jigsaw

A jumbled up assortment of pieces 

lay scattered across the pneuma of me

the fragments of you lodged into every area of my being

and each one was as precious as the next 

you plucked a shard from my heart 

and the facets glistened like a crystal 

you reached into my mind and gathered a handful of morsels

then you took out your paintbrush 

and the morsels liquified at your command 

one striking stroke on the canvas
and there was the outline of you

one by one you revealed each piece 

showing me in detail the curves and edges

the hues and tiny details that i had missed 

by not looking at you closely enough

it was hard to let go and move on to the next

but the next fit and made the picture more intense

you handed me the brush

and I recognized it

I gasped... I had been the painter

and I had carefully painted all of you 

A magnificent abstract

cut into odd shapes

and I had the unsurmountable task of

fitting them all together

to make the perfect you

Lucy Vincent

Lucy Vincent was a puritanical lady who lived in the small, idyllic town of Chilmark on Martha’s Vineyard. Lucy was the town librarian; she felt compelled to sensor the town folk literature and laboriously blacked out any words she felt were inappropriate or sexual in nature.

Upon her death Lucy willed a very generous gift to the town: her beach. Lucy Vincent beach lies on the south side of the island, the boulders sit magnificently along the shore like beauty marks against the ocean spray. The cliffs stand tall as a backdrop and curve graciously around the bay.

Some years after inheriting this splendid beach the people of the town decided that Lucy Vincent beach would allow it’s bathers and sun-worshipers to bare all and Lucy Vincent became a nude beach. It isn’t mandatory to remove all of one’s garments on the beach and many people choose to cover up their private parts.

Today I felt the heat of the morning sun on my deck in the woods; the breeze did little to cool my clammy body. I pulled on a bathing suit, wrapped a sarong around my waist, slip my feet into my flip-flops and headed for sand and surf of Lucy Vincent.

The beach was not crowded as it was just two weeks ago. I walked a few hundred yards along the beach to find my piece of solitude and laid my towel down on the soft sand. The ocean beckoned me in; I stood in the water just a few feet deep and felt the waves crash into me. There is a hurricane out to sea bestowing the south side of our island with big, beautiful, frothy white waves. My tanned skin glistened with beads of water shining like crystals in the sun.

I headed back to my towel and lay my revived body in the soft sand to absorb the warmth of the midday sun. My feet firmly placed on the sand, I shuffled my bottom from side to side to scoop out a little hollow, I wanted so much to slide my hand inside the crotch of my bathing suit, the thought made my breasts tingle. My mind took me to you. You stood in front of me looking at me without expectation but with longing. You would not touch me unless I asked you to, but I didn’t want words, I wanted to read your mind. I unbuttoned your shirt slowly. My hand slid inside and gently stroked your bare chest, without removing your shirt I moved the fabric to one side and began kissing your skin. Your eyes close as if the sensation were more enhanced by eliminating one of your senses. My hand slipped down to your waist and pulled on the leather strap of your belt until the prong of metal released from the hole and I quickly unzipped your jeans, allowing them to drop to the ground. With a gentle press to your chest you lean backwards falling softly on the bed behind you, you look at me curiously. I take your hand and place it on my breast inside my dress. Your cock is so hard and I want to take all of it in my mouth. I climb beside you on the bed, pull my hair to one side and lick the tip of your head, the taste of pre-cum makes my own pussy wet and I become aware of how much I am teasing myself, but still I want to be the one to bring the pleasure. My tongue swirls around the rim of your knob lubricating it so that I can pull it between my lips. Your breathing is becoming heavier and my mouth responds to the rhythm, I am sucking you unaware of your hands in my hair.

