 1970s, he is now a multi millionaire businessman. And a poet. In the programme he read Never Go Back. In the poem he suggests that there’s a destructive quality to the past and that memories of old glories can stop you achieving in the future. Here’s the last verse to give you a flavour of his argument. Never go back. Never go back. Never acknowledge the ghost on the stair. Keep to the track, to the beaten track, No-one is waiting and nothing is there. This whole project is about going back: five minutes, five years, fifty years. There is something there and that something is us and all the people and places that helped to make us. Going back helps us to see our world and ourselves more clearly. As Blake Morrison said (again on Radio Four but this was back in March 2006): The memoirs of ordinary people are the best way we have of finding out about the world we live in and the world that once was. Back to top August 21st One of the subjects we’ve tackled in workshops is that sense of belonging to a particular place that most of us have. The American writer Carson McCullers said: to know who you are you have to have a place to come from. We don’t even have to like that place for it become part of who we are. I recently went to a talk at Brighton and Hove Synagogue on the Yiddish poet Joseph Hillel Levi. His daughter Melanie Lowy referred in passing to Munich, as she described how the family narrowly escaped the Nazi death camps. She called it that wretched, hated city that still somehow belonged to her. If she could still – despite everything – own Munich as her home town, it’s not surprising that the rest of us are sometimes ambivalent about the places that are important to us. MALCOLM wrote about a house that is still very precious to him. The house in Newhaven to me is a good home with a lot of love in it. With my daughter and two sons and my wife there we shared a lot of good times when I got wed to the girl of my dreams. To live there was heaven. I spent a lot of time working on this house where I was going to share the rest of my life with the ones I love dearly. The front door as it opened it gave me a feeling of being wanted. And at times that door frame seemed to smile at me after a hard day’s work. I still love this house even after my marriage broke up. And I miss my family. Far from Newhaven, on a different continent, MAGGS recalls the home she once had in Alabama Cold concrete dressed up in cheap linoleum rose up like the floor of a prison cell greeting my early morning bare feet. Wakey wakey shock therapy could best define my daily wake up call. The bedroom left much to be desired as well. Stark paneled walls with a small austere rectangle cave recessed into the wall for a closet. No door. Just a mere muslin curtain veiled my wardrobe. An old metal bed, as noisy as tin cans tied on the back of a bride and groom’s wedding car; a tiny pastiche brand dresser in the corner asking to be left alone was often too musty to store things in. The living room? Well, let’s not bother. Visualize an extension of the bedroom with an over stuffed, badly worn and smelly orange covered chair and a gas heater straight out of a Bela Lugosi movie lurking in the corner rather threateningly. The kitchen was redeeming. An old delightful sink straight out of the 1920s cradled a brilliant fuschia bouganvilla which fell through the window in full bloom on summer mornings. I had to literally lift it back into its natural surroundings to access the taps for morning coffee. Back to top August 24th Rob is often at the Centre helping out, attending courses - we studied dreamweaver together – and entertaining with his music. ROB has many stories to tell. This is one of them (not to be read before a meal…or after one.) I have a flatmate called Gilly (Gilbert), a 9-year-old fell terrier. You can smell him before you see him but he has a heart of gold, the return of Satan himself, but a heart of gold. He’s an old dog that’s had a bit of a miserable life. He has the libido of Casanova and the mind of Thora Hird. He’s been my constant companion for quite a few months now, clearing up puke, shit and bile is quite a boring process, still he doesn’t seem to mind doing it. Gilbert has three modes: 1) The Grumpy Old man. 2) The Silly Puppy and 3) Poorly dog and you never know which one you’re getting. As soon as he’s out of the door he rolls in bitch-piss. His favourite body spray. His Lynx Africa. When I first got him his stomach was much worse than it is at the moment and when he pooed it was in little bits here and there. I used six bags one day and then he did a big wet one outside the college opposite the British Museum. Great, I had an audience and a big sweaty wet poo. Holding Gill’s collar I stretched to the bin and pulled out what I thought was an empty bag. As I started to scoop Gill’s poo with it, it became apparent that the bag had already been used for the same thing and this warm mixture was sloshing about in the bag I was using to pick up another sloshy mixture. I