musings

Savoury Life

Ocean Bream motherhood, musings, The Story of Lenny Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , 4 Comments

I don’t know if my brain is becoming smooth.

Ideally it should be more wrinkly, the wrinklier the better, I am told.

AI usage, mental convenience and delegation and short-form content on the regular are making my attention span shorter.

I feel any information I do consume stays in my short-term memory box, and I am left on a weird intellectual loop. Saying, thinking, planning the same old things month in, month out, year in, year out, with no significant change occurring.

This is where I say it will all stop but I guess I am just fooling myself. At the very least, I am aware. Being aware is one step closer to making a change, is it not?

I am based in the Middle East currently. Since the 11th of May, 2025, actually. The situation here is stable but volatile. People are going about their daily lives while missiles are being intercepted every day – sometimes you hear them and the house shakes, and alerts go off on your phone that you can’t turn off saying to head to a safe space… except there are no safe spaces. No basements or bomb shelters, so you have to think where is the safest place in my house where I won’t get crushed? I am more worried for my kids than myself. If this war escalates to something nuclear I think we are all screwed, no matter where we are in the world. And I think it’s safe so say we all know this is a war fuelled by ego, Epstein file cover up, the US being in Israel’s pocket, Israel furthering it’s Greater Israel agenda and keeping Netanyahu out of jail… the US is ruled currently by an illiterate madman. But hey, are we surprised? No. We just hope to be safe, I think we can all agree on that. I am just really sad and shocked and worried for my kids’ future. The world we seem to be bequeathing to them is chaotic, frightful and full of smoke and mirrors. What is real, in this age of AI and corporate lies?

I shall try my very best here, in this torrid place. Summer is creeping back in, for there is no winter here, no spring and no colourful autumn.

Just summer, hot hot burning summer, and then… gentle summer, or what people here call winter. I used to dream about this place, for it is where I grew up, but I am back now, and I long to escape once more. Just as I did as a child. Rose-tinted glasses, folks.

We are at the mercy of electricity here. If it goes out, the cool air goes, and we are left to bake in an aching dryness that feels like death. It is death, it’s death. How can I raise my children in death?

Like I was raised in death?

Taught to fear everything, never to feel secure?

But I see people here and they are so secure. They are secure from the bombs falling, not even gasping or running when the shopping mall booms and shakes from interceptions above. Swishing around in their expensive clothes, heels clicking on polished floors, they feel secure. Their children are secure, no anxiety, nannies running after them, adhering to their every whim. Why then, am I insecure? Why are my children worried, afraid to fall asleep because a plane sounds too loud, afraid to go on a school trip because they may be left behind? Are they swallowing my insecurities? If so, that is very very bad.

I long to be back in a nature that envelops me and does not seek to devour my moist flesh.

I long for my children to run in fields again, to climb trees, to fish for frogs in puddles and to collect the sweet scented roses that are abundant in my garden. I long for my little girl to pick up worms again, kiss them fondly and name them, to cherish the ladybirds that infiltrate our house through the seasons, hibernating in the corners of the ceiling for months on end. I miss the old oaks, the spring explosion of magnolia and cherry blossom.

But I don’t know what this future holds. And perhaps seeking financial stability that comes at the cost of health and happiness and a cool breeze is just… not… worth it.

Random Thoughts 2022

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Stephanie Meyer published a book called ‘Midnight Sun’. It is a retelling of her famous Twilight novel from the perspective of the male love interest, a vampire named Edward. In 2009, when the Twilight series was all the rage, I was fourteen years old. I was enamoured, to be honest. My parents forbade me from reading vampire romance so reading in the dark, in secret, made it all the more glorious. Oh I savoured every word. Anyway. All this is to say that hearing about Midnight Sun sparked some curiousity so I read some reviews and watched some ‘booktubers’ talking about it and have come to the conclusion that my 27 year old self really doesn’t have the time to read about the inner thinkings of a hundred and something year old vampire who decides, with the gift of immortality, to spend time in a highschool with sixteen year olds, and falls in love with one of them. I mean. I am 27. If I was immortal, highschool would be the last place I would spend my time, my goodness.

I realised this week, when my 2 year old had his first ever tummy bug, that I have to put my own tummy bug on hold in order to deal with his. I had to still rush up and down stairs, cleaning out vomit from sheets and floors and buckets, disinfecting everything. I had to make sure he was hydrated, and lie next to him ready with the bucket at his slightest stir. It’s amazing how the human body works. One minute I was so exhausted I couldn’t get off the sofa, and the next I was hurtling across the room to catch my child, who was shivering and hot and had vomit in his hair. Lovely.

