The Epsom Suffragette.

When I was nine years old or perhaps older, I went on a school trip. We did not go very far in those days for a day trip just meant a few hours out of the classroom.

I am assuming it was to the Bourne Hall museum in Ewell, for I do not recall another museum in the area. And I do remember waving to black cab drivers who waved back and tooted, so I was in the vicinity of my home town of Epsom of that I was sure.

Once in the museum, the teacher, a young Scottish woman gave us a list of Do’s and Don’ts.

I ignored them, we  had never connected as pupil and teacher and so I saw absolute no reason to listen to her now in the confines of the museum.

My eye was drawn to some old black and white photos, enlarged and framed on a wall, just before the entrance to the main exhibit, the subject of which escapes me. I marched with purpose to the photos. One in particular caught my attention. As a precocious reader I could immediately make sense of the words below the bottom of the frame, typed in black on a white card, “Derby Day 1913”.

The photo was clearly a snap shot of race day on Epsom Downs, yet something was decidedly wrong about this event. Or the event of that particular race day. The black and white photo captured something that only happened once in the history of the race.

The body of a horse lay on the ground and two crumpled bodies of what looked like people sprawled alongside the animal. One, if you peered really closely was in a white dress. Male or female was not apparent but horses were racing past their bodies, perhaps trying to avoid trampling them or just so fired up by the race they did not know what was laid in front of them like some un holy sacrifice.

Of course now Derby Day 1913 is well-known, for this was the day Emily Davison sacrificed herself to the Suffragette movement. A hundred and five years on and Emily Davison is big news.

Eventually my teacher dragged me away from the photo, muttering about, “Why do you always have to make things difficult. Why don’t you listen to me? I am your teacher.”

I am safely assured I did not reply with, “Because you don’t like me. And I don’t like you. And you always try to make Caroline the star of the classroom.” But I did think it, I know of that.

The photo stuck in my head throughout the rest of the day trip, three hours out of the classroom. If you are wondering what the exhibit was that we had come to visit, I am sorry I will have to disappoint you for I do not remember. I can only say I know it was not King Henry VIII and Nonesuch Park. For that day trip we had a whole day out of the classroom and went to the park. And I know everything about King Henry and Nonesuch and indeed Elizabeth his daughter.

Back to the suffragettes. You would have thought being born and bred in Epsom that as a child we would have heard more about the tragedy of Derby Day 1913. But we didn’t. Emily Davison, was it appeared written out of the history books both locally and politically.

Once my father had recovered from the news that I had tried to drown Caroline – one of my classroom, not friends, in the Bourne Hall springs, he did answer my question about Derby Day 2013.

“A young woman ran in front of the Kings horse he was called Anmer and, Emily, she died.”


“Because the horse trampled on her.”

“No, why did she run out in front of a horse?”

“She was a member of a group of women, who were demanding the vote for women.”

It was here that I realised something. As a nine-old, or thereabouts, in 1973 women had the vote.

But back in 1913 women had felt they needed to kill themselves to obtain their right to vote.

I did not think about this for many years. Then whilst studying in 6th form college I began to learn about social revolutions. The French Revolution and the Russian Revolution. Oh boy did I love social revolutions.

And one girl who I had formed a friendship of sorts said to me. “That woman who threw herself under the Kings horse at the Epsom Derby, she was part of a social revolution.”

Here was someone else who had heard of that woman. Spoke of her in a historical context, as part of a movement that changed the social world of women, not just here but globally.

But the Suffragette movement saw still not really talked about and very few history books in my school or college had any mention of the women who ultimately changed the rights of women and their standing in society.

It is only now in 2018 at the age of 54, that I have seriously thought about Emily Davison.

For many years the few historical sources have described her death as a suicide. Suggesting that she was not of sound mind. Perhaps this was true, no one will ever really know. But her actions revealed the strength of feeling by many women at not being treated fairly or equal by the male counterparts.

If today someone was to ask, “If you were born in the 1900’s, what would you have become?”

I know without much thought the answer, “I would have been a part of the Suffragette movement.”

Before those who don’t know me start rolling their eyes round and round in disbelief, and saying “Oh please, seriously.”

Those that do know me are almost shouting, “Yes and if she had been part of that movement, women would have had the vote way before the end of WWI.”

Would I have tied myself to the railings of Parliament? Fight with the local constabulary? Thrown bricks through the posh houses in town? Tried to blow up houses where local MP’s lived? Hell yeah, why not?

Would I have starved myself whilst in prison? To be force-fed gruel? I may have baulked at the tube being forced down my throat, but to be fair I was force fed porridge as a child once, so I am sure I would have survived.

Interestingly enough other women aided the force-feeding of the suffragist women. One poster of the movement shows three women holding down a struggling woman so a tube could be pushed down her throat.

But as to stepping in front of a horse running full pelt across the Epsom downs, (owned by the King is actually for me irrelevant,) they run flipping fast! I have to say we all have our limits. I have a great love and respect for horses so I would have to say no, no chance of me running in front of one whilst it’s running in the Epsom Derby. Or to be fair any race of any description that involved horses.

I would have hoped that once I had fought for the vote for women excluding the race at Epsom, that the fighting spirit in me would have carried me into war. I would have become the 1st woman to fly a spitfire in battle.

But, it is here that my imagination runs away with me, it happens when I put an ink pen across paper. I am not a product of that era, I was born in 1963, the time of free love and the sexual revolution.

So fast forward over 100 years to the world we women live in today.  One of the things that seems to be written about the suffragists just recently is the request to have them pardoned.

What are we having them pardoned for? Their fighting spirit? Why are we pardoning them for this? Do you think those ladies, some who lost their children to adoption for that fight, want to be excused? Hell NO! It is a cop-out. So do we then pretend they were not beaten, imprisoned and denigrated by society?

These women are the reason why all women today can vote. And for that, I am grateful.

My first vote was when Margaret Thatcher came into power. My father and my mother did not question me or persuade me who and which party to vote for and I did not tell them who I voted for. But I voted! My right as a woman.

I thank the Suffragette ladies that their suffering means I can vote. I do get annoyed when young women say they didn’t vote.

But the ones I get really annoyed with are the women who say, in a really simpering voice, “I don’t vote, my husband votes for both us.”

Seriously what was the point?

A woman died under the Kings horse and you come up with that crap!

I thank the ladies of the Suffragette movement. I vote every time I get the option. Because of them I can be whatever I want to be.  Perhaps in another time and another place fighter pilot may have been a reality, perhaps intrepid explorer may have been an option.

Stories are now coming out about the brave lives many of the women of the suffragette movement went on to live. In fact I am sure one of them went on to fight in WW2 – not in a spitfire but she fought none the less. Hardly surprising for they were brave and had a fighting spirit that today many young women, do not have.

But in the 21st Century celebrations – don’t pardon the Women of the Suffragette movement, congratulate them, respect them and salute them!  They I am sure would be right pissed off if you told them, “You are pardoned.”

In 2018 my thoughts will be of my father who as a London cabbie, “worked” the derby.

Derby Day is always a day for me to remember him driving up and down Ashley Road in that black snake of cabs.

I will perhaps, as I drive across the downs think of those that have gone and remember a woman nearly written out of history that is now back on the front page!

I will always vote and will always encourage young women to vote.  Please do not say, “Oh they (the political parties) are all the same, for it is in your power to change the course of your political and social history.”

Women died for you, they starved for you, they tied themselves to railings for you and they fought for you.

Please don’t say, “Oh I can’t be bothered.” Even if you turn up and vote by spoiling your paper, you should.



The boulevard de l’oiseau blanc.

Phillipe’s grandfather Pierre had been buried one year, but Elodie his grandmother could still be heard sobbing at night in her room.

Phillipe grieved for his grandfather, but he knew it was not the same as the grief his grandmother was going through. Yes he had been an important character in Phillipe’s life but not for 65 years. Elodie was now without her soul mate after 65 years together.

One day he came up with an idea to try and cheer his grandmother up. He would take her back to the city where they had met and fell in love. The city made famous by the star crossed lovers played by Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman, Casablanca.

At first when he mentioned it to his family, they were doubtful, especially his wife Peggy. “How will that help her? She has not been back there in over 50 years. How can you taking an old frail lady to Casablanca help her with her grief?”

Phillipe thought about it for a moment and then said, “The memories will bring her some joy if nothing else.”

His father was doubtful too, “Casablanca, it’s not the city she grew up in. She won’t remember it. But maybe just a trip away will do her some good.”

When Phillipe suggested the journey to Elodie, he was sure he saw for the first time in a year a sparkle in her eyes. “Yes, yes I would like that. Casablanca, that’s where I met your grandfather. He was so handsome in his army uniform. The Boulevard de l’oiseau blanc.” A dreamy look had now crept across her face.

His grandparents story had although not been as stormy as the lovers in the film Casablanca, it was fit for a film with the same title.

They had met in 1953, France had just deposed the Sultan Mohammed. It was to be a time of change for the country of Morocco. The evening after they met Pierre was sent by the French to Algiers. But he came back to Casablanca for Elodie. And eventually after living in France they came to England.

When Phillipe began to make plans for the trip he encountered the first stumbling block. He was looking for a suitable hotel and was thinking somewhere need the boulevard where his grandparents first met. He typed the name into google and nothing came up, not in Casablanca anyway.

He frowned, Elodie had been so adamant about the name. Perhaps after independence, street names were changed. Perhaps it was now a more Moroccan sounding name.