gagged for England much to the joy of the large group of Japanese students. I take Gill busking but if it’s sunny he chases my guitars reflection on the ground. This is a problem because Gill’s lead is attached to my boot, which means that halfway through my rendition of Mercedes Benz, Gill’s off, and half my body starts break dancing. I’m sure a few tourists believe that I’m having some kind of fit. TY had never been to the Centre before becoming involved in Salt and Vinegar. We’re all glad he found his way to Tilbury Place because he has engaged each class he has attended with stories of his time as an electrican on the Pier. One of the things not well known about the Brighton Pier is the use made of it by people looking to end their lives. They were commonly referred to as “jumpers”. As a result usually two of the security staff on there, were also qualified lifeguards. Extending nearly six hundred yards into the sea the end of the pier can be remote and foreboding in the early hours of the morning. On a summers morning during my time there as an electrician I went in very early to do some emergency work before it opened for business. It was at the extreme end of the pier and I had the whole place to myself and the seagulls. That was until I looked up from the cable I was repairing to see a man in his thirties leaning over the railings and staring vacantly at the sea. O my god it’s a jumper. My thoughts of ignoring him and getting on with my work quickly vanished. What could I do?. I’m all alone here with no hope of help for some time- I must engage him. I was not a good enough swimmer to go in after him if he went and I mentally noted that the nearest lifebuoy was some distant away. That summer dolphins had been seen off the end of the pier and I decided to use this as an introduction. Quietly making my presence felt so as not to startle him I said, “come to see the dolphins have you?” “Fuck off, I’ll be with them in a minute” was the terse reply. I carried on regardless. “Oh I believe it’s a pleasant experience swimming with dolphins”. “I can’t swim,” he snapped back at me, while throwing one leg over the railing. He was now precariously poised over the edge and even if he changed his mind he would have to be helped back carefully. “Why are you doing this?” I asked. “I’ve lost everything, my business went bust and my wife left me”, he babbled on. “I started from nothing and built it up and then the financial institutions lost all my money”. It was a time of the stock market collapse. I must keep talking to him, surely someone is due in now. “You’re a young man and you can do it all again but not from forty feet under the sea”, I said . Just then I noticed two security men creeping up behind him and kept his attention towards me with anything that came into my head so that they could grab him before he realized they were there. This they succeeded in doing and the last I saw of him was being led away protesting vehemently. I carried on with my work that day thinking did I do the right thing. What did he have in store, poor bastard? Although other people praised my actions I was reluctant to congratulate myself. Some months later I was working under the pier when a colleague said I was required up top. I climbed up to see the “ jumper” standing there , where I encountered him that fateful morning. He had a pleasant looking lady with him and he stuck out his hand to me. “This is my wife , she wanted to meet you”. She leaned forward and hugged me as she said in a low voice, “we have restarted our lives and we’re on the up again”. He then handed me a parcel saying “I’m in the leather trade and I have had this made for you. I knew your size. As a matter of fact I will never forget your size”. At my tea break I opened it and it was an exquisite hand made jacket. And yes it fitted me perfectly. Back to top September 3rd Summer’s over. School starts again this week. We’ve already had one painful memory about the first day from Kathy. Here’s another from DAVID. It was the first day at the big boys school. Never one for sitting still I enjoyed the fact that I had a table and form all to myself. Slowly at first I remember swinging to and fro. This developed into a pronounced fidget. When the teacher left for awhile I was sliding up and down, up and down, on this wonderful expanse of polished oak. Then it came, the pain. I wasn’t big enough to wear long trousers and this enormous splinter of wood entered my left thigh and exited out the other side like a great harpoon. I wasn’t pinned down: I jumped up with pain. I remember the pain even now and the humiliation. Boy did I scream which had, of course, the result of all the school gathering around for a look. From then onward I never liked being the centre of attention and just hate the smell of antiseptic. I hate little boys too. But teachers I quite like. Back to top September 7th Just heard that Pat Bowen’s book 20 Sussex Walks has been published. A regular at the Centre’s creative writing class, Pat has described 