There is also a ‘petrol shortage’ in the UK. I think it’s just a combination of panic-buying and a shortage of lorry drivers due to Brexit. Funny that, isn’t it. Leavers were worried ‘foreigners’ were taking all their jobs… now not enough ‘foreigners’ are taking the jobs. Funny funny irony. Thankfully we do not use our car much, so we are alright. But I have heard tales of ambulances not being able to fuel up due to the ‘shortage’ and have seen plenty of memes about ‘loo roll wankers’ being the same douchebags who are filling up plastic water bottles with petrol because this is apparently the end of times and what do we need most in an apocalypse? Petrol. Oh. Humanity.

I spend a lot of time thinking but my thoughts are to-do lists.

2026: Why I am publishing this list of 2022 thoughts now, I have no idea. I came across it in my drafts folder and sentiments sure have changed in 4 years. My 2 year old is now almost 7, and I have a nearly 5 year old, and my thoughts are occupied by far more complex things! But why not publish this, why ever not.

On Naming Things

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In an attempt to bring joy back into my life in what seems like a season of ill-will, misfortune and tired depression, I will talk today about something that brings me joy. It’s my daughter’s penchant for naming all her toys – apt names sometimes, or names that simply tickle her fancy at the time of the naming ceremony.

Her first named doll is a little bald thing with the most intense eyes and the grimiest all-in-one outfit one ever did see. When she first obtained the doll, three years ago now, my daughter had just turned two. She was enamoured with an Arabic song about seagulls flapping their wings, and one of the phrases in the song was ‘the seagull flapped it’s wings, flap flap!’. So she named her doll ‘Hallaqa Hallaq’ – which means ‘flap flap’. In fact, the doll’s name is the entire phrase but she deigned to shorten it for her own ease of play.

Then she has Foxy – which is a little white fox. Cuddly-cuddly Elephant is a little purple elephant no bigger than my hand. It’s furry and has large imploring purple eyes. She has Button, a little rag-doll with a singular button on its dress. Kung-Fu Panda, which is a panda dressed as a dragon which her father got her from China in celebration of the Chinese new year. She has Goldilocks, which is a plump little marshmallow creature that is shapeless and designed, I suppose, to be ‘cute’. Not in anyway resembling the real Goldilocks – but the name took her fancy and now we can’t see that marshmallow thing as anything other than Goldilocks! And Llamery Sparkle is a colourful little Llama who has a pair of sparkling eyes.

Flower Nice is a velvety puffy ladybird with large black beads for eyes. She followed her dad all around the supermarket the day Flower Nice was procured begging him to buy it for her. He took one look at the price tag and shook his head. But she wouldn’t let up. She implored with her large eyes, she took his hand and kissed it, she hugged and rocked the silly stuffed ladybird as if it would break her heart to part from it. He eventually gave in, of course. Who can resist the charms of an enamoured little three year old?! What will you name her, I asked, once the ladybird was paid for and safely back in her arms. Flower nice, she replied, because flowers are nice and nice because she is nice.

All of this to say, I never named a thing as a child. I had a doll but she certainly had no name, and was subject to all sorts of experimentation by myself and my sister. Bathed, hung, parachuted down the side of an apartment building – no, we did not name her. But my daughter insists on naming everything that can be constituted personage – including ants and moths that happen her way. And that, my friends, brings me much joy.

Girl, dolls and toys. Honor Appleton

I missed you so much.

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Mama I missed you SOOO much. I was thinking about you all day, I was thinking mostly about your squishy tummy and how I like to squish it!!!

– My daughter, age 4, when I picked her up from school. First thing she said to me after screaming ‘Mamaaa!!’ when she saw me.

Anastasia Kozorez

7th Sept.

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I told my mother on the phone that I couldn’t sleep all night, despite being shattered.

The truth is, after home educating for nigh on three years… I am sending both my children to school. We’re in a different country, you see. I want them to pick up the language they speak here, and I believe the only way they can quickly do this is via the ‘immersive’ method. Throw them in at the deep end.

I am scared to send them. The weather is deathly hot. They won’t know what’s going on because they can’t communicate. They won’t understand their teachers and will find it difficult to make friends when there is a language barrier. I am worried they may come to harm, but what mother isn’t, when she is sending her babies out into this big old world.