Suddenly I hear a dog bark. I am jolted back to reality. I look over at my loyal companion; my four-year old dog Bo has spotted a beach walker. “He’s very friendly.” I yell as the nervous looking guy approaches. “Oh hi Robby.” I say laughing, “sorry about my vicious guard dog.” “Are you alone?” He asks, “Yes, pull up a seat.” seeing his beach chair slung over his shoulder. He sits, and we idly chat about the waves and mutual friends for a while. And then BAM!!! “I’m probably going to take my clothes off and go for a naked dip if you don’t mind.” I had forgotten all about Lucy beach-goers and their nakedness and now I was faced with the prospect of seeing a local guy I’ve known for almost twenty years reveal all of himself to me. I was mortified. AWKWARD!!!!! I leap to my feet, I’m sure the expression on my face revealed the shear horror. “I’m about to take a dip and then I have to head home before work.” I.E. PLEASE WAIT. I took a quick self conscious dip, was he watching me? Oh no I am as prudish as Lucy Vincent herself? I spent just enough time in the water to justify my earlier response, gathered my things and left the beach a little earlier than intended.

Careful what you wish for…

My first home that my husband and I purchased while I was pregnant with our twins was a tiny two bedroom one story ranch house. Everyone thought I was crazy when I said I was going to buy a house for under $125,000 that had a separate rental unit. I knew we could not afford the mortgage payments, so the only way we could live was to find a place that would pay for itself. I opened the MV Times and scanned the real estate section, there it was, my little house with an even tinier guesthouse, it had once been a garage. The income from the rental virtually covered the mortgage payments… believe it can be and it can?

Within a few years I felt the walls began drawing in on me. I would lay in the double bed next to my husband and wish that I could physically push the bedroom wall out with my feet. With a lot of thinking and wishing eventually I came up with a plan. I could buy land and build my dream house. Each day at work in my little trendy boutique, when business was slow I would draw endless floor plans. The first design was very ambitious- 6000 sq. ft. of living space; the builder laughed his ass off when I showed him the design and the budget. Eventually I made all of the compromises I was willing to make and managed to design a house that fit the budget.

In the meantime I expanded my business and made some very unwise decisions, the business went bust (a business I had been dreaming of owning for several years). Yet still I got my dream house.

I believed that if I had the perfect home I would be happy. I helped to shingle my house, I painted walls and doors, I spread dirt over the scarred earth, dug up flowers from my husbands grandmothers renowned garden and planted them in my own flowerbeds. And I rejoiced in all of what I had achieved.

A couple of days ago I mowed my lawn. I looked around and realized that my wish had come true, and I felt grateful. I haven't felt that way in a long time. There is a question mark hovering over my head, it’s been there for years, perhaps all of my life. It asks what is my purpose in life and how can I be happy? I continue to wish for things.

On Saturday night after work I sat on the couch playing a little online poker and half watching whatever my husband had tuned into on the TV. Rihana came on and my thoughts immediately turned to an old friend. He liked Rihana and it had made me jealous. I liked how he shared these little things with me, and a felt a wave of sadness wash over me. I missed getting to know him; you know that feeling one gets when they first meet someone and everything they say is like opening the wrapping off a beautiful gift. I wrote a short piece in here about missing him and wishing I could experience that again. A short while later I received an email from him, I messaged him back to see if he was still online. We chatted for a couple of hours and it felt new and exciting again.

So perhaps I’ll take this as an opportunity to make a couple of wishes and also acknowledge that I am grateful for the wishes that have already been granted to me.

My first wish to the universe is: that my daughter does well on her history exam on Friday; she deserves to after so much hard work. And my second wish is that my plan to open hotels for families with disabilities materializes. 

Temper, temper!

My family is incapable of going a whole day without speaking in either a silly voice, an accent or a foreign language. Within the first twenty minutes of my day I broke into an Indian accent, “Oh goodness gracious it’s very, very windy.”

There’s something about certain phrases or words that just sound better with an accent. No one sounds meaner or tougher than a northern English person using the ‘F’ word; spoken in any other accent, it’s just another word.