20 original walks ranging from the undemanding to the challenging and all accessible by public transport. The book contains snippets of history and folklore, local knowledge and natural history. It’s available from Amazon (but you have to wait ages), the publisher’s website at www.snakeriverpress.co.uk and local bookshops. Well done, Pat! Back to top September 10 A lovely weekend: bright sunshine, frothy clouds and opal evenings as the sky and the sea melted into one another. Now it’s Monday and the greyness that stretches towards the horizon suggests that we’ve just said goodbye to summer. But we can still feel its warmth every time we read KATHY’S poem Brighton Beach The laughter of Brighton Pier coasted a shimmering sea Bouncing around the West Pier’s skeletal smile Luscious beads of sweat trickled down my body Smooth, summer-hot pebbles softly caressing me How blissful to be home at last Back to top September 12th I’m not sure if the kitchen is the heart of every home. Depends on the kitchen, depends on the home. It is though a bustling, busy place, a place where things get done, even if you have to sing O for the Wings of A Dove to get them done. Read JUDITH’S memory of her family’s kitchen to find out why hymn singing was so useful to her mother. OUR KITCHEN was probably less than ten foot square but so much happened in there it was like a tardis. Early on there was no fridge, just a box with a wire mesh. Eggs were kept in a bucket of isinglass. It was Mum’s workplace and how she produced what she did what she did still fills me with amazement. She worked all week as a teacher, yet every Saturday come what may she would prepare from scratch fish and chips for the whole family and any friends us three children had round to play. The kitchen was our main route out of the house through the covered walkway and into the garden. My favourite secret was to pinch the glace cherries pout of the big jam jar – just one or two I promise – but they tasted so good it was always and I still feel guilty when I think of mum getting ready to bake a fruit or cherry cake and finding her cherry stocks mysteriously dwindled. Why didn’t she hide them? Or maybe she did hide some and these were just for us to find and eat. I remember Mum singing ‘O for the Wings of a Dove’ and bouncing up and down at the sink cos she needed a wee and wanted to finish what she was doing. Back to top September 18th Everybody’s story is part of history. We think of major events as belonging to the great and famous but they belong to all of us. We need to claim them back as the German playwright Bertolt Brecht maintained in his poem ‘Questions by Reading Workers’ Young Alexander conquered India. He alone? Caesar beat the Gauls. Didn’t he at least have a cook with him? Philip of Spain wept when his fleet went down. Did no one else weep? Sometimes it is only through the writing of ordinary people, the people whose names will never appear in news accounts or history books that we can understand the times we live in. Michelle captured the heady excitement of 1997, an excitement that for all the laughter and cheers was tinged with a kind of weary realism I turned nineteen the day of the election. For weeks “Things Could Only Get Better” had been a ubiquitous anthem, fuelling our giddy, barely suppressed optimism. I remember being royally pissed off when I could not after all vote for the first time. I was living in Vauxhall, South London, with my then boyfriend, who rather smugly informed me that we were not on the electoral roll and could not vote. We were evading our council tax. Still, we eagerly watched the drama unfolding on TV. Everyone forgot it was my birthday, but I didn’t mind. Peter Snow’s little animatronic map got redder and redder. We weren’t just wining; we were battering them into submission. Our cheers echoed, deafening yet incredulous when Portillo fell to a gay man, no less. It seemed like a dream, beautiful and vivid, but unreal. It was hard to believe the bad years were finally over. Probably because deep down inside we knew they weren’t. We went out to Downing Street the next day. Everyone in the crowd was laughing, happy, a sea of smiles. It was like a new dawn. We didn’t know then that this man would sell us al down the river, but just for that day the whole nation seemed to be filled with hope, optimism, joy. Back to top September 20th The only evening workshop. It seemed strange to be in a quiet Centre, a Centre without children playing or phones ringing or the kitchen smelling of good things to eat. The building was nodding off to sleep as we watched the evening sky darken and we struggled to find the light switch. It might been a very short workshop if Tree hadn’t pointed out it was clearly positioned in the middle of the main notice board. We ate a supper of nuts, raisins, dark blue corn chips and muerine to remind us just how hard it is to describe taste and texture. Then we thought of food in our lives because sometimes taste buds can remember things that our minds