Alan Johnston

Okay I know I haven't written for a while but life distracted me, buying a house at the moment so there is a lot of stuff in my way for writing to be a priority...

However, I wanted to post this blog so that as many people as possible are aware of this situation.

Alan Johnston, BBC's correspondent in Gaza is missing. It is still a mystery as to why he was taken, and what the people who took him hope to achieve. But the more people who are aware of this the better, so lets have a worthwhile message doing the rounds instead of the usual chain letter nonsense.

please click on the link

The hardest thing I have done

Well the second task I have been set was to write no more than 500 words on a relative who is no longer around. This is the hardest thing as I wrote about my grandfather who died a few years ago, 500 words were not enough to write everything I wanted to say about him but hopefully this tells you something about him. It also took so long because I had to recover from crying when I though about all the things he did for my family and also when he died. In fact just writing this introduction is hard enough. Although this is a subject that is close to my heart I still want honest opinions about how well (or not) it is written.



Everybody called you ‘Mo’ I always thought that was your name but as I got older I heard people call you Harry, then it struck me that Mo couldn’t have been your name for it was too like your surname. Of course, that’s what it was, an abbreviation of your last name used as a nickname. It wasn’t until you died, however, that I found out your name was Henry. I wasn’t the only person confused by this because the people who lived with you had your name added to the prayer list at the church unfortunately, not knowing you that well, they wrote it down as ‘Harold’!
You were not shy about telling people what you thought, this makes you sound mean and unfriendly but nothing could be further from the truth, when I look back I have only memories of a man who would do anything for his family. My earliest memory is when I was three, sitting on your knee with a blue bicycle in front of me that you had bought. I rode that bike until one of the stabilisers fell off and then I carried on riding it in a very wobbly fashion until its twin was also taken off.
When I applied to University I looked at places far from home eager to explore, to fill up my choices I added a course at home to my application, but after visiting six different departments I realised I liked the structure of course in my hometown. August came and my place was confirmed, not long after that my Mother told me that you had been so worried about me moving away that you had not been able to sleep until you knew I would be studying where you could help me if I was ever in danger. It was that closeness that made me never want to disappoint you, it was you and not my parents who I hid my piercings and tattoos from and when I left University for a year I never told you afraid that you would lose sleep again. When I carried on with my studies I also worked in the evenings so I didn’t get to see you a lot, I visited one Sunday with my parents and I found out you had been having chest pains but you wouldn’t see a doctor, when you complained that I didn’t visit enough I told you I would return when you had been to the doctors. While I visited friends you had a heart attack, I was the first person you asked for when you woke up at hospital as you had ‘seen a doctor now’. I visited as often as I could but work got in the way, I handed in my notice and went away for the weekend and when I got back you had died. I hadn’t seen you for two months and I never got to say goodbye. I am sorry.

Seen through a window - first draft

Well here goes....

Rebecca looks out of her window onto the street. It is raining so hard that it looks as thought the droplets are dancing on the pavement. She watches people rushing past, some occasionally glance up at her but nobody looks for long, not in this weather. She sees a woman hurry past with a small boy, holding him close as if to protect him from the rain. A man walks past in a suit, on his way to work, shielded beneath an umbrella large enough that it could easily cover three people and yet he walks alone. Two girls come into her shop, they look no older than nineteen. Their skin glistening and their brightly coloured hair drenched, they look around but she knows that they are here more for shelter than for the clothes hanging up on the rails. One of the girls complains to her friend about the British weather and how it never changes. ‘Always cold and miserable,’ she says. ‘When we finish Uni, lets move somewhere hot. Like Australia,’ her friend replies, ‘we can have a house near the beach and cook barbecues every day, and in the evening we can sit and watch the sun go down together.’ They both giggle at the thought of this. Rebecca continues to look out of the window as if she has not heard their conversation, whilst one of the young Saturday girls rings up their purchases on the till. She watches them as they walk past the window with their freshly bought umbrella, huddled together as though no one could tear them apart. She wishes she could be young and carefree like that. They have their whole lives are ahead of them, whereas she feels she is doomed to stay in this shop until the end of her days, watching people living their lives with enjoyment. She wishes that she could run out of the shop and onto the street outside. That if she felt the rain fall down upon her she would know how it feels to be alive. She would not complain about the cold or about getting her clothes wet. She would dance in the puddles that have formed on the pavement and then look up at the clouds as they rained down on her face and hair. But she cannot, so will carry on watching people as they continue past her. She feels like weeping, for those people who do not appreciate how lucky they are, and for herself. Eventually the number of people walking past the window gets smaller and it becomes time for the shop to close. They doors are locked so that the shop can be made ready for the next day. An assistant walks over to her, ’Well, Rebecca, its time to get you ready for tomorrow,’ she says and as she undresses and dresses her again she does not notice the tear running down the mannequin’s face.

...ahem... well let me know what you think.

Creative writing.....

I actually went out and bought myself a teach yourself creative writing book. It seems like it might kick start me into writing again. The first task I have is a 300-500 word story with the title Seen through a window. I have a few ideas so when I have finished I will post it here. I do keep thinking of The Time Machine (original film) when the shop window changes over the years so I will make sure I don't steal that idea!!

So here's the thing... you have to be my critics... take a look at the things I put up here and give me honest evaluations in the comments section... think you can do that?