Growing up in England I was always conscious of how I would be judged or accepted based on how I spoke. I could switch back and forth between a broad northern dialect and pseudo ‘Queens English’. I say pseudo because I found it virtually impossible and felt phony to say “barth” in place of bath, and a duck is duck not a cross between a dack and a dock.

Which dialect I chose depended on whom I was speaking with. If I liked the person I would often adopt their native tongue. If I felt threatened then I would go into my posh voice and sound as pompous as I could be.

A couple of summers ago I had an alteration with a lady at the supermarket. I was dressed in typical island attire, flip-flops, a skirt and a simple T-shirt. My hair was pulled back and my sunglasses were perched on my head. I happened to brush my shopping cart by the lady, grazing her Louis Vuitton purse that was hanging on the side of the cart. (I’m a terrible driver.) I was about to apologize, but before I could open my mouth the woman said to me indignantly “Excuse you.” Immediately I recognized the tone, I sensed her looking down her nose at this specimen who dared to invade her space. She was an older lady, perhaps in her early sixties, her hair and make-up were done, and I can’t imagine how long she must have been at the salon and just how much hairspray had been required to create the do on her head. Her reaction irked me. In the most proper English accent I could muster, I asked rhetorically “Excuse me?” She quickly retorted: “Yes” maintaining her posture and then I let her have it: “How rude?” I continued, “How dare you speak to me in that tone. Why don’t you take your big hair and your, Louis Vuitton back to Connecticut where you belong. You’re not welcome here.” 

I noticed my friend John out of the corner of my eye; he had witnessed the clash and looked a little pale. John is by no means the gentleman’s club type. He rides Harley Davidsons, wears leather, engineer boots and has tattoos; he probably lives at least part of the year in an old van. He is typical of many islanders who grew up here. I wasn’t sure what he made of the scene, he vanished quickly; I assumed he thought this was not a good moment for idle chitchat in the frozen food aisle.

A couple of days later John appeared in my chat window in facebook. He said “Hi.” And all I could muster was an LOL. “You smoked that lady.” “Haha, yeah don’t ever piss me off John.” Still not sure if I should be cringing or laughing. “I have to admit something to you.” He goes onto say. “I had to go hide, you gave me a giant woody.” Enough said.

When I consider what makes a woman sexy or attractive to the opposite sex, a quick temper does not come to mind. However a year later I was lying in bed with my ex-lover; he recalled seeing me let rip on my husband outside my Mother-in-law’s house many years earlier. The house was across the street from a little gas station, my future lover (not mentioning names here) was filling up his car and enjoying the commotion. “You were so hot.” He said. I looked at him incredulously. I remember those fights with James from our early years; the passion was so intense that if we fell out I would either fly off the handle or crumble into an abyss of self-pity. I no longer fight with James in such a way, perhaps I’m mellower now or perhaps I stopped really caring.

A few months after my boyfriend told me he’d seen my fight with James, we got into an argument ourselves; I leapt out of the bed and declared: “I’m done!” He handed me my earring, which I snapped out of his hand and then flung across the room, I saw him smile. I stormed out of the house and headed for the car, he came running after me, grabbed me and said “You are so sexy when you’re angry.”

Perhaps I attract men who like strong women. Or maybe there is something to be said for passion, because without it how can one even gauge what the other person is feeling. I however prefer men who are not feisty. I like the strong silent type, the type of man who seems comfortable in his own skin. If a man brings drama to a situation I think I find it a sign of weakness, and perhaps a feminine trait. In my opinion there is only room enough for one drama queen in any relationship. 

From the heart of a poet and the soul of a dancer...

I wonder why all of the saddest, the most awkward, and the most embarrassing things turn out to be the funniest moments in our lives? I don’t tend to laugh at other peoples tragedies, but I find my own darkest moments hilarious. Often times soon after or even during. Oh, this will make a good story.

My daughter Paige is emotionally the mirror image of myself. I can cringe at her behavior. I feel a knot in my stomach when she feels sad, because I don’t know how to help her; it makes me want to run away, to hide from the reality that she is mentally torturing herself and it’s all in her mind. Just the way my own mind will sometimes take me to that dark place where I can find no comfort.