have forgotten. Here Yvonne travels back in time. She isn’t just remembering the pleasure of Angel Delight, she’s living it. Angel Delight: would it set? Could we wait for it to set? Are you joking? OVERNIGHT? Eaten still liquidly. Not as good, no. BUT HOW WAIT? 20 minutes? What would we do while waiting? How do you fill the ache of an Angel Delight 20 minute wait? THE ACHE. Not so bad if it’s strawberry, because that’s not my favourite. We work out a plan: make several at the same time, then we can be distracted from the WAIT by making more, and eating raw virgin baby liquidly unripe Angel Delight to fill the ache while we wait for THE BANANA Tastes like heaven. Angel’s Delight. Eaten by Angels – that’s why they can fly, that’s why they are tiny and magical: because this is what they eat – all day long! Breakfast, lunch and tea! This is the order: 1st Banana 2nd Butterscotch 3rd Chocolate 4th Strawberry It has set into its moosy consistency. We let it linger two seconds on our tongue before we wolf the whole lot down. And mix yellow, pink and brown in our tummies. We keep going. Nobody is watching. We bought a whole boxful from cash and carry. We can do it. The whole box in a week. We are many. We are strong. We are IN LOVE We are singing with the angels. It’s good for us apparently; it’s got milk in it… Back to top September 25th Sandy’s also been transported back to the past by food. But it was a rather different culinary experience. The smell haunted the hall even when it was used for other things and that smell had me sick each lunch time, even in the queue before I got to the food itself and the dinner ladies in their faintly frightening white aprons and hats – so remote and brusque – slapped it on the plate as you moved along. It was always grey-brown, grainy meat with a lumpy half round ice cream scoop of mash. There were more potatoes, blotchy brown roast ones, and a splodge of pale, watery long-lost-its-crunch cabbage covered by a thin sludge of gravy. Was it always cold because I dawdled in my reluctance? The mashed potatoes were only a bland torture – you could find some so lumpy bits to nibble – but the roast potatoes were nice-nasty. That rich, brown, oil-infused skin – but the oil cheap, old and so sadly bitterly rancid. The cabbage had so few intact cells it just dissolved into dishwater in the mouth. I’d push it around and try and sit next to Mark Blatchborough who smelled but who ate others leftovers. Back to top October 1st Looking through the family photograph album can trigger many memories. For Dee one particular moment captured by the camera still links her far-flung family. I don’t remember the day the photo was taken, all of us sitting in a circle in our Sunday best. We jokingly call “Picnic at Hang Rock”. It’s the one common denominator that bonds our respective homes. Mine is on the pine dresser, sister Monica’s on her bookshelf, brother in Cork has his in the hall in a little enclave window, sister in Australia has hers in the downstairs loo on the window. We all stare out at the camera: mother, father leaning on the straw bale, my age 6 with a melting bar of chocolate in my hand held like an ice lolly about to be licked - brothers leaning on each other playfully. I look at it and try to remember the dress. Where did I get it? The big starched bow… Back to top Monday October 8th I said winter had arrived ages ago but the autumn is still fighting back. Sunday was a soft day as they would say in Ireland. JOE has written about leaving Ireland in the 1950s. Here’s an extract: ….. On the day I left home I saw my first train, at Carrick-on Shannon station. I had seen pictures of trains in books and it was very much as I expected it to look except that it was bigger and much less glamorous. The carriages were like enclosed cattle trucks. On the same day I saw my first city, which was Dublin. It was the focal point of the map of Ireland on our school wall and all pupils by the age of seven were expected to be able to point it out. The clever ones might be able to show Cork and Galway, even Belfast as well. By the time we reached Dublin it was drawing in the evening and a light persistent rain was coming down. So many houses and all looking the same. How, in feck’s name, could one ever find one’s own house out there in that darkening valley of houses upon houses? At Dun Laoghaire I saw my first boat. It glinted harshly in the wet light. It was as cold as iron and there were cattle on the lower deck, heading ironically for English slaughterhouses. I saw my first black man when the train stopped at Crewe station. I had seen one, a stage Negro, in a film when a travelling cinema came to our village. My uncle, who had never seen a black person in his life, told me ‘They’re completely different to us in every way entirely’. The train moved off before I could check the veracity of his pronouncement. At Euston I encountered my first underground experience. I knew about undergrounds but had no idea what to expect. I went up escalators and