He asked Elodie exactly where was the boulevard. And she became vague, In the Ville, near the port, near the park, close to the square. Phillipe was more confused than ever, it sounded by his grandmothers’ description near to everywhere but close to nowhere.

Not to be defeated Phillipe wrote by email to the Casablanca tourist board. Their reply although polite, was pretty final. “There was and never has been such a road called the Boulevard de l’oiseau blanc. We do have the Boulevard Mohammed V, Boulevard Victor Hugo, Boulevard Des Almohades and Boulevard Moulay Youssef.”

Phillipe decided they would just go and maybe once there it would all become clear. He even thought that perhaps it was something to do with Mohammed V, perhaps he had an aviary of white birds and they all died so the name of the road was changed. Or perhaps it’s one of the streets with the art deco buildings the white buildings that looked like tiered wedding cakes.

At the last minute Phillipe’s nephew Jonathan asked if he could come. “I want to trace my roots.” He sagaciously said. Phillipe smiled at the thought. At the age of 11 he was sure the boys’ roots were not yet that deep to be traced too far. But he would enjoy his company anyway.

So with high hopes of making his grandmothers days just a little bit more bearable, Phillipe, Peggy, Elodie and Jonathan flew to Casablanca.

Phillipe was surprised at how French it all looked. Not really Moroccan at all. Cafes just like you would find in Paris were everywhere, all with groups of men sitting outside chatting and smoking. There were not he noticed that many women in the café’s and remembered how his grandfather had said once. “This is a man’s domain, no woman would have the nerve to go in one of those places.”

Peggy would though, thought Phillipe and smiled. How things change.

They had booked their hotel near the medina  and it was from here that Phillipe hoped his grandmother would begin to remember things and places. He tried not to be too disappointed when as they drove in the taxi from the airport into Casablanca, Elodie had said, with a total look of bemusement on her face, “What City is this? This is not Casablanca.”

Peggy had looked across to her husband and had softly said, “I told you so.”

The receptionist in the hotel had given them a map and directions to some of the main sites. She told them also that the “Parc de la Ligue Arabe” was under rejuvenation. Phillipe thanked her and they strolled round to the nearest café. Peggy and Elodie had a few tuts and cold stares but other than that they were left alone.

Phillipe spent many hours in café’s asking the waiters and the customers did they know of the “Boulevard de l’oiseau blanc.” And each time a shake of the head and a shrug of the shoulders and the affirmative, “Non”.

One night they went to eat at “Ricks Place”. That ironically did exist. A place from a film about a man and a woman, neither of which really lived, loved or existed. Yet Ricks place was there in bricks and mortar. And yet the place of his grandparent’s first meeting, two people who had lived, loved and existed was still as elusive as a genie from the lamp.

Elodie did recognise a few places and mentioned how the Place Mohamed V did not have a fountain the last time she had been there. They sat feeding pigeons just as evening was coming on and the fountain suddenly lit up and music began to play. For the first time in ages Phillipe saw his grandmother smile. The trip was worth it he mused if only for that precious moment.

They were coming to the end of their trip and Phillipe had resigned himself to failing on finding the Boulevard de l’oisseau blanc. When suddenly Jonathan, who had been on his phone shouted out, “I know where it is. I have found it. Come on, follow me.”

There was a few minutes of furious activity where coats and hats were found and Elodie was unceremoniously taken out of the hotel back onto the street. And the three of them followed Jonathan, who was now in a rush. “Slow down Jonathan. Elodie can’t walk that fast she is old and frail. Slow down.” Peggy admonished.

Jonathan slowed his rush marginally but then speeding on ahead again, then stopping for the three of them to catch him up. Phillipe noticed they were heading towards the “Parc de la Ligue Arabe”. There was boarding up showing how the Park would look after the rejuvenation. A picture which showed animals suggested there would be some kind of zoo.

Jonathan then stopped at the beginning of a road, a place called Boulevard Moulay Youssef. An avenue that cut through the park lined with a few café’s. Phillipe was confused. It was a street made less ordinary by the avenue being lined with trees. Parked cars all the way along, suggested just another street in the city, nothing unusual. He could see the bulldozers and piles of earth further down and the entrance to the park blocked. But then it became apparent to him. How had he been so stupid? Of course it was now immediately obvious.

As Jonathan led Elodie under the first few trees, there was a sudden activity up in the higher green branches. A flapping of wings and a collective squawking. And then there rose into the air a flight of white Ibis.

Elodie was already back in 1953. She was now dragging Jonathan under the trees. She was smiling and her hands reached up in the air. Phillipe could hear her saying. “See here this café along here that was where I met him. He was so handsome in his uniform.  His hair so dark. His eyes laughing and gay.”

Phillipe saw the birds hovering in the early morning air. As they flew the sun caught the tips of their white wings and they burnished copper and gold. He thought it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

But then when he looked at Elodie he saw something more beautiful, his grandmother was happy. If only for a few minutes that would stay with him for his lifetime. Her face transformed with joy and the memories that were now flooding back to her. He watched as she led Jonathan his young nephew down the, “Boulevard de l’oiseau blanc.”

Some nights I dream of Palmyra

“The most effective way to destroy people, is to deny and obliterate their own understanding of their history.”     George Orwell

In December 2016 ISIS retook the ancient Syrian city of Palmyra and began the systematic destruction of its temples and magnificent buildings.


A soldier is stretching up into the needle like fronds of a palm tree and picking at something hidden by the foliage, the tree is heavy with a bunch of fruits hanging like huge ancient sundried grapes the colour of old leather, but  they are dates, he hands a few to me. They are sweet and taste of the sun and of sand.

In the distance gun shots can be heard. I flinch, my shoulders twitch. The soldier in turn shrugs his own shoulders and continues to eat the dates.

I had not invited him on my early morning walk, he had found me, or had I found him? I cannot tell for although it seemed a strange place to meet a soldier, it now with the sound of the gun fire seemed completely acceptable.

I showed him a photo of a desert strawberry tree in my guide book. He smiled and nodded and walked me to the rim of the oasis of date palms. I was sweating heavily by then but the effort was rewarded with a strawberry tree. A cacti tree with red fruit like a strawberry. I smiled, he smiled, pleased that he had had made me smile.

The sun was appearing across the desert landscape, the sky had gone from indigo blue, to purple and would soon be burnt the colour of oranges before the sun was clear above in what would be the bluest of heavens.

And then would come the heat, which I was trying so desperately to escape. But for now we walked back along the Colonnade, my feet tracing the steps that once Zenobia had most certainly taken. Shadows retreated and advanced as we walked.

Zenobia the warrior queen, she who took on the Roman Empire. But ultimately the might of Rome destroyed her. There are paintings of her being dragged back to Rome, head bowed. But I wonder if this was just propaganda. That she had in fact needed to be dragged back screaming and kicking.

Yesterday as I had walked round the city with my Syrian guide he had said when the words Roman city was mentioned, “This is not a Roman city this is a Syrian city.”

And when he spoke of Zenobia it was as if he was talking fondly of a distant Aunt. The kind when you heard reports of her escapades you are secretly proud.

Zenobia, even the name has morphed into “xenophobic”. Somebody who has a hatred or mistrust of someone not of their land or of their religion. And yet Zenobia had a great tolerance of religious minorities in her city.

It was as if even in the 2nd Millennium BC, history was rewritten to ensure that a woman was erased from all the books on bravery, was even described as rejecting her sacred Palmyra but it was not so, she ultimately was the victim of manipulation and cowardice from the rulers of Rome. A Rome ruled by men, but with women manipulating events through sex and children.

The brickwork of the ancient remains were the colour of burnt apricots and seemed to be absorbing the faint rays of the advancing sun, and then there was the soft bleating of goats. The sound became louder and was accompanied by the gentle hissing of a child encouraging the flock to continue walking. The udders of the female goats wrapped in plastic bags where already droplets of condensation were forming from the animal’s heat inside the bags.

The soldier stopped to light a cigarette. He offered it to me. I shook my head at him. He gave a noncommittal shrug. He inhaled deeply on the cigarette. We continued to walk to the end of the colonnade. I wrapped a cerise scarf round my head to protect myself from the already blazing sun and placed my sun glasses on my nose, deflecting the glare.

The Syrian Desert was still the colour of muted heather in an autumn England. High on a hill a few miles outside of the city was an Arab castle. I would have like to climb up to it but knew it would be too arduous a trek in this heat.

So far my companion and I had spoken very little. We continued our stroll, meandering though the Temple of Nebo, the god of oracles, of wisdom and of writing. And the gun shots were closer. I glanced through my sunglasses nervously but the soldier seemed unperturbed by the noise as did the little goat shepherd and his flock.

Only me, the tourist seemed bothered by the sound of gun fire. A cloud of dust rose up across the purple landscape. The land of Jiins, magician people were travelling across the desert. Genii from the lamps were running amok.

Sand rose up in a small whirl and I breathed in the heat and the dust. I felt the gravel in my mouth and my throat.

I glanced across to the hills and thought I caught a glint of metal. Reflections similar to when a few days before we had been driving along the border between Lebanon and Syria. I was sure I had seen men sitting with guns directed at Syria, but had persuaded myself this was not the case.