Yesterday I had to make a tough decision; Claudia had yet again fallen behind in her schoolwork, this has become a recurring theme. An email arrived from her Spanish teacher letting me know she had not handed in several assignments and her grade now reflected this. Spanish has been consistently one of her best subjects and Claudia had been assuring me for weeks that her work was being done and handed in on time. I decided that she would not go to the poetry recital rehearsal. Instead she would stay home and attempt to catch up on missing work. Upon picking her up from school I told her, “I hope you will be very happy at the Blain beauty school.”  Ironically the better punishment would have been to take her considering the events that followed.

Paige, my other daughter who has cerebral palsy had also been awarded the title of ‘Promising Young Poet’ so off we went to the rehearsal. Expecting to feel the pride a mother feels when she triumphantly gazes upon her offspring during events such as these: honor roll ceremonies, school plays, dance recitals and the like. Instead I sat on the lawn in the sun with a hand full of teenagers and the two event organizers, both poets, both cerebral and composed in nature, and I experienced one of my most humiliating moments as a mother. The first poem my daughter read was a lengthy account of what she would be like if she didn’t have cerebral palsy; I could not hold back the tears, my heart was breaking as I listened to her imagination take flight, painting a picture of her life as a dancer, a flirt, and a free spirit.

I am not as simple as I seem

by Paige Taylor

as my bones may turn

to rust

and I am not

what I seem

I am a ballerina…

mentally spinning as I

am physically

taking

flight

and landing

perfect on the

1 2 3 4

of the floor

I have no blood on my knees

I do not fall

I dye my hair

and call my friends

And put on makeup

and gracefull

eventually, I will go to N Y U

and learn the art and craft

with girls’ nights out

and red lipstick

smeared while we were cackling

I have

shoved my tongue down

x amount of boys’ throats

wanting more and more

I have been heartbroken

but not traumatized

and I have broken hearts before.

I have gone

To parties

I have danced

Until I fell over.

I have gone for hikes

I appreciate the outdoors

I eat more than I should

I have cried until dawn

I have painted the most beautiful painting you have ever seen

I have danced in Lady Gaga’s dance troupe.

I have been drawn

I have bought way too many expensive clothes

and maxed out credit cards

I’m decent in math

I don’t have fits

I can actually

Control my emotions

To a normal level… at least considered okay.

(yes I am a drama queen, though)

I’m not striving to be perfect.

(at least when I know I can’t be)

the only times I have ever felt guilty

was when something was actually my fault.

I have done everything that I should.

only, one thing;

it’s a buzzing word beginning with C

cerebral palsy

The next poem took me utterly by surprise; her knowledge of anti-psychotic medications, vivid images of blood, death and suicide sprang from the page and assaulted our ears. Paige realizing during a moment of clarity that this was probably not appropriate material for such an event burst into tears. The teens sat with their heads bowed, in awkward reverie. I was mortified. I wanted desperately to lighten the mood, joking “perhaps we could all have a little group therapy now.” No one laughed. The idea crossed my mind, that perhaps these softly spoken gentle folk believed that my husband and I maybe a couple of pill-popping crazy people.  “Who was this about Paige, Amy Weinhaus?”

Paige eventually found her composure she told me that the poem was about her friend from her freshman year, who had broken her heart by dumping her. The friend had gone through some traumatic times and had shared her tales of woe with Paige before then telling her to leave her alone; leaving Paige confused and heartbroken (a feeling I know too well).

I chatted with my friend later that evening in facebook, retelling the event; somehow at that moment I found the humor, I cried with laughter as I told the tale, she too got why it was funny and tragic. It’s nice to feel understood.

This week I have cried often for my firstborn. I prayed to the universe to please bring her a little joy.