The truth is, my job is to prepare them for the world so they venture into it willingly, happily, confidently, and can build themselves a life that is beneficial to them and the world they live in. And if I keep my claws clutched into them for fear of my own heartbreak, I will raise stunted children.

So I lie awake all night, shattered, exhausted, anxious, watching the lights of passing cars flash across my ceiling, until they are replaced by the stable, gentle light of dawn. And I face my children with a carefree smile, dressing them, helping them have their breakfast, and confidently wave at them as they go to others to learn. Do they see my worry? Certainly not. They only see happy, confident mother, guiding them to do and be things she won’t be and do.

Mama knows what’s good for me, and she is happy with it, so I am safe to experiment and explore as I need to.

I hope my weakness is their ladder to strength.

My son goes on his first school trip today. They’re taking him on these awful and dangerous roads (drivers in this country are manic, fatal accidents are common) to a play centre, and then bringing him back to school. I have never trusted anyone to take my kids anywhere ever. I am struggling so hard with this. I just want to say NO, YOU HAVE TO STAY TODAY. But HE wants to go on the school trip and play with his friends so I have to have faith that he will be okay. I have to let him explore the world as he wishes. I have to let go. Me. I cannot hold him back. He is my little boy but soon he will be a man and I have to guide him with strength through these steps that he needs to take.

On Spinning Joy

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I begin this post with a quote: “I could not read, eat, sleep, write or do anything unless I drove myself to do it and then I felt as if I were trying to do it with somebody else’s hands or brain and couldn’t work very well with them. I feel lustreless, dowdy and uninviting – I even bore myself. I shall grow mossy in this existence!“

This was written by Emily, from a book in the Emily of New Moon series by LM Montgomery.

Never have words felt truer to my soul. I have moved across the globe, twice. I have lived under the perpetual dampness of a February chill, grey skies and a sun that was never to be seen save for a few snatched glorious cold steely moments where she deemed us worthy to sprinkle her rays weakly at us. I have lived in a torrid desert, every breath laden with the fine dust carried over the sand dunes. Artificial light, artificial skies, artificial wind…

And yes, this dowdy, lustreless feeling chases me wherever I go, ripping away my inspiration and making me bow before it.

Yet every day I wake up with new resolve. I am determined to find my nature. My joy. A way to smile and truly feel the happiness in the pit of my stomach.

Home is where the family is. Joy is in the heart, not the location, and peace and happiness come from within.

Lombardi poplar trees. There is a row of them in Nantwich, and they always decorate the skyline with a gorgeousness that aches the heart.

Fast Asleep at Crewe

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Folks, I am moving. House, city, garden. Moving away.

I’ve lived in Crewe for 9 years. Fruitful? Yes. Both my children born here, in the same hospital, probably the same room. Same midwives, nurses, same women administering the BCG vaccine because they have foreign blood.

When I first moved here I thought I would only be here a year. Two max. I planted tulips, hyacinths, peonies which are only just about to bloom, and I won’t see them blooming. Beautiful climbing rose bushes from David Austen and two others from somewhere else which are all healthy and doing so well – I will not be here to see them bloom. But I hope someone else can enjoy the scent and colour of them for me. I planted three hydrangea bushes – one of which was mercilessly beheaded by an uninformed brother in law. A cherry tree which is only just bearing fruit, and an apple tree which bore me three apples and didn’t blossom at all this year.

I was ecstatic to discover Crewe mentioned in T.S Eliot’s poem ‘Skimbleshanks the Railway Cat’ – more on Crewe and its heritage later – it’s now just a sad little forlorn and broken down town filled with people who are the shadows and ghosts of their respectable ancestors. Sad but true. Brutal? This country brutalised its people. Flying Scotsman versus Japanese bullet train – the world is leaving this once-great country covered in dust.

“You were fast asleep at Crewe and so you never knew
That he was walking up and down the station;
You were sleeping all the while he was busy at Carlisle,
Where he greets the stationmaster with elation.“

Not all doom and gloom. April was shower-less but we still have our usual May explosion of frondescence and ambrosia. This country comes alive in the spring, and opens doors to a truly glorious summer. Bees and butterflies and flowers galore.

But I choose to leave. Why? Why not. Never stayed anywhere solidly for a long period of time. I roam this earth like a nomad and stranger, and while deep roots, according to Tolkien, are not reached by the frost, my deep roots are internal, non-physical. My family, my friends, they remain the same. But my furniture and home can be discarded.