The sound of distant engines that drew closer and then the site of men in 4 x4’s. Some sitting atop of the vehicles, guns cradled like babies across their arms. Cloth wrapped round their heads, and like me they were sporting sun glasses. By the looks of them I suspect more designer then mine which I had got from Specsavers. Dark sun burned skin, and cigarettes hanging casually from their mouths. They had an air of aggression to them.

A feeling of unease crept into my stomach. Although Palmyra had once been on the caravan trail for merchants and travellers, that, my history book told me was in the second millennium BC, this was now the 21st century AD, July 2011.

The Arab Spring in Tunisia had come and gone. The March protests here in Syria had also seemed to end before they really began. As I had journeyed round Syria the country seemed relaxed and a silence hung in the air that felt like peace.

The vehicles violently stopped, their tyres vomiting stones up into the air. And then a moment of calm. Before the men all jump down on nimble feet and knees, brandishing their guns.

The soldier spoke gently to them, but even I could see they were not placated. He seemed to fall before the gun had even been fired, but of course I know that was not true, that was just my memory playing tricks on me.

Warriors of the past and the present converge at the cross roads of this city, like once merchants and travellers would stop to discuss the latest news. East meeting West. I gaze up to the relic of the funerary temple and hear the sound of the fronds of a palm clicking in the breeze.


I look away from the soldier on the ground. My vision blurs and the ground feels like it is moving under my feet. I stop breathing trying not to believe what has happened.

And the sun beats down like a blood orange seeping life from the ground. I breathe once again and the pain almost takes my breath away. I do not run, I cannot hide.

I wait for the shot to kill me. My eyes are hidden by my tortoise shell sunglasses. Hopefully they will not see in my eyes what I am really thinking. I look up along the colonnade, high on the hill is the castle I will never walk to. There are worse places to die I think.

One of the young men stands close to me and snatches my glasses away, for a moment he flinches. And I wonder what it is that has shocked him. Anger, contempt, resignation, cowardice? What does he see?

I think to myself will they shoot me straight through my heart like they have the soldier? Or will mine be a slow death? Will the first bullet hit my shoulder? Will my knee caps be blown open and I have to drag myself to where? I resign myself to the fact that I will have a slow death, but decide I will not drag myself anywhere, I will die under the shadow of the row of apricot pillars of the colonnade. Or will the Temple of Nebo be my silent and ancient witness?

How apt that would be? A writer bleeding to death at the steps of the God of wisdom and of writing. I will hear the flap, flap of the palm trees fighting the wind. I will die in a place of beauty. I brace myself for a slap or the sound of a bullet. Perhaps like the soldier I will fall before the bullet hits me.

But they leave me standing by the soldier’s body. A look of derision on all their faces. Some laughing. But the man who took my glasses off and looked into my eyes does not laugh and as the vehicle he climbed atop of drives away he turns back to look at me – no derision on his face, something else, confusion perhaps. I do not know for he is too far away for me to read his face.

When the last vehicle has disappeared out of sight an elderly man appears from out from one of the pillars of the colonnade. On rickety legs and an equally rickety stick he walks towards me and beckons me to follow him.

I follow, and as I do the boy shepherd runs towards us, his goats momentarily without a leader wander towards rocks where desert plants have sprouted. The goats nibble at the stems.

I am taken to the one café nearby, where the old man explains what has happened to the prorpeitor. In true Syrian style food and coffee and water is placed in front of me. I feel no need to eat but drink the cardamom laced coffee. My hands shake as I draw the cup to my mouth.

Soon more soldiers will appear to take the soldier away. I assume I will be questioned, the only witness myself and perhaps the old man who appeared as if from Hades.

Now Palmyra often called the Venice of the Sands, an oasis of date palms and gardens has gone. Like Ozymandias- look on the works of ISIS and despair. The Temple of Ba’al, one of the iconic symbols of ancient Syria, destroyed and reduced to rubble. Zenobia may still haunt the rocks and colonnades of her once beautiful city but it is now a mere shadow of what had stood the test of time until 2011.

I was to learn that within weeks of the soldier being shot in cold blood. The organization that spread fear, hatred and blood shed through the Middle East and eventually to Europe, destroyed anything cultured in Syria and worse killed and maimed hundreds of thousands of innocent people.

They had resurrected a medieval philosophy and run amok through the landscape of the 21st century. A landscape as old as murder was once again drenched in blood. With total impunity ISIS tried to rewrite history.

But many like me remember. Like me those with eyes saw and have waited. Those that survived will not rewrite history the way these men want it to be rewritten, ISIS will fall and be nothing more than a record mentioned in a history book full of better deeds then brutality and madness.

Perhaps Palmyra will rise again if only to her knees. Her slender arches may not reach into the blue heavens again. But memory is now perfectly captured in photos. ISIS cannot take this way. ISIS have said Syria is not for the Syrians, Iraq is not for the Iraqis. And yet I remember my Syrian guide saying with pride, “Palmyra is not Roman it is Syrian”. “Zenobia was a warrior Queen who tolerated all religions. She was not a Roman Queen she was a Syrian Warrior.”

Sometimes in the cool of a summer night when a breeze blows through my open window I dream of Palmyra. I remember the soldier picking dates from the ancient palm trees. I was told days after his murder, he often walked through Palmyra in the early morning.  Before being a soldier he had studied ancient Syrian history at University. To him there was nowhere more beautiful then Palmyra in the world.  He had said he wanted to be buried at the site of the Theatre.

“All man’s deeds are seen by someone higher, all man’s words are heard by someone better. Yes our cities are built for Allah to see but that is not what we will be judged by. People remember, they pass their stories onto to others. Good deeds, good words. That is how the world will remember.”

He did not get that wish to be buried by the theatre but I hope that perhaps his soul rest nearby.

Last night I dreamt of Palmyra. And I wrote one story, one that with photos may not be destroyed. That one man will not be remembered just as soldier but as a Syrian, a man of learning and of compassion.

I feel the hot desert wind caress my cold skin. I can see a strawberry tree standing as reaching towards heaven, blood red shoots heavy on the branches. A solitary soldier is walking through the old theatre, along the colonnades towards the temple. The only sound is the palm leaves clacking in the wind.

The last story teller of Marrakech.

For centuries the square called Jemmaa el Fna in the city of Marrakech had been a place for the art of storytelling to thrive. People who could not read or write and did not have TV or computers, would come and sit and listen to a story being told and played out by a hlaykia – a story teller.

Now the new modern age of TV, Facebook, and computers means they have become virtually redundant. For me the thought of not reading the written word is unimaginable. I am sure in years to come there will be campaign for the last author.

Whilst on a recent sojourn in Morocco I was unwell. Fortunately I had enough books for me to just sit back read and also to write and so here is a very inferior modern story that I hope captures the spirit of the story tellers of Marrakech. For those wanting to read a more traditional example I recommend – Richard Hamilton –The last story tellers.


The rich baker of Azemmour.


Once upon a time in Azemmour, there was a young boy called Moulay. He dreamed of being rich. He lived in a small house inside the walls of the Old Portuguese Medina of Azemmour with his mother and his six brothers and sisters. He was happy enough, but he was restless and wanted more.

Often he would row his small wooden boat along the canal called Wadi Oum er Rbia, at the mouth of the estuary he would think of how he would sail a boat right through the white tipped waves of the Atlantic ocean and make his way to Europe. Where he could work and become rich.

He had heard of a city called London. That city had a river too but it had rich people’s boats sailing on it. And the whole of London had rich people living there.

Moulay began working in the communal bakery when he was twelve. This was a place where all his neighbours would bring their bread for the baker to bake their daily bread. Every one took their dough there, for people in the Medina did not have ovens to cook. They cooked meat on open braziers outside but bread was always taken to the baker.

Moulay worked hard, but his head was in the clouds. He still dreamed of London and being rich.

One day the owner of the baker came to Moulay with a very generous offer. “I have watched you these past few years and you work very hard Moulay. I have only daughters, no sons to pass my business onto. I am old and soon will not be able to work. I want you to have my bakery. I offer you my eldest daughter Fatimah as your wife. And then the bakery will become yours.”

Moulay knew that this was a very generous offer. Fatimah was pretty and very kind natured and would make a very suitable wife. But Moulay loved the younger daughter Rashida. She was more beautiful than Fatimah if not as kind hearted.

Whilst Moulay pondered over the request, one of his cousins paid a visit from Casablanca, that very French city further up the coast. His cousin flashed his cash and began to flirt with Rashida.

Mohammed took his cousin aside one day and whispered in his ear, “Rashida is too pretty for you, it will have to be a rich man for her.” This was something that Moulay knew was true he wished it wasn’t true but he knew Rashida was what the Europeans called – High Maintenance.

“But,” Mohammed continued, “I know how you can become rich, so rich you could afford two wives like Rashida.”

Moulay was all ears, money soon to be his, lots of it too.

“You have to be very brave and be able to sail a boat.” Mohammed said.

Moulay could sail a boat no problem. As to brave? All doubts were quickly dispelled about his courage at the thought of achieving his dream of being rich.

“What do you need me to do?” he replied to Mohammed, a growing feeling of excitement rising in him. He was up for the adventure.

“My boss has a very precious cargo that needs to be taken to Europe. I will arrange the time and place for you. All you have to do is sail the boat across the sea to Spain. Moulay thought that was easy. A boat can be sailed across the stretch of Mediterranean Sea no problem he deduced.

So one cold dark winter morning, Moulay left his mother and his siblings and headed further up the coast line to where he was told the boat with the cargo would be waiting for him.