I am sitting here writing this after a triumphant day; the rehearsal two days ago feels more like a lifetime ago. I landed my dream job today, but the icing on the cake was watching Paige confidently perform her poem; and I say perform, because she drove her story home, with passion and humor. There were tears and laughter from so many in the audience and at the end she got the standing ovation she deserved. My little girl got her moment in the spotlight, she felt normal and she made me so very proud.

Ode to Cookers

Bite into this carrot, it has been roasting in the oven for an hour,

Its flavor has intensified, the sugars turned to a caramel glaze.

I am in carrot heaven.

Savor this beef; it will melt on your tongue, so tender.

The red wine has melded with the garlic and the herbs,

It is a rustic sauce of perfection.

Sink your teeth into the earthy skin of this baked potato

Allow your self the pleasure of devouring the fluffy white flesh

With the melted butter, and fill your soul with comfort.

Smell the warm bread and delight in every bite,

It took the time to rise for you and it’s grand finale 

Upon leaving the oven deserves a standing ovation.

Have you ever tasted a peach when it has been grilled?

It’s warm flesh melting the ice cream below,

It’s partner in crime; a raspberry sauce once sour,

Is now sweet as nectar from being swirled around a pot over fire.

Fire is older than the blender; heat it up, cook it, roast it, grill it,

And enjoy it. 

poem

You wished for me to like you as you like me.

I am not in your head. I didn’t know how.

But I think I understand better now.

I am a friend, a lover, a wife, and a mother.

I play, I cry, I weed. I cook, I love, I read.

I organized my world into neat little compartments.

I became someone to everyone,

Fulfilling a different role to meet the needs.

The need for me to feel sensual pleasure

Brings me to your imaginary embrace.

Thoughts of your skin next to mine

The image of your face, excite my senses.

And even in your absence, momentarily I am yours.

Your're tacky and I hate you

“You're tacky and I hate you!” -Billy from School of Rock (2003)

I recently read a short story written by my best friend exploring her relationship with her mother. I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous of the close bond she spoke of, reaching all the way back to her difficult birth.

I think of my best friend and her sister like the sisters I never had, and their mother has a special place in my heart. She is beautiful, has a dry wit, great taste, and writes in a way I could only dream of. My friends’ mother had a difficult relationship with her own mother and I have always felt comfortable sharing my darkest feelings on the matter of my relationship with my mother, with her.

I was adopted at four months and I consider this the reason why a) I felt displaced all of my childhood and b) I felt a cold animosity between my mother and me.

As a small child, I would look upon my mother as the epitome of beauty; she had long red hair, always done; her nails were done, her face was done, and her clothes were pressed. Men whistled at her, and she would toss them a dirty look, but I’m sure she loved the attention. She was not very articulate, but her smile was magnificent. My mum showed me how to be feminine and flirtatious; she taught me from a young age that being an attractive woman could be powerful.

I was obsessed with beauty as a child. I considered the difference between beautiful and pretty; Audrey Hepburn was pretty, and Sophia Lauren was beautiful. I loved Olivia Newton-John—she was pretty, and then she was sexy. My husband, who happens to be one of the funniest people I have ever met, said one of the funniest things about my childhood favorite movie: “Grease taught women that to win the guy, they should start smoking and dress like a slut.” Around the time Grease was made and Legs and Co. performed each Thursday evening on Top of the Pops, a family friend asked me what I’d like to be when I grew up. The answer was easy: “I want to be sexy.”

I begged my mother for a pair of tight, black, satin pants like the ones worn by Sandy in Grease. Grease came out in 1978 when I was nine years old. When I was twelve, my mum came home from C&A with a pair of hot pink, slightly flared, satin, stretchy pants; they were hideous. I was the new kid in school, and I braces on my teeth to straighten the front tooth that overlapped. My mother purchased a V-back, V-front, pastel pink T-shirt and a pair of old-lady, cream-colored, strappy sandals to complete the look and then insisted I wore the look to the school disco. I don’t think I ever lived it down.