Home is where the family is, after all. Let us hold on to that.

Goodbye, Crewe!!!

I have MANY thoughts on Crewe, having lived here for 9 years, and I want to elaborate on them soon.

Watson, Harry; Crewe Number 1 Platform, c.1960; Crewe Heritage Centre; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/crewe-number-1-platform-c-1960-103038

Magnolia

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March came and went this year. My favourite month, filled with sweet sunny promises of pale green buds and the soft scents heralding trees full of bloom. I turned 31 in March, my husband turned 34.

My children appeared to become more self aware. Of the world around them and their own existence in it. Opinions firmer, questions deeper.

I think I grew a bit too, mentally resilient. I had to parent alone for a long time, I still am parenting alone, with the end in sight but not yet in reach.

But it’s April now, we have finally emerged from the darkness of winter, the sun is out for longer, it’s brighter, and my neighbour’s magnolia tree has exploded, vibrant pinkish white which gleams in this gorgeous spring sunshine.

It’s not our moods that get us down in the winter, it’s the lack of serotonin-inducing sunlight!

A fine drive

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Driving at night is its own kind of strange. Everything is different. Everything is spooky. When all the inhabitants of the car you’re driving have fallen asleep, an eerie, almost ominous atmosphere settles over the mind and takes over.

I am reminded of that facebook post I read about a man driving on the A75 Kinmount Straight in Scotland.

THE most haunted motorway in the UK.

How he described the road suddenly emptying itself of cars, and him driving alone in moonlight which appeared to bathe the entire road in its brilliance. He went into great detail about the stopped cars he would pass at intervals, and the occupants of which were all standing outside their vehicle, their belongings strewn about them in great disarray, and all of them staring at the sky with blank faces. He passed several cars in the same exact state, and began to wonder if he was dreaming, driving in a trance-like state, before he came across normalcy again. Cars driving alongside him, the moon not so bright anymore.

I start to look for ghosts in the dark, you see. The headlamps of my old car are weak, and they don’t illuminate much on the pitch black country roads. Ghost lane, my parents used to talk about.

I stop at a random Timmy Horton’s drive-through(that’s Tim when its at home) for a skinny cappuccino with sugar free vanilla syrup. The guy gives me a large cup, and it’s 10pm, so I am shocked. I still drink every last drop, as I sail my lonely way across the various A roads and onto the motorway. I know I might miss it one day.

I drive right through a red light. And a camera flashes so brightly it almost blinds me, and a great feeling of dread sets in. At a traffic light, I take my phone and quickly search ‘what happens when you get caught running a red light UK’.

A fine. Of course. This country loves to fine us. And three points on my driving license. Bugger.

Hands shaking with caffiene, eyes droopy with sleep (I tell you coffee is useless on me), staying at a steady 70mph, kids sleeping, husband snoring, I wind my way through the lonely country roads. Country rooooaaaddsss. Take me hooooommmee…

On February

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It’s miserable and gloomy here in the UK of GB and NI. The clouds hang heavy and there is a deep chill in the damp, dank air. A chill that seems to rise from the earth, trapped beneath the canopy that blocks the sun. It’s so terribly dark, all day, utterly dull. The roads are dirty and the bare trees feel sorry for themselves.

It’s always this way though, when February arrives. This country is tired of its winter, and wears its cloak in a bedraggled, patchy mess. It is too tired to cascade its jewels of beauty, and sunrises and sunsets are a thing of the past. Or future.

Sometimes at night the clouds will clear and the perpetual grey will be replaced with something quite marvellous. Stars, millions of them, glittering in the black wintry sky. And a moon which moves overhead and rises and sets in the most glorious fashion. We are treated, I daresay, once in a blue February moon to the wonders of the galaxy, and as it shines down upon the earth, for a few hours, it feels surreal and magical.

February is not such a terrible month. But ohhh I do feel the ache in my bones for some sunshine, for some heady long summer afternoons, for thick, dense, green foliage gently swaying in a breeze, the call of a myriad of birds, life rustling in every nook and cranny, long grasses and giant daisies creating a sea of waves in summery fields… it will be March soon. Blossoms will bud, the sun will stay a while longer and enjoy a final cup of tea before she departs elsewhere, and this perpetual darkness will end. Our exposure to space will be lessened, our world will be bathed in light.

So. I’ll stop here. I will enjoy the deep glumness of this chill that I feel permeating my bones. I will rest my achey muscles and await the spring with bated breath.