But when he got there he was shocked and immediately had second thoughts. There was the boat low in the water, heavy with the cargo of people. Illegal immigrants headed for Europe in the hope of a better life.

Moulay nearly said, “No.”. But the lure of the money and having Rashida as his wife swayed him.

They were not going to sail across the Mediterranean Sea, as he had expected. Instead they were to sail up the north Atlantic coast and then to the south west coast of Spain.

The first few hours of sailing were easy. By now the sun was up and a cool breeze seemed to be pushing them to the direction they needed to go. I few of the men – for they were all men he had now established – were sea sick but that was to be expected.

But then a storm of such magnitude began and the waves were higher than the boat. Many of the men fell overboard; they quickly sank beneath the cruel sea. Their cries all but obliterated by the sound of the angry storm.

But somehow Moulay sailed on, driven now just with the will to survive and to hit land any land.

And so the boat did eventually hit land – the South West coast of the country called Spain. There was a lorry waiting for them to take them through Spain and France to Calais.

Moulay had not planned to go with them, not really for he had only planned to sail the boat to Spain. But he thought, Allah has got me this far. I will go on in the lorry to France.

The lorry did not stop very often and soon the water they had been supplied with was gone. The smell of the bodies all crammed in together was insufferable, and just when Moulay was about to give up, the lorry stopped one last time and opened up the doors.

The last surviving men staggered and fell out and began their last part of the journey to England.

Moulay in a semi delirious state noticed that the weather once again had changed. There was no blue sky and sun. Just grey skies and dampness, the continual drizzle of rain.

But he told himself, all would be OK once they reached London.

So hiding between the legs of sheep headed for England Moulay finally arrived in that country where dreams were made, where everyone was rich. But Moulay was not driven to London, he was driven further north to a place he could not pronounce. A place called Lincolnshire.

And here for several months he worked over 18 hours a day six days a week. For what even he knew was a pittance. And the misery of being on a farm, in the middle of nowhere nearly broke his resolve.

There was no sun to warm his bones. The caravan he lived in with 10 other men was cold and damp and soon began to smell.

In the short moments of sleep. He began to dream of Azemmour. The town where the sky was always blue and where a breeze from the Wadi carried the smells of cooking and the sound of laughter from the Medina. There was no call here for payer from the muezzin, just the call to work like dogs.

And so one night when he had woken up having dreamt of the smell of fresh bread from the bakery. The bakery that had he said yes would now be his.  Moulay prayed to Allah for help. He was not sure that he was praying in the right direction but he was sure that Allah would forgive him that one small transgression.

And Allah answered his prayers. “You must put your trust in authority Moulay.”

He pondered on what this meant. But then he knew. So he got up, and although as usual it was raining, he walked out of the farm, before the dogs were even up to bark a warning to the farmer.

He trudged through a field of heavy mud. And kept walking till he came to a road that was tarmac. Walking the road he came to a sign, with two arrows.  One with a long name he couldn’t read, but in brackets the number 25, and the other with a shorter name that he still couldn’t read with in brackets the number 15. He chose the direction with the shorter name and the smaller number and continued to walk.

Soon he could see the sprawl of a town or a city and he pushed on towards the place. Before he had made it to the outskirts of the town, a police car pulled up alongside of him.

He did not struggle, he climbed into the back of car willingly. And so without a passport, money or any form of identification Moulay took the long road back to Azemmour.

When he returned home, thinner, older and very much wiser, his mother cried that she thought he was dead. His sisters cried that they thought he was dead. His brothers cried they thought he was dead. And his cousin, rather less enthusiastically greeted him and with less joy said, “I thought you were dead.”

When he went to the bakery, Fatimah was still not married, she smiled a welcome to Moulay and her father shook his hand. He went to say, “I thought….”

Moulay interrupted him and sadly said, “Yes. I know you thought I was dead.”

Rashida had married Mohammed and was now pregnant. And although still very beautiful was now even more high maintenance and still not so kind hearted as Fatimah.

A year later he married Fatimah and became the owner of the bakery.

The only time Moulay thought of England again was when a grey cloud sailed across the blue skies of Azemmour. Or sometimes when a tourist walked past his bakery and stared in with curiosity. He would shudder at the memory of his time in England. He never spoke of his time in the country where the sun did not shine. He was grateful that Allah had helped back from the ends of the world and now looked forward to his future with less money but richer by far in many other ways.

The reindeer diaries.

Day 1

There would be no shame in drinking the urine of the reindeer; for it is from this that I will begin my journey. Being from the Khanty tribe we know the power of the great hoofed creature. An animal swift and vigilant and an animal capable of flight. I do not know when my ancestors first saw the dances the animals usually enjoyed after eating the mushroom we call the “flying fungus” but it has become a usual part of our lives to see these dalliances. When those velvet soft snouts first catch the smell of the mushroom, they become excited and snort the ground and their hooves stomp gently round the heavenly fruit.

And so on my first journey into the world of the reindeer, it was best for me to drink the urine of an animal who has already consumed the fungus, for the potent toxins would be eliminated and I would be safe from harm.


Day Five

I held the reindeer skin container to my lips and tilted back, the amber fluid was still warm as it trickled down my throat. It was not as some people in the towns and cities would think, an unpleasant taste for it tasted of the tundra. There were hints of marjoram, sage and wild strawberries, but the woody taste of the fungus prevailed. It did not take long for the affects to course through my veins. There was a feeling that my body was rising from the ground, not very high, not on this first journey, but I felt like I was suspended, like on the day as a child when I played with my friends in the woods and we hung from the boughs of trees. But the strangest thing was the feeling that I had grown in size, larger and muscular, whilst retaining the same sense of weightlessness. My head felt like the roots of trees were pushing through my skull. Yet I knew I was stronger and I wanted to race upwards towards the highest trees in the nearby woods.


Day 15

Today I ate the dried flying fungus. The shaman beat the drums made from reindeer hide. He beat the drum to call the spirits of the reindeers ancestors. “Driving the reindeer” it is called. And this time I could feel the strength of the fungi. I levitated high above the ground, level with the trees and when I looked down I could see my shaman catching the soul of a reindeer. I saw him call the spirits of the eight great wolves and they led the spirit of the reindeer to him. But still I did not fly. Still I did not become one of those vigilant and swift creatures.


Day 19


Today I flew, really flew, the power of the reindeers surged through me. I donned the mask with the antlers and the coat of velvet grey.  I moved fast, so fast above the earth, I am sure I flew as far as Finland. For when I looked down all was white and a reindeer herd as large as I had ever seen was moving across the landscape. I wanted to stay there suspended above that glorious sight but the drums of my tribal shaman beat loud and I was called back to earth.


Day 24.


And now tonight, is the culmination of my yearnings. Tonight I will meet the king of the flying fungus. Tonight I will lead a sleigh that will fly across the northern hemisphere. The lord will be dressed like the “flying agarics” in red and white. I will have the strength to fly high above the houses of the cities in the northern hemisphere and “Shaman Santa” will then take his gifts to all those who still believe in the old ways and climbing down the  smoke holes of the new brick houses, will share his gifts of “flying fungus” to the believers.

I know this is what my destiny is. The lone Northern star will guide me and I will guide the other reindeer for Santa. The glow from my breathe through my nostrils will glimmer red and I will act like a beacon in the night. But I know this will be my journeys end for I cannot go back, I will remain with all the other spirits, for the gift of flight is only for those going to the next world. Once you have flown with Shaman Santa then all earthly things become a place once visited never to return.

My memory of earthly things will be like snowflakes landing on a reindeers back, quickly gone as the heat of the animal’s bodies absorbs the tiny particles of snow.

Unwrapping the Palestinian flag

The world we live in today is not the one I grew up in, but in many ways, it has not changed.

As a child the IRA would plant bombs in rubbish bins, so rubbish bins disappeared in public places. However, we did not really live in fear of terrorists attacks. They were for many of us an annoying wound on the arm, which would occasionally open and bleed.

Although the atrocities like the Warrington bomb, or the Chelsea Barracks nail bomb shocked us as a nation we did not really change our way of life, and we did not see ourselves as a country constantly under attack.

Other countries, other people lived in fear, survived constant attacks, and lived through civil war on a daily basis. Countries like Israel.

I first travelled there in the days when I still thought it was shocking to realise how easy it was for a desperate man to take control of a bus and drive it down a ravine, as easily as a shepherd boy leading goats down the valley. How easy it was to take 16 lives in the blink of the eye without a bomb, without a knife, but with the same searing hatred of a suicide bomber.

Living in Israel was a compete revelation to someone from a country like England. In the first few months the outbreak of what was to become known as the Intifada began and we watched from the side-lines how a nation coped with constant conflict, where two groups of people cannot be reconciled, cannot live together in peace.

I have, over the last 30 years re- visited the country many times and nothing has changed. In the light of Trumps incendiary claim that Jerusalem is the capital of Israel. The violence continues. A photo of a dozen armed IDF soldiers surrounding one unarmed Palestinian youth took me back to the days where young girls would be shot and killed for throwing stones at settlers, at how a nations over reactions have de humanised one group of people, how life for many is cheap.

On one trip two years ago, I travelled to Israel and stayed in Haifa a city in the north. I was planning to do research for the sequel to my novel Jewish Days Arab Nights. Although there were outbreaks of violence down in Jerusalem and Bethlehem, I did not think this was unusual. Palestinians lived under curfews and brutality from the Zionists and would rise up and retaliate when they could.