My mother is very easy to poke fun at; her behavior at times has seemed so extreme that she resembles a character in a sitcom more than an actual person. Poking fun at my mother has always helped me deal with the sadness of our tempestuous relationship. My close friends enabled me to vilify her at times.

My best friend, Lizzie McPhee, a spritely and bubbly friend I had met while at a drama camp when I was sixteen years old, would call my mother “eye-shadow woman.” My mother disliked Lizzie tremendously, and whenever Lizzie would come over to my house to stay, my mother did her best to make us both feel unwelcome and uncomfortable. I loved to stay at Lizzie’s house, where her family seemed laid back and cool. Lizzie would take a bath and ask me to sit and talk to her while she lay soaking in the warm water, her perfect round breasts floating as she shaved her stretched out legs. I adored Lizzie, almost as if it were teenage love. Her mother had been an artist; she was married to a photographer for the Guardian newspaper. His award-winning photos and her art adorned the walls at their suburban home. There was orderly chaos in their house; music played, and friends could come and go as they pleased. I felt relaxed and happy there and dreaded going home to my uptight, angry mother.

It is customary in England to sit around the dinner table on a Sunday evening and talk politics, philosophy, etc. My father loved to play devil’s advocate; I never knew what his true political or philosophical beliefs were, as he always took the opposing argument. My mother had very little to say on any matter, but would laugh gleefully when my father shot down any of my arguments. I think she despised the fact that I was able to hold my own in debate. I do appreciate those dinnertime debates however, because it taught me how to draw my own conclusions in life. I was not swayed one way or another politically or philosophically. I noticed as I got older just how much I disagreed with my mother on everything: fashion, art, music, culture, and values.

I clearly remember walking through the city streets of Manchester and spotting a homeless teenager sitting with a dog and a sign which read “hungry and homeless.” My mother shook her head in disgust and indignantly said, “It’s one thing if she chooses to live on the street, but she shouldn’t subject the dog to it.” It was this kind of bizarre mindset that seemed so outrageous to me; it became the subject of ridicule in my opinion of her. As for her level of taste, I began to see this as not only questionable, but lacking in any sophistication.

There were some happy times as a child, and there were times I have felt close to my mum, even as an adult. However, I felt it was obvious that she disliked me immensely: “I love you, but I don’t like you.” That sort of gave it away. I was a disappointment; the sweet little girl she thought she’d picked out from the orphanage turned out to be a clumsy, forgetful, messy, obstreperous child who, at times, had a loud mouth and a big temper.

I was one very frustrated kid; I didn’t understand half of what the teachers were talking about in school, mostly because I missed about fifty percent of what they said. School sounded like an endless recording of the adults muffled speaking in the Charlie brown shows. But I clearly remember overhearing a conversation between two classmates, I was around nine years old at the time: “Who do you think is the dumbest, Natasha Bee or Peter Smith?”

Ironically, my best friend was probably the smartest kid in our class and went on to become a doctor. I have always loved smart people, and I don’t think I’m really dumb at all; I just wasn’t really a very good student. My school reports were appalling; parent-teacher conferences must have been terribly disappointing and embarrassing for my parents. "Natasha is a distraction to others.” "Natasha could try harder.” “Natasha is silly.” “Natasha does not take woodwork seriously.” I broke every sewing machine in school. I blew up the test tubes in science. I spent hours standing outside of the classrooms in the corridors, laughing hysterically; something would make me laugh, and the more the teacher told me to stop, the more I would find it funny.

I showed promise as a gymnast as a young girl; I never had lessons, but two of my friends did. They showed me what they learned on the field at school, and I copied. I asked my mother if I could take lessons, but she was afraid I would break my back. This wasn’t actually that unreasonable; by the time I was nine years old, I had been to the emergency room three times for multiple stitches. I had walked into a door, rollerskated into a wall, and tripped and smashed my head on a brick step.