down escalators and through underground corridors and along platforms and up steps and down steps before, thanks to the kindness of strangers, I was put on the train to Archway. Every time the train started I fell over and whenever the train stopped I danced in the corridor. That underground logo is forever branded on my skull as is the stink of stale air and strangeness of everything. I heard my first foreign language when a group of very dark-haired, dangerous-looking people got on at Camden Town station. I reckon now that they were Greek Cypriots. Because they stood near me I said hello to them and asked them how they were. Luckily they didn’t understand my accent and probably decided I was mad. On the Holloway Road I saw my first trolleybus. I thought it was a fire engine and that the poles were the ladders for the firemen to climb. I saw my first traffic lights at Archway. For no particular reason I stood watching them change from green to red to amber to green to red to amber to green. I saw my first block of flats along St John’s Way. They were only four storeys high but they impressed me so much that I sat on the garden wall of the house opposite them and looked and looked. I saw my first woman too who seemed like a film star. Back to top October 11 When my youngest son was little – nursery school age – he used to love visiting other people at home ‘just to see what kind of food they have’. That makes him sound a glutton and he was never that. He wasn’t particulary interested in eating the food in other homes but he was curiose about the differences. Even when serving the same food, no two families do it quite the same. We all cook pasta, right? We all eat pasta. But I bet it isn’t the same as VALERIES’s description of her mother’s cooking. Mum always used to cook pasta on a Monday evening. This family tradition started because Monday was her assigned day to use the washing machine in the block of flats where we used to live in Switzerland. So she would also do all the housework on a Monday. She figured that by the time she'd washed all our clothes, dried them, and cleaned the flat from top to bottom, she deserved to only cook a simple meal. When I was old enough, she let me help her by ironing the easy stuff like tea-towels and Dad's hankies, checking on me while she cooked dinner. The pasta, which alternated between spaghetti and "cornettes" - Swiss pasta in the shape of little horns - didn't take long, but the delicious tomato sauce she produced as an accompaniment was an art in itself. I used to love seeing the huge heap of steaming hot pasta on the dinner table, with a large piece of butter melting on top. Unfortunately this was always followed by the daily salad - Mum's insistence that it was full of vitamins and must not be missed. When we moved to England in 1981 and she owned a washing machine all to herself, Mum continued to do the housework on a Monday. So Monday was still pasta night. These days I don't often cook pasta, maybe because eating it on my own isn't the same, but I do have salad every day. Back to top October 15 I’m still thinking about food, perhaps because I’m on a diet (again), but GED had noble ambitions when, as an idealistic teenager, he started to make sandwiches with a mate. Here’s an extract… ….So I went to Kevin and said. 'We need to feed the hungry. Let's go to Brighton beach and give sandwiches to the homeless.' Kevin was clever and liked the logistical challenges presented by this proposal. We had little money and the scheme was unlikely to meet with parental approval. In his family caravan he found a jar of jam, which he brought round to my house with as much sliced white bread as he could liberate from home without detection. The jam was covered by thick layer of mould which we scraped off and put in the garden under the lupins. We thought the removal of butter would be noticed, so we spread the jam on the bread without it. It made a couple of rounds. Not enough to end poverty and hunger in Brighton and Hove. So we pooled our financial resources, visited the grocers round the corner and bought six slices of reconstituted ham. We spread it thinly on more bread, taken this time from my family’s breadbin, and laid the sandwiches in an empty Christmas Assortment tin. That's better. That may even feed five thousand. We didn't need bike locks because we had guardian angels. Though we did help them a bit by hiding our cycles behind the beach huts near Hove Lagoon. I had cycled with the Christmas Assortment tin under my arm, which meant that the loose sandwiches had rearranged themselves, subtly remixing processed ham, mouldy jam and bits of bread, now soggy and disintegrating. But we reassembled them artfully and we were sure that the homeless would still be grateful. Neither of us wanted to admit how nervous we were now we had arrived. An orderly queue of needy, grateful people had not appeared despite both the epicurean aroma emanating from our tin and the compassionate half-smiles on our faces. The setting sun threw long shadows from the iron railings edging the beach and dog walkers and joggers passed on the promenade. We may have been a bit early for homeless bedtime. We decided we would walk towards the West Pier, underneath which, we had been told, a passable night could be spent by those without a home. As we walked we eyed anyone who was neither jogging nor clutching a dog-leash. 