One day whilst watching a news report about the wave of stabbings occurring in Jerusalem, I decided to forgo the plans to go into that city for the day and instead to take the train from Haifa to the old crusader city of Accra.

When I first arrived in Israel in 1987 there was not a train route up the coast from Haifa to the Old Crusader City, my last trip had been by bus, so I was looking forward to the coastal train ride.

It was a day like any other, soldiers going or coming from their shifts climbed on with the bags and their guns casually hanging over their shoulders or placed between their feet. This was always something that shocked me, the casual way soldiers carried their guns in public, the same we in England would carry an umbrella in case of rain.

As the carriage doors closed and the train pulled away, one of the young soldier girls sat in an empty seat opposite me. She was a skinny pale blonde girl, and she mainly stuck out because of her paleness. How she had avoided the Israeli, sun I could only assume was by hiding in a dark dungeon somewhere.

The soldier girl unzipped a bag and began to apply her makeup. At first, I merely glanced out the corner of my eye, but it was when the girl began to apply the vibrant red lipstick, that I started to feel uneasy.

She was making herself glamorous for a days’ work in the army. To do what? Was she one of those girls who would be playing spot and shoot? A disturbing way of killing people by computer, like a game, but unlike a computer game someone was often killed and did not get back up for level two.

It was a job given to the girl conscripts, and they ultimately just pressed a joystick and killed whomever they thought was suspicious, even an innocent man digging up potatoes in a field.

Her face once complete was pretty and the rosebud lips where of course begging to be kissed by some young male conscript. The girl glanced at herself in her small mirror a look of disdain creeping across her face. Her final touch was a beauty spot she applied with a pencil. She was complete, dressed to kill.

I felt I had to look away. Uncomfortable at the contrast of ideas going round my head, a heavily vamped up girl and killing innocent people.

The girl who sat next to me had a parcel on her lap. As the train moved further away from Haifa station, she began to un- wrap the package. I could see it was a piece of material.

Firstly, I saw the green, then the black and the white and then I saw the smaller red triangle. The girl was un-wrapping a Palestinian flag.

I frowned at the little red triangle in the middle of the stripes, remembering something. The red flag like a warning at a beach or a danger, danger of drowning.

I heard someone shout, thought I heard the word, “Saboteur. Saboteur!”

Then I saw the gun held out at arm’s length, aimed towards me, no, not me, the girl with the flag. I froze; I did not crouch down like the rest of the passengers. I just stared at the site of the gun, something I now realise I had never seen aimed at me before.

The boys’ hands were shaking but I had no time for my brain to compute that, because a noise exploded in the carriage and I felt something fly past my face, butterflies wings on fire I thought. The girl next to me screamed and held her hands to her ears, the soldier with the rose bud lips crouched further down on the floor. Trying to crawl under the seat. A smell like a November 5th firework pervaded the air. Hanging like an accusation in the confined space of the train carriage.

The bullet hit the side of the window frame and ricochet up to the luggage rack above. People were pointing at the girl, then to the fabric, and then to the soldier. They spoke in Hebrew but I guessed what they were saying. The soldier had shot at her because of the flag.

Someone had pulled the emergency cord. I sat and watched the aftermath unfold, saw how quickly the passengers went from panicking back to stoic resolution, how we all just sat and waited.

Someone spoke to me holding out a hand. I mumbled, “Lo Ivrit. Lo Ivrit.”

“Are you OK Madam? Are you Ok?”

I stared unable to comprehend her words even in English. Finally, I managed to exhale and say, “Yes. I am fine. Really I am fine.”

How terribly British I would think later back in my apartment. How terribly British. To say, “Yes I am fine. Thank you. I am fine.” Just been bloody shot at but I am fine!

Part of the Palestinian flag was draped across my legs and the young soldier across from me who I had watch put her war paint on earlier. She who had been the first to hit the ground, the edge of the flag covered on of her shoulders like a shawl.

There had actually been very little panic considering the situation a group of people experienced. Fortunately only one bullet had been fired, the gunman had been quickly subdued, by his – what would you call them? Colleagues? Friends? I don’t know what you would call them. Where they from the same platoon? I did not know and would never know.

The train was driven back to Haifa station, and by then an army of police had descended and where waiting to take the “terrorist” away. Except of course it was quickly made apparent there was no terrorist, just a young girl un- wrapping the Palestinian flag and a young boy who had misread the situation.

That was all he was, a boy, who had been given a gun by a faceless Government official in the name of national security and he thought that made him a man. Now he was standing there shaking and sobbing, a wild look on his face. The girl who unfolded the Palestinian flag stood calmly watching. Her lips closed as if she knew that whatever she said would be wrong, misinterpreted or would make the situation worse.

One of the police officers spoke to me in English. I told him what I knew. What I had seen. I told him how shocked I was that a soldier could just open fire in a public place like a terrorist.

He shrugged his shoulder and said, “These things happen. This is Israel. This is the life. She shouldn’t have waved the Palestinian flag.”

“She didn’t.” I corrected him. “She merely unwrapped it.”

Once again, the officer shrugged. I was used to the tough Israel way of speaking, but his indifference still unnerved me a little bit. “As you obviously are not hurt I will get someone to take you back to your apartment. Where are you staying?”

I knew there would be no further communication from the Haifa police. That was that, nobody had died nobody was hurt. What will happen if I was to suffer from PTSD? I almost asked and then thought better of it.

“I can walk thank you.” I coldly replied. “I am staying across the road.”

I was literally a four , maybe five-minute walk away. From where I was standing, I could see the date palm trees that lined the small street where my apartment balcony looked down on.

I walked back through the army of police cars and vans that were slowly preparing to depart, now that they knew nothing more was required of them.

Why did she unwrap the flag I wondered? Was it a gift that she did not realise the importance of until it was too late? On the other hand, had she played a clever psychological gambit? Not an act of violence but an act of defiance? Defiance thinly veiled in a flag.

As I walked, back to my apartment the sun was now at its zenith. I could feel the heat burning my skin. Just a five-minute walk and Israel was leaving its mark on me.

What of course was less apparent at the time but would stay with me longer then the suntan on my face was one young girl’s innocent or not so innocent act of unwrapping the Palestinian flag on a train  from Haifa to Accra.

I lay down on the bed my head was banging and I felt a faint burning on the side of my cheek. When I washed my face later that evening, my cheek was stinging; looking in the mirror, I could see a very fine line, a burn mark. It was a sobering thought to realise how close the bullet had been to my face.

That evening I switched the TV on for the news. There was no mention of the incident on the train in Haifa. There had been stabbings, shootings and riots across Jerusalem, Bethlehem and Hebron. Scenes of Palestinian youths being surrounded and kicked down onto their knees by armed Israeli soldiers. In one incident, a youth had stabbed two Israelis before being shot dead by armed police. I recognised Jaffa Gate and remembered my first walk through in to the old city back in 1987. Three days later the uprising called the Intifada began.

No nothing had changed. The world we live in now is just the same as the one that I grew up in. It is not the world. The people in it need to change.

For many months after I returned home, my hearing was badly affected by the incident, speaking on phones in my job as a credit controller became challenging. I was constantly straining to hear a voice down the line that would have previously been very clear. However, I remained silent about it. I felt I had no right to complain for I had gone to the terrorist capital of the world, Israel/Palestine. Now of course with the wave of terrorist attacks we live with here it is apparent we do not need to travel far to be affected by random acts of violence or even perhaps the innocuous action of unwrapping a flag on a train.

I would never know what happened to the girl or to the soldier. I trawled through many newspapers and internet news sites, nothing, there was no mention of the incident on the train again. Until now.

In the light of recent events with Trump, I see the Palestinian flag on the news, and on Facebook, and I am can see the little red triangle, in the middle, like a warning to swimmers at sea. Danger.

Spieglein Spieglein an der Wand

I was three years old when I ran my father over. I can assume safely it was an accident, for I am sure that a three-year old does not intend to run someone over, even their own father.

Now 50 years on I have been thinking about that strange incident. Two things have made this memory surface. I was on a train in Northern Israel when an army recruit opened fire at a person he thought was acting suspiciously, I was sitting next to that person.

Even now I don’t remember the full course of events, but instead I can remember 50 years ago, slipping the hand break off on the taxi and gripping the wheel whilst standing on the driver seat in the black cab and rolling the cab across my father!

I can remember that Candy our white German shepherd was sitting in the luggage compartment next to me. I can remember the taxi continued rolling after passing over my father’s body. I remember laughing because I was driving like daddy, it had of course escaped me that I wasn’t driving like daddy and I had actually had to run over daddy to achieve this precarious position of not being in control of a taxi.

We were on a hill and I continued to roll, I remember laughing and hearing my father shouting and seeing through the mirror him running after me. His face a mixture of fear and something else, something I had forgotten, love. He had loved me once.

I remained silent about the shooting, but then someone started to mess with my head. Started digging around my mind like an old woman at a jumble sale looking for a particular item.  But I don’t give up my thoughts and feelings that easily or so I thought.

But the digging has revealed bones of a long gone spectre, one I buried before it had actually stopped breathing.

At the moment I am in a dark place and I have realised that for me to move on I have to move back to another time and place. A time when again I was in a dark place, one which I thought I had moved on from, but now I know I have been living in the darkness ever since.