Because I feel as though my mother disliked me so much, I feel permitted to denigrate her in anyway I choose. My mother has an air about her as though she feels better when she is looking down her nose at people she considers beneath her; she is a self-proclaimed snob. However, in my opinion, she does not have this right. In the past, she has worn shell suits; she wears lots and lots of gold jewelry all at once, which looks very tacky. Her house is decorated, and by that, I mean it is adorned with knick-knacks. There is no art to speak of; only decor like one would expect to find in a three-star hotel. She listens to Celine Deon endlessly and puts the word “my” before anything she enjoys as if she holds the monopoly on enjoying such things like “my scallops.” Incidentally, when she spoke of “my” scallops, she expressed her preference to the larger kind, not really grasping that the small, local bay scallops were sweeter and more desirable.

We're all a little weird

“I know your whole life through your exes. It’s like learning U.S. history through the presidents.”- Anonymous.

“I know your exes better than I know mine.”- A different anonymous.

I have no desire to grow up to be an eccentric. I do not like being labeled either weird or crazy, but this doesn’t mean I do not have eccentricities, or that at times, I don’t feel crazy or at times in the past I have not been labeled weird. All people at some time or another have seemed weird in one way or another to someone.

I think my parents are weird, yet in many ways they are very normal; it is their normalcy in my opinion that actually makes them slightly weird. Perhaps it’s knowing someone very well and when their behavior is slightly odd it makes us sit up and notice just how odd they are.

Around the age of seventeen, old things fascinated me; I liked old furniture and clothing, the older the better. I wandered the streets in my hometown browsing through antique stores; I could spend hours looking at crafted furniture and hemstitched silk nightgowns. Having no place of my own to house these beautifully crafted pieces of furniture (or the funds to purchase them), I instead bought clothing. I purchased bloomers and petticoats, an old velvet cape, and hit Laura Ashley’s sale rack for any Victorian style dress within my budget. I was nicknamed one Nora Bashly a morph of both the designer and the old lady with the crumpled up stockings that had fallen down to her heels from ‘last of the summer wine.’ My purse was a wicker basket, and I wore knee socks and Doc Marten boots to complete the ensemble. I looked like I belonged in another era, but I thought I looked awesome.

I worked nights and weekend at Tesco, the local supermarket, I’m sure my fellow workers thought I was mad as a hatter. The trainee manager was a tall and confident young man a couple of years older than me; he remains one of the funniest people I have ever met. My dream back then was to be an actress, and after being told that my voice was high-pitched and nasally, I worked very hard on using my lower register, which gave me a deep and sexy voice. I would use the intercom to ask for a price check, and the trainee manager would receive my request. “Eight-ounce Heinz baked beans?” I’d ask in my sultry voice.

Before the trainee manager and I were dating, however it was short-lived. On our first night together in his new house, I told him the reason I had shaved pubes was due to the fact that I had gotten crabs from my previous boyfriend, Glen, the Brian Ferry look-alike, who was so enamored by the singer and their similarity that he had framed clippings of the pop star and placed them around his house as if they were his own family portraits.

I was sixteen when I met Glen at Yesterdays Nightclub in Alderly Edge. I was out with the staff from a local wicker and pine furniture store I was working Saturdays at while at a sixth form college pretending to study for A levels. I spotted Glen at the bar, he was very good looking and I was very bored. I had observed the tall blond by his side but this did not deter me one bit. I slid in beside him when I noticed his date had left for the loos and asked if we had met before (yes, it’s not only men who have pick-up lines). “You look so familiar,” I continued, “Maybe you saw me playing, I’m a musician?” “I sing and act too.” I chipped in swiftly, hoping he would hurry up and ask me out before the blond came back. He did as I expected and scribbled down his number on a napkin, “call me.” A few nights later Glen took me out on our first date, the date ended up back at his place. I told my parents I was staying at my friends house for the night, they thought nothing of it until my boss called to ask if I could work, my parents attempts to track me down led to my lies and I came home from Glens to all of my belongings bagged in black dustbin bags on the front lawn. I was sixteen years old and now moving out for the first time and in with my new boyfriend Glen; the musician who turned out to be a dustbin man (waste transfer engineer), not yet divorced and twice my age.