'What about him?' I hissed. As we passed a middle-aged man wearing a dirty raincoat. We circled round, pretending to watch the herring gulls flying out to sea after a days scavenging. 'He's got a pink paper under his arm,' said Kevin. 'So?' 'Financial Times.' Kevin was doing an Economics 'O' Level and I deferred to the fact that he had obviously been trained to identify businessmen and investors. These assessments continued as we strolled towards the Pier with our biscuit tin. We tried to be inconspicuous but received several glares, one Wot you lookin at? and an enticing smile from a girl about our age. When we took the path under the West Pier we found only one person - a bored looking policeman. 'Alright lads?' he said, as he saw us loitering. We suddenly felt guilty. With our hidden sandwiches suspiciously oozing jam and criminality. 'Wouldn't hang around here. Been told to keep the place clear. 'Keep the hobos away,' they said, though God knows where else they've got to go.' Back to top October 17th Nora, a well known Brighton character, also has a high minded purpose when she goes forth laden with food. Here is ALLISON’s tribute to an unique lady. One of the amazing inspirational individuals in Brighton, she has been briefly mentioned in the cheeky guide to Brighton. I was keen to meet Nora again and a rainy Monday in July gave me such an opportunity. Charging up St James Street wit her trolley recently emptied, her lipstick as ever immaculate. As we bump into each other she remembers our last chat almost a year ago, even down to my start sign. This woman is worth more than brief mention in a tourist guide. Her mission on a daily basis is to feed the birds of the city, mainly seagulls. Nora’s assertion that man is over fighting the sea so the gulls are coming further inland to feed. Nora obtains the food from skips behind supermarkets, not only bread but also soup and butter, anything basically to feed her friends. Although her efforts are not always appreciated by the authorities, she continues undeterred. With her beautiful sprit of determination, she is a strong symbol for me of Brighton, where individuality is still just tolerated. As we are chatting both getting drenched, I offered her a cuppa but she said she was busy but left with the comment “At least, I won’t have to ash my jacket today.” At almost 81 years old I hope Nora long continues to shout at seagulls and continues her one-woman campaign against environment damage by man. Next time we shout at seagulls for raiding our bins we should consider the reasons. Back to top October 25 All the work is in on deadline and a wonderful team have come together to type up handwritten contributions and start the long, long editing process. Jenny has been so organised and clear headed about the typing that everything feels under control. Very grateful too for the copy editing skills that Valerie brings to the process. Richard, Yvonne, Josie and I start reading through over 40,000 words, most of them very good words and nearly all of them in the right place. Back to top October 30 Another editing session. This will be about putting commas in the right place (hopefully) and occasionally making a story a little tighter but we don’t want to alter the tone of individual passage of writing. What I take away from these editorial meetings is the memory of Richard’s sudden and very loud laughter whenever he reads something that tickles him, Yvonne taking remarkably good photographs of the team on her mobile (although there is one of me that I would pay good money never to see again), Josie’s patient dog Jumble under the table and the gentle atmosphere. I didn’t expect it to be this stress free. We all have our favourite pieces but we’re thrilled by the standard of the contributions. Have a brainwave about organising the content: we could use well-known song titles as chapter headings such as ‘We are family…’ I thought a line from the song under each heading might also look good but am worried that it might infringe someone else’s copyright. Back to top October 31 Checked with the legal department of the National Union of Journalists – I’m a member of the freelance branch – who email back within hours, confirming my fears. But the good news is that there is nothing wrong with using the song titles. Decide instead to use a quote from one of the stories grouped under a particular heading so, for example, under the first chapter YOUNG ONES I’ve selected this quote from LAILA ’s account of being 11 years old: “My best friend Fiona said she was a camel. So I said I was a carrot.’’ Convinced this is better than my original idea. Back to top November 1 Alan Morrison our designer has sent us his first ideas for the cover using the artwork from Allison and the Art Group. The colour is a kind of dark sage. We decide we need something brighter (although I’d rather like a dress that shade). Back to top November 3 The cover comes back a subdued turquoise. Again, a good colour but the consensus is that it’s not quite right. By the evening Alan has changed it to a bolder, brighter blue. Back to top November 6 Very exciting – sent off the manuscript to. It’s brilliant. Superb. A masterpiece all 48,000 words of it. Back to top November 21 Have to fly to Ireland for Uncle’s funeral. Alan needs the go-ahead on the cover because The Guardian may print an article early December. James Morrison visited the Centre in September and interviewed some of the authors. A freelance, he wanted to write a feature for the Society pages that appear every Wednesday. I didn’t include his visit in this diary in case nothing came of it but it now looks like something might. Back to top November 26 Alan tells me that now the manuscript has been combed into order and typeset the book comes out at 206 pages rather than the 100 we had planned. Never imagined that we would have one page for one passage of writing (apart from the longer poems). It’s agreed that we can group work together, which will save a lot of pages, but clear that there will still be cuts. Also I didn’t appreciate just how many blank pages go into the production of a ‘proper’ book.... Back to top November 27 Another idea is to make the actual size of the print smaller by reducing the font to 10 pt. Editorial group feel we should stick with 11 pt. Alan does something imaginative with the margins, which save us several pages. Poetry demands a lot of space. That’s not fair. It needs a lot of space if it is to read properly. While prose pieces can happily share a page with several neighbours, poetry can’t have any flatmates. I wake in the middle of the night with the idea that if all the poems are at the end of each chapter we might save a few more pages. Alan plays around with the suggestion and yes, it works. We’re both childishly pleased. Back to top November 28 Alan has got it down to 186 pages – still a lot over. Print out the PDF file he sends by email. Mike my husband goes through every page. As he is coming to the writing cold, he spots mistakes we have missed. The cutting begins. Back to top November 29 I have altered the chapter structure to salvage more pages. But more cutting still to do… Back to top December 1 I’ve never quite believed Editors when they begin a letter of rejection with the words ‘deeply regret’. If you regret it so much why didn’t you put it in….but now I know it’s true. I am full of regrets for the passages of writing that will not appear in Salt and Vinegar. I’m not even selecting on the basis of the material I like best. Poems I love are being cut. Descriptions I wish I had written are being rejected simply because I can’t shoehorn them in. But what is left is wonderful and every writer will have at least one contribution in Salt and Vinegar. Back to top December 2 Send edited manuscript to Alan. It is still a work of genius, just shorter. Back to top December 4 Alan reports that he thinks the mean, lean Salt and Vinegar will run to 108 pages….fantastic! Back to top December 5 Nothing in The Guardian Back to top December 12 Nothing in The Guardian Back to top December 19 Nothing in The Guardian Simon at Waterloo Press has given the thumbs up. Am now double and triple checking the proofs on screen. Finally, I let it fly. Back to top December 20 Guardian photographer arrived at The Centre while the creative writing group were giving their Christmas spoken word performance. Told that there might be a story about us on Boxing Day. Back to top December 21 Alan’s sent the manuscript to Onedigital, our printers. They won’t have a chance to work on it until after the Christmas holidays but it is now in their hands. Working with a designer who was totally in tune with the project has made a big difference. Alan has supported us every step of the way. Back to top December 26 No Guardian published on Boxing Day Back to top January 2 We’re in! We’re in! http://www.guardian.co.uk/society/2008/jan/02/socialexclusion Back to top January 4 Have the final proof copy in my hand. I come back from a meeting at the Centre as an Onedigital van pulls up outside my house. The driver ran up the path to hand over a padded package as if it were something very precious. He was right. Back to top January 5 The very final checking. Only the most obvious mistakes to be corrected now. Find an author’s name is misspelled on the contents page. It has been checked and re-checked and checked again by different eyes and we still missed it. Can’t see any others…hope there aren’t any others. Back to top January 9 Jessica from The Argus turns up with a photographer to capture the moment when the creative writing group see the book for the first time. Back to top