I’m only going to go back 14 years you will be relieved to know, but this is not about my travels round the world, the furthest we get is Toulouse in France. This is about the end of the relationship between me and my father.

But of course there has to be a beginning for there to be the ending.

When I was a child, I like many little girls put my father on a pedestal. It didn’t help that he had the good looks of a 1950’s Hollywood star, resembling Cary Grant. It seemed every woman wanted to sleep with him and every man wanted to buy him a drink. Even my girlfriends at school thought he was lovely.  However by the time he died he had become a very public alcoholic. The two persona couldn’t be further apart and I often wonder how on earth he was reduced to the later.

I suppose now as an adult it was obvious he was an alcoholic all along, but my perception like many people was of the Hollywood star not the sad tramp he grew into.

By the time of his death, very few people had much contact with him, any of his respectable friends had either died or had begun to keep my father at arm’s length. The only people he had contact with were people who had stooped so low as to cadge drinks from him, but thought themselves so high that they were being kind to him. And of course me the one constant in his life, the annoying wayward daughter, she was still there.

As a child I ran in his footsteps. Walked the roads he walked, sat in the pubs he drank in and smiled at the friends he talked with. His cab driver friends knew me almost like their own.

He understood me then, my belligerent way with the children at my school. My refusal to accept because a child had Alice in wonderland hair that did not make them better than me and certainly did not make me want to be like them.

I was not in the clique, never wanted to be. I ran alone, ran amok, and created upsets and havoc, but always on my own. My father seemed to understand me, seemed to endure the constant visits to the school where teacher after teacher listed complaint after complaint. He understood my way of ignoring what was told because it only suited the adult who was trying to control me. The word autistic had not been coined then. The words difficult, awkward, disruptive and uncontrollable seemed to be used on a regular basis in these talks at school. He remained silent, if he believed them he did not say, he was there for me as a child who was at odds with the world.

But my relationship with him as I grew older became more and more confrontational especially as it became glaringly obvious I had no intention on settling down and marrying. I started to travel to more and more obscure places and we grew further and further apart. When I picked a country that was troubled to visit, he would say I was doing it just to annoy him, I wasn’t, I just wanted to visit troubled countries. A population of troubled people had to be investigated.

And then I seemed to become the coat hook for him to hang all his own failures on. Anything that went wrong became my fault. I became the reason he drank. I was the reason the taxi broke down, the crucifixion of Christ was my fault, the holocaust, my sister having her house repossessed. My brother going home to Tasmania. I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders literally. And so I kept moving, I was a free spirit and the world was mine to explore and enjoy.

After a trip whale watching in New Zealand I phoned him waxing lyrical about my sightings of whales and dolphins , it was 6.00 in the morning where he was and he was drunk and then the enormity of his problem hit me, how could he be drunk at six o ’clock in the morning?

Travelling back  home via Australia, I was mugged in Sydney and naturally I tried to phone my parents, by making a reverse charge phone call, my mother was forced to refuse to accept the phone call, by what I now realise was a very nasty drunkard.

When I returned from my trip I went home and to see the transition was frightening, a blood stained drunk sitting in the corner of the room. Still in the same clothes that he had been wearing for longer than was acceptable.

Not long after that my mother left him. It took guts for her to do so, not only was he the love of her life, she was in her 60’s and would not find it easy to move on from nearly forty years of marriage.

I watched my father descend so low that it actually became too painful to watch, it ripped me apart in fact. It was eviscerating, a word I was reminded of when I worked in Madagascar – their largest carnivore the Fossa eviscerate their prey, usually a Lemur.  But I just couldn’t’t look away. Eventually stories would be passed to me of his drunken behaviour in a club or pub and it started to take its toll on me.

By now I was walking across the common in the dark 5.00 in the morning to walk the family dog and to turn the gas fire off where my father had fallen asleep slowly cooking his legs. Then a young girl was raped on the common by what later would become known as the M25 rapists. I knew something had to give.

I had a phone call one day to say he had collapsed in a car park and the mini cab driver had driven off and left him on the ground unconscious. Whilst he was in hospital I took our last family dog Branston to a vets and he was found a good home. It was not easy.

When I walked into the hospital I looked at a man with a purple face his bruising was so bad and yet he still rejected me. Nobody else visited him that night, just me and my guilt and my anger.

Nurses and Dr’s stared at me as if I had done something wrong. I realised what had happened was he had cooked his legs on the gas fire and they blamed me. I wanted to tell them that we couldn’t be in a room together he hated me but I remained silent and took their silent condemnation and agreed I was the worlds worse daughter, I had failed.

When my father returned home having rather ungraciously discharged himself from hospital, he came home to an empty house. He phoned to demand his dog back. I refused.

And then I packed my rucksack and took a one way Euro star ticket to Paris. I made my way down to the Languedoc region of France and thought I could hide from it all.

I embarked on a fling with an art student. I had met him “begging” outside a church, but it was his way of getting money to subsidise his fees. He was beautiful I could have stayed for longer. Lost in his eyes and his free spirit love.

I got a job as a waitress at a restaurant where the owner didn’t want to speak to English people. But even I knew that it could not be, to run away was denying part of what I was but to stay and watch my father’s self-destruction would take away a central piece of me.

But return I did, to find him lying in the living room, almost dead, skeletal but still defiant, as soon as I touched him he managed through his dehydrated mouth to say, “Leave me alone, stop mauling me.” Those words often linger in my mind, even when he was at death’s door he did not want me.

Whilst I was in France he had shown his last act of defiance. He had taken me to court to have his dog returned to him. Of course I was unaware of this fact and therefore did not attend the hearing. In my absence I was told to return the dog to him. After his death I had to explain to the courts that I could not comply with their request, at first they were most unsympathetic, but when I wrote asking how I could return an animal to a dead person, they finally relented and had the CCJ dropped.

I still am not completely sure why he had taken me to court. Was it to show me he still had some moral fiber left in him when it came to his responsibilities? Or was it to show me he still had reasons to live, I don’t know. I don’t bear him a grudge about it. And although painful to part with Branston I had acted in the best interest of the animal.

I miss my father of course. I miss the brutal honesty that we had, but I don’t miss that eviscerating pain of watching him slowly him kill himself with alcohol and how it took away the real Gordon. The kind funny person who everyone had liked and admired.

I hear people talk about their alcoholic husbands and fathers and I get the feeling with some that they use them to obtain sympathy from their listeners.

That is something I never want. I think I had an unorthodox upbringing, and I certainly wouldn’t’t have changed my childhood. But sympathy? No way.

I would just change those last minutes when I found my father lying on the ground, a shadow of a man, but still a fire blazing in his eyes, the bit where he hates me I want to change.

I once asked my father once why he couldn’t love me, we were in a pub, an alcoholics’ favourite place, they can hide in there for years, his reply was – “It’s like looking in a mirror with you.”

I should have guessed there would be no denial, no “Of course I love you, you are my daughter”.  I was never the family favourite, too much of a rebel apparently.  If I was my sister I would have played the feminine card and cried, and he would have perhaps patronised me and said something nice. But that was not his way or mine.

For years I stopped believing I deserved love or had right to be happy.

Of course years later I now realise it was himself that he hated so much. The shabby alcoholic he had become had taken all trace of the proud handsome man he once was. Apparently I am very much like him. He was a very strong man in all other aspects and very charming when sober, I am a very strong woman and apparently very funny when I want to be.

But sometimes when I take a sip of wine, I wonder is this the day that I will truly become the mirror of my father, that refection he so detested and slip into alcoholism? It’s a fear that can never really go away. I live with it on a daily basis.

Many partners have described being married to an alcoholic as a horror show, well for the offspring, it’s like walking through the hall of mirrors at the fun fair. Grotesque at one moment and then deceptively normal at another.

And how can you reject that which created you?

Now all these years after his death I want to draw a line under his own self-loathing and ultimately my own. I have got to move on. The last few years I have slipped to a place of darkness, of ghosts and demons. Creatures crawl through my mind constantly devouring my positive thoughts before they can grow. It’s not a good place.

The hall of mirrors I walk through hover now between grotesque and deceptive, not even normal anymore.

When my father died I did not grieve for him. For I had buried him deep within me many years before, but now it’s like a flood has washed away the soil on his grave and the bones of the dead are stacking up on the pavement for all to see.

I now have to start again, begin from where we left off. Move on from this place I have found myself in.

And Dad if you are looking down on me, I forgive you for not loving me. I forgive you for not liking the reflection you saw. I can’t make people love what they don’t want to but I’m going to learn to love myself. And perhaps eventually when I look at myself in the mirror I may just like what I see.

And Dad forgive me for making this so public, the bullet on the train missed me but the person digging around in my head , well they found a nugget ,but were too selfish to realise what they had found and threw it back as worthless.

I was asked recently was I sorry the bullet on the train missed me? No I was glad it missed the innocent person on the train.

A memory of Locusts

How to cook locusts- Remove the wings and hind legs of the locusts and boil in a little water until soft. Add salt to taste and a little oil and fry until brown.


Gabra’s long ebony hands more suited to playing a piano then driving, caressed his stomach or the part of his torso where less lean men would have had a stomach. Animated pidgin words escaped from his mouth which I translated as thus – From out of the pages of the bible, Ethiopia was to have a plague of weird flying creatures that had cymbals strapped to their abdomens to encourage females to mate with them.

I imagined a hoard of singing creatures on a sexual rampage, clashing cymbals loudly before embarking on a lust fuelled evening of insect debauchery.