It blows me away when I think of my own daughters and how in two weeks they will be sixteen. The idea of them behaving as I did is preposterous.

I moved back in with my parents a few months after meeting glen. I tried to study for A levels but the reality was; I wasn’t ready to take education or myself seriously. Instead I got a job at a jewelry store, and went on with my life falling in and out of love, not really knowing what I wanted, except really wanting to not live with my parents.

It would be more than two years before I decided to go back to college and study. In the meantime, I dated a twenty-four year old artist and busker named Chris (one) who looked like Maxx Headroom, he had grown up in a rough part of Stoke-on-Trent, played guitar on the street for money (even paid taxes on his earnings) and was a sex maniac. We would have sex all the time and it didn’t matter where we were; behind a tree, in the bathroom on the train, behind a building, down an alley, etc.

Chris had no understanding of conformity, although raised by extremely poor factory workers he had a first honors degree in fine art from the Royal College of Art, he was a wonderful musician, and writer. He wore vintage clothes; typically old pajama tops and 1940s suits. My parents found him to be a terrible catch; his manners at the dining table were not acceptable, he sang on the street and wore their parents old clothes, what could I possibly see in him?

Chris painted dozens of nude oil paintings of me, they were beautiful, but I don’t own any of them. He refused to sell his art, believing that his work would be worth more when he was dead, and he couldn’t bare the idea that he would have sold them for so little during his life.

We were together for six months, before meeting and falling head over heals in love with Chris two. I left the jewelers shortly before Chris one and I broke up, after losing the keys the first day of their grand sale. Head office had sent someone with a diamond drill to get us in the door and I was asked to recall my whereabouts from the night before which had included several pubs in both Macclesfield and Stoke-on-Trent; but the most humiliating part of the experience was being severely reprimanded by my angry mother in front of my work mates while we sat on the ground waiting for the diamond drill guy to break in.

When I opened my own store years later I made twenty copies of the keys, I have never been very good at keeping keys in my possession. My house does not own a set. As a teenage I was not given house keys, instead each day when I came home from school, right after morning registration, I would walk around the side of the house, take the ladder, and somersault onto my bed through the window I had left cracked.

I left the jewelers to go work in a factory that made fitted furniture for hotels. I was a telesales girl; calling clients with my sultry voice and asking for appointments to show them what our furniture could do for their hotel. It was there I met Chris two.

Chris one kept a journal, he took it everywhere with him, one day when we were riding the train together he left it on the seat, jumped off at his stop and I picked it up and began to read. Expecting to read tales of our lives together for the next two stops, I instead read about his ex coming to visit him, how she had landed on his doorstep and they had spent two days together making love, I was mortified. The next day Chris came to the jewelers on bended knee asking for forgiveness, I forgave him.

I was working at the factory a few weeks later and developing a crush on Chris two, his softly spoken voice and his watery blue eyes fascinated me, he came by the office each day to take our lunch orders and I flirted with him. The factory secretary was throwing a house party and I called my boyfriend Chris to let him know of the upcoming event, he said he couldn’t make it. I knew he was planning on meeting his ex, something didn’t feel right, so I marched into the factory and asked Chris two if he’d come out for a beer with me after work. He agreed, but said he needed to go home and change. I insisted we go straight from work, and that we didn’t need to dress up. Just as well really, because I came to know that Chris’s idea of dressing up meant bondage pants, a can of hairspray and lots and lots of make-up.

My mum asked Chris once, “Why do you wear women’s clothes?” By the time I saw him dressed in all of his gear I was already taken with him and in some strange way it was a turn on. Chris one tried to win me back, but it was over and I never saw him again.