And yet however strange this image was, I was not sure how their mating exploits could possibly prevent me from going out in Gondar for Christmas Eve. Although Ethiopia was still at war with Eritrea I had so far managed to avoid any major conflicts with man or beast, perhaps now it was all about to change.

My armed escort that came with the driver was fortunately more fluent in English and he managed to explain the impending catastrophe more succinctly if a tad less quaintly. A plague of locusts was about to spread across the landscape, devouring everything edible in their wake. The cymbals were not I was rather disappointed to hear noisy musical instruments, but were tymbals and muscles on the abdomen of the male locusts popped them in and out to make a chirping noise so attractive to the females.

I had encountered many unusual phenomenon whilst travelling the world, but a plague of locusts was not one of them. I do remember as a child watching the “Natural World”, and one of the episodes filmed a plague of locusts somewhere in Africa, maybe even Ethiopia. I remember a living cloud creep across the land like the dark shadow of a giant and the barren wasteland they left behind them.

Now here in Ethiopia I contemplated how the new famine was about to begin and how quickly it would take Bob Geldof to fly in to begin his next “feed the world” concert.

The words of God, a page from Exodus 10 –“I will bring locusts into your country tomorrow. They will cover the face of the ground so that it cannot be seen. They will devour what little you have left after the hail, including every tree that is growing in your fields. They will fill your houses…..”

Gabra had suggested a “handful from god of flying creatures”.

I guessed it depended on how big Gods hands were as to how many locusts would descend on Gondar.  On our drive down from my hotel one solitary locust landed on the windscreen of the car. “One locust does not a plague make.”  I concluded. But how big the hand of God was I was soon to find out.

Gabra drove us to an innocuous looking café. The room was painted a pastel mint colour and was furnished with Formica tables and plastic chairs. A man sat in a corner table staring up a large TV screen; he barely acknowledged the two of us as we came in. But his eyes lit up when he saw I had cigarettes.

I had purchased cigarettes and cans of Heineken as gifts for making friends with the locals and had also raided the mini bar at my hotel  so was happy to hand a token cigarettes to the man.

But Gabra became agitated and finally hissed at me, “No gifts for him, bad man. He is a bad man.”

How did anyone know what a bad man looked like? How would I know? He didn’t have a tattoo on his forehead. I wondered what constituted a bad man in Ethiopia, a country that had had its fair share of wars. He must have been a soldier in one of those wars.

Gondar had played a pivotal part in many of the atrocities of war. My hotel room had a fabulous view of the Fasilida Castle, where once the residents of the city had awoke to find the bodies of

Insurgents hanging at the castle gates. Had this passed the order for such a deed? He seemed so unassuming so passive but who really knew the heart of any man?

Gabra introduced me to his cousin Rebekah and she took me to her room where there was a fridge for the cans of larger to stay cool. She then offered me Tej, the local Ethiopian brew a honey mead concoction which depending on the brewer varied in degrees of potency. Hers was pretty potent.

As the evening continued Rebekah our charming host asked several times if we could leave the room, as a “boyfriend” had arrived.  I became confused at the number of “boyfriends” she and a few of her friends had. But who was I to judge?

When asked to leave the room we joined the company in the cafe where the bad man was accumulating a pile of money from men that appeared to just walk in off the street. No words or very few words passed between him and these men. And he merely sat occasionally his eyes averting from the TV screen to me.  And his face would contort into a form of a smile.

But Gabra’s warning of him being a bad man stopped me from trying to engage in conversation with him.

After several glasses of tej I finally needed to brave the outside toilets. As I stepped outside into the courtyard the first of the visitors of the predicted plague had arrived. One landed on my hand, as I peered down at it I saw it was pink. I frowned was it the harshness of the lights strung up around the shack like buildings that had distorted the colour. I thought all locusts were brown. I inspected it more closely, what colour pink was it? Congo Pink, Pig Pink, Spanish Pink, Carnation Pink, Pearly Pink?  None of these seemed to describe the colour.

Even his antennas were pink and the lids of his eyes had a pink dusting like eye shadow, perhaps it was a gay pink locusts.

Variations of the colour pink paraded through my mind like fat can can dancers at the Moulin Rouge.

And then the spell was broken, his hind leg slowly kicked out and I felt a stinging sensation on my hand. I flicked him away and continued to the latrines. I could hear a whirring sound of insects in flight. The one insect was now plural and they had begun to flutter enthusiastically round my head. I was no longer interested in their colour.

When I came out of the toilet the night sky was filled with creatures and I started to ineffectually flail my arms in the air, the locusts landed in my hair, climbing like monkeys through trees I could feel the vibrations of their bodies on my scalp as they  chirped and whirred.

I rushed towards what I thought was the door the communal l room I had first sat in, opened the door and slammed it behind me whilst trying to rid myself of the locusts.

And then I opened my eyes and saw in the low light, two naked bodies on a bed. Both black. They literally stopped in mid copulation to stare at me. It finally dawned on me where I was the local brothel. All the money being handed over to the bad man in the cafe was for services rendered.

I stood embarrassed for a moment and then backed away to the door and opened it to be greeted by the sound of locusts.

The only way to describe the noise a swarm of locusts make is a gentle exhalation of air like a fart, hundreds of locusts farting in the air. And I had to run through the gamut of them, my hands covering my face I ran across the courtyard towards the light of the kitchen diner.

And then I could feel fingers slowly pick the locusts out of my hair.

A pan had been placed on the flames of an old belling gas oven.  Rebekah dropped locusts into steaming water then with a ladle, transferred them into a frying pan of hot oil as they hissed in the heat I thought they were still alive.

A plate of the insects was placed in the centre of the table and we ate Gabra, Rebekah, her three girlfriends and four men. For a few moments the sound of whirring hung in the air and then the crunching of food as we ate. “When locusts swarm we eat.” Rebekah finally said.

The crispy snacks of locusts seemed to be never ending as did the guest who paraded through the room. Each time the door opened more locusts for Rebekah to cook invaded the room.

Finally a bed was made up for me on the floor where the locusts that had crept under the narrow gap in the door now had set up their own form residence  the lullaby of farting locusts finally sending  me to sleep. Through the remainder of the night I was vaguely aware of the sounds of beds creaking in other rooms and distorted grunts of desire, but I slept and daybreak seemed to arrive too soon.

When Gabra and I left the room that morning it was Christmas day for me but not for him. For Ethiopia lived by a form of the Julian Calendar and Christmas day would not be until January and to complicate things even more they have 13 months in a year.

And I was happy to find out that I was seven years younger when I landed in the country as they are seven years behind us in the west!

My eyes became accustomed to the brilliant blue of the sky and the bright African sun there was a scrunching sound as a walked across the road to the car. Millions of gossamer wings still floated through the air. Under my  feet were the carcasses of locusts. Did they die happily in sexual congress? I knew not, but the sound under my feet was like the sound of walking on snow, deep and crisp and even.

I was headed to the monasteries on Lake Tana this Christmas day. As we drove away I didn’t ask Gabra why he had taken me to a brothel to celebrate Christmas Eve. But I did wonder what locusts would taste like if dipped in chocolate.

The Billiard Room

I can’t believe that it was so long ago that I first saw her. What must be over 45 years? The childhood memory is one of those few that are still vivid to me.

My dad was looking after the club known in those days as the “Hollies.”

It wasn’t his normal job he was a taxi driver, but he volunteered to run the place whilst Dougie and Millie went on holiday. I idolised my father and went everywhere with him, so I found myself helping clear up the club that particular evening. The one and only time I saw her.

My shoulders slumped immediately my father spoke. “Go up to the billiard room and clear the glasses up into the dumb waiter.”

“Can I take Candy with me?” I pleaded.

“Of course. But there really is nothing up there to be scared of, Pedro. It’s just us men blaming our bad shots on something more than inept snooker.”

His words didn’t make me feel any better and taking Candy our German shepherd dog wouldn’t help much either she was scared of the room as well.

The billiard room, everyone knew it was haunted. The men always spoke of how when they were playing snooker, suddenly the ball would shoot of at a different angle. Or how certain coloured balls would have been hidden in other parts of the room when they came up to play their first game of the day. Glasses moved from where they were placed and an atmosphere that could not be explained.

Although I had never seen her, I knew it was a she. And knew something bad had happened in that room.  It was strange that the ghost was a she. The club was a men’s only venue and it really was a stuffy masculine place. But the worse place was that room.

I dragged myself slowly up the huge staircase with Candy trailing reluctantly behind me, she was already trembling and by the time my hand touched the big brass door knob so was I.

I peered into the room, the lights were always dim and it just made it worse. The heavy oak wood paneling dragged the atmosphere down even more. A smell of cigars and stale beer pervaded the air.

I started quickly to pick up the glasses and place them in the dumb waiter. Faintly the scratching noise began, getting louder and more frantic. I tried to shut the noise out.

“Mice”, my Dad had tried to tell me the last time I heard it. “Place is infested with them” Bloody big mice I had thought, not convinced.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something. I figure in black and white. I swirled round, nothing. “Silly.” I said to myself she won’t show herself to you.

Candy was following me round like a bad smell, with one eye on the door ready for her quick escape. I had left the door open deluding myself that it would make things better. But the heavy oak door slowly creaked back on in hinges to shut itself and we were trapped for now.

Above one of the snooker tables the light flickered as if a bulb was going to go. And then I heard her. “I didn’t mean to. Please don’t put me in there. It‘s dark I‘m scared .Please no.” And then sobbing. And the scratching got louder. More frenzied.

I froze. Candy was cowering behind my legs trying to hide from – from nothing. There was nothing. Only the sobbing. And the scratching.

I bolted for the door and flung it open wildly. I ran full pelt down the stairs Candy overtaking me before we reached the last step.

As I rushed into the main bar my father must have seen the look of fear on my face. I ran towards him and he opened his arms. “What’s the matter Pedro?” he said softly.

“Nothing, I thought there was someone in the room and ….” I trailed off.

My dad smiled down at me benevolently, “There is nothing up there. It’s just a very creepy room. Too many male egos rest in there. I suppose I will have to go and finish clearing up there instead.”

He turned toward the same stairs I had just catapulted myself down.

“Daddy, if they ever pulled the panels down, what do you think they would find underneath?” I suddenly asked.

My father frowned, “Well probably pink walls. It was a girl’s school many years ago. Run by French nuns for the daughters of rich local gentry. Why? What do you think they would find?”

“Dead bodies. Something horrible happened in there I know it I can feel it. I heard her crying, they killed her. I know they did.”

My father had turned back, recognising my fear, a barely discernable frown on his face. “I think we will leave the glasses for the morning. Come on its time to go home. Mum will be waiting up for us. I shouldn’t have bought you out it’s much too late for you.”

We locked up together and walked over to his taxi. I loved his taxi. I loved the leather seats and the shinning black. I always felt special and safe in there.

As we pulled away I looked up at the window of the billiard room. And there she was, the face of her anyway. She stared for a second at me, pale as moonlight, she had an almost petulant look on her face, as if disappointed I was leaving her, but within seconds she was gone. I was about to tell my dad but thought better of it.

And now I’m back in my home town and each day I drive past the building and each time my head turns and glances up at the window. Do I hope I will see her? Or do I hope she was just my childish imagination?

One day they will knock the building down and then the truth of the place will be known. But for now I drive past and remember the scratching and the crying.

Lamia -The Red Dragon of the Galapagos

The wall of tears, was sobbing, a sound like the wind howling through stone. But there was no wind, only a blistering draining heat. The islands born from fire and ice were at the fire stage. Ice would now be a blessed relief. Perhaps that was why the Wall of Tears was crying, worn down by a heat so searing nothing could give any sense of liberty.  And this heat must have been stronger then shackles binding the slaves who built the “El Muro de las Lágrimas”. Something had drawn me back here; the wall had some magnetism for me in my delirious state.

It gave no shade from the sun there were no shadows to protect me even momentarily from the sunstroke I was now suffering from. Huge yellow tipped larva cacti were dotted across the harsh landscape as if grenades had been thrown in violent abandonment. And the explosion of land had been frozen in time with the needles of the cacti a deterrent to all but the totally insane.

Something moved slowly slowly through the landscape, an animal with his house on his back, moving ponderously a giant tortoise.

I needed water. Somehow I had managed to lose the group of fellow cyclists on the way back from our cycling trip on Isabella. Why had I agreed to cycle anyway? And in the 40+ degree heat I was never going to have enough water to stop my dehydration.

I can’t remember if I rashly had said, “You guys go on without me, I’ll catch you up.”  Would I have said that? And would they have left me? It appeared the answer was yes on both counts, because here I was back at the wall of tears alone, and without a bike, but even worse without water.

A searing pain was slicing through my dissolving brain like a knife through melted butter. I had intermittent seconds of clarity when I knew my situation was not good. And then redness blinded me and I could see only hell.

Now in a moment of that clarity I knew I had to go downwards not uphill as my delirium had driven me. I had to go down back to the coastline. Follow the trail back to the sea.

But there be dragons I deduced, red dragons of the Galapagos. I would have to face them if I was to have any chance of finding help. I had seen them on the journey up, when I had water and the last vestiges of common sense still with me. One had been at least four feet long and was a vivid crimson colour. I had stopped to admire them without fear and they had merely observed me without suspicion, interest or as potential food.

The sound of a bird distracted my already addled state of mind. From the corner of my eye I saw a small flurry of feathers. The small bird seemed to be singing louder than his little body would ever be able to accommodate. And he was taunting me. Of that I was convinced. Egging me on to something but I could not explain his true intent.

So blindly I moved down towards the sea. I tripped over something and fell to the black lava ground, the something moved, it was red. Its tongue flickered, licked at my skin. I lay with my face pressed against the black lava stones. The dragon approached closer his skin next to mine the red skin like sunburn.

He splayed his wings as if to take flight, but then he sauntered past me and merely flicked his tail provocatively as he went.

Relieved to establish that I was inedible to a dragon, slowly through gritted teeth I got back up and continued my descent.

I felt the stinging on my sun baked skin, was it the sting of the dragon, or was it the cacti needles? I knew not and cared even less. To the sea, to the sea, to the turquoise sea, like a mantra I murmured.

And as if in tune with me the bird I had encountered by the wall chirped alongside, running like a pygmy roadrunner. Was he encouraging me towards my destination or was he really mocking my stupidity?

The land under my feet began to change; the lava rocks gave way to sand. I saw shade of sorts from a tree, a mangrove tree, one that’s roots were buried under sand that at high tide the lower branches would hang in the salt water of the sea. Was this the coast line I was aiming for? Or had I once again veered away from the path of greater safety?

The sand shifted and moved in front of me. Black creatures – Iguanas slowly retreated from my path. I again tripped and fell; my hands stretched out and I grabbed hold of metal, the handle bars of a bike, the bike I had discarded. I was so numb it would take a few hours for me to realise that I had burnt my hands on the bars, the metal was white hot.

How many hours ago had I embarked on this fool hardy trip? Was the sun any closer to setting?  I collapsed under the minimal shade of the mangrove tree.

It was only a brief respite. I could feel my brains dripping down my face and onto the ground. How many brain cells would I need to continue this journey? None was the answer, for I could not complete this journey back to town without water.

Had the rest of the group seriously abandoned me? Had there been a falling out, or an accident?

Before I had time to consider just why I was out here alone suffering sunstroke the sound of a hungry dragon filled my now empty head. It started out as a dull rattle, but increased in volume and intensity. I was too weak to look for a place of safety or to be precise knew there was no place to escape the red dragoon.

My feathered companion was dancing up and down on the branch of the mangrove chirping ebulliently as if singing, “Now you are going to die, eaten by the red dragon, just by the turquoise sea.”

I lay back under the green leaves, the sunlight piercing through the green creating a dappled effect. And I began to recite Keats. The poem called Lamia, the one with the lines, – “She was a dazzling shape of Gordian hue. Vermillion spotted, golden green and blue: stripped like a zebra, freckled like a pard. Eyed like a peacock all crimson barr’d.”

Lamia moved ever closer, the noise rising to a crescendo of rattling and growling and then, then she beeped her horn. I don’t remember Lamia having a horn. Then there was a screeching sound and the banging of a door.

A shadow loomed over me, blocking the red and angry sun. And then the sound of a voice that I vaguely recognised as coming from Fernando, one of the guys from the Isabella Giant Turtle Breeding Centre that I was working at.

Water was splashed over my face and a bottle was put to my mouth. I felt the liquid flow between my parched lips. Lamia was not a dragon just an old battered jeep that rattled and the radiator steamed constantly.

I was maneuvered into the jeep by Fernando and David. As I slumped down in the seat, I wondered if they noticed that my brains were still dripping albeit at a slower rate down my face. If they did neither of them commented on it.

Later lying on my bed back at the Flamingo Hostel, having been given fluids and dehydration packets, I established how I had come to be separated from the group.

After reaching the Wall of Tears, where I had not climbed the steps to the lookout post, having complained I was too weak for the steps, we had cycled to a lagoon, where we had swum with the seals, a usual occurrence in the Galapagos.  David had moaned all the way from the wall of tears that his bike had a flat tyre. I had offered to swap saying, “I’m too tired to cycle back I will walk with your bike.”

By the time the group had realised I was not trailing behind them I had disappeared. After a brief but worrying search, they had returned as quickly as possible to raise the alarm for help.

Our gracious host at the hostel had at the start of our trip expressed her reservations of me going cycling with the group. She had merely raised a dark Spanish eyebrow at me and had said, “Vas a encontrar en una bici” – “You are getting on a bike?” That and the look on her face had said it all really.

And of course I had confirmed in my dehydrated state that she had been right.

Why had I found myself back at the Wall of Tears? Had the ghosts of the prisoners lured me to a possible death? I don’t know that part of my memory is lost.

My hands from grabbing the handlebars of the discarded bike were red and raw for a few days. The scar from the dragon’s sting remained a livid red for a few days but that too subsided. I recovered remarkably quickly from the sunstroke. As to the number of brain cells that melted beyond repair? Of that I cannot confirm.

There are no recorded sightings of red dragons on the Galapagos Islands. Maybe once there were red dragons, but today there are only two varieties of Iguana’s, the black marine iguana and the more colourful land iguana called conolophus subcristatus. But the Island of Isabella has the sub species called the Galapagos Pink Land Iguana, commonly known as the “pink morph”, which resides near Vulcan Wolf. I was too far from their range to have encountered these in my delirium. Yet I had am sure I had seen them on way up to the Wall of Tears before my sunstroke had started.  The bird that had taunted me through my ordeal was indeed the “mockingbird”.