Category: Small World

It’s a small world. Tiny living, flash fiction, little treasures, mini moments.

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Why do nice plants hate me?

I’m in here!

I’ve always loved the idea of living in a jungle, nothing but birds and wild creatures for company. I was inspired (scarred?) by ‘Gorillas in the Mist’ as a child and imagined a future life as a kind of Mrs Dolittle who could live in a cave and go a bit wild. My friendly gorillas would protect me from harm and we’d all have a great old time.

Ah, the innocence of childhood dreams. Instead of becoming an explorer I stayed put, finding jobs here and there (none of which involved animals of any kind never mind Rwandan silverbacks). And anyway, Dame Jane Goodall – official legend – has primate expertise covered.

So what’s left? The jungle. I grew up in a house filled with books and plants, walking along the hallway would invariably involve getting poked in the eye with a spiky leaf, so I assumed there would be something in the genes that would make me green-fingered. Mum is great with plants so shouldn’t that pass down the generations?

Turns out: no. Over the years I’ve brought countless plants home and lovingly tended to them (on one memorable occasion even talking to one) but to no avail. All too soon the leaves wilt, drooping down in despair that they were the unlucky ones to end up in my house. On especially melancholy days I picture the scene in the garden centre as plants nudge one another and close their eyes in the hope that I won’t choose them. I’ve tried using less water, using more water, pretending I don’t care (as if the offending plant is a cat and I can tempt it to love me by feigning indifference), and pleading with them to stay alive.

Nothing works. But somehow one grew tall and strong and healthy and I would tip toe past, genuinely impressed, resisting the urge to reach out and stroke a leaf in case it recoiled at my touch. This outlier now resides with Auntie Anne (who selflessly stored all our stuff during the year out) and it is the happiest plant in all the land – it even sported tiny lights during the winter. 

So I have no greenery to speak of in the house, no seedlings waiting to hatch, and no gorillas either. But the garden is another story, it’s bursting into life right now with daffodils and primroses and tulips all showing their faces after a long winter. 

  • As yellow as the sun
  • The one that made it

The view from the shed is endlessly delightful. Birds taking a bath in an old tin container, bees bumbling in the wind, seagulls dive-bombing crows on neighbours’ rooftops. And look at those yellow flowers – maybe I’m an outdoor explorer after all?

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Yours Sincerely

I got three letters this week. Real, three-dimensional things, on paper and everything. It was thrilling. There amongst the bills and dull life admin were things worth opening and taking time over.

Letter-writing is something special – it’s a lost art and we’re the sadder without it. Pen pals aren’t really a thing anymore, we send emails or WhatsApp messages or texts. Of course, we could blame technology for taking over and making us set down our pens, but it seems likely that most lost arts are prone to neglect as the years pass by.

Also likely, I hope, is that the ebbs and flows of their fortune will soon bring them to our notice once more. Lockdown life has reminded us of small joys and the importance of taking time to reflect and think of others – all involved in the process of letter-writing. Sharing an epistle is joyful – for the sender and recipient alike.

And there’s lots to like. Snail mail, as the name suggests, is slow and thoughtful. Personal handwriting is intimate in a way that screen typing can never be. A letter can’t be deleted, instead, it can be treasured and wrapped up in a ribbon to peruse over and over again (I have hundreds of letters that Chris and I wrote to each other in the nineties when we were at different colleges, massively embarrassing to read now but also somehow meaningful and emotional). Even the walk to the postbox is an opportunity to get outside, listen to the birds, feel the wind in your hair. Then the wait to hear back which feels precious in our instant-gratification world. It’s a centuries-old tradition and tapping into it feels as if we’re following ancestral footsteps (even if it’s with a Bic biro rather than quill and ink).

I once spent well over two hours dipping one of those quill pens over and over in order to produce two small pages of a letter to my friend Gillian, the wax seal on the envelope finishing the job. I was Jane Austen for an afternoon – what could be better? The ink-stained hands were a trophy.

Those dripping wax seals. A scroll unfurled. Ink blotches on animal skin parchment. Japanese calligraphy. A crisp, empty sheet. Silver letter openers that slice pleasingly along the edge of an envelope. That moment of recognition when the date stamp or handwriting tells you about the author and what lies within.

Do something different today: pick up a pen, find a piece of paper, and see what happens. Loved ones out there are waiting for your letter – they just don’t know it yet.

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Books: a Love Letter

Dear Books,

What can I say? You’ve been by my side for as long as I can remember: from childhood fairytales to midlife learning; from university libraries to cosy Tuesday afternoons with a cup of tea and a cat on my lap. The world opened up thanks to you.

When life hurt you offered shelter under Ladybird wings, gifted Shakespeare to my confused teenage mind. I got out of hospital and you knew I needed cartoon comfort, leaving Calvin and Hobbes on my bed. Health fears and lockdowns had you rummaging around for something new to surprise me with – the poems of John O’Donohue.

When life was light you offered Thomas Hardy to share my university journey, dropping copies of anything by Neil Gaiman when I was ready to escape into other worlds. When laughter was required you reached out a hand to tickle my sides with Bill Bryson. Lately you seem to know that my mind needs to be expanded and I found a 500-page tome by Yuval Noah Harari on my desk.

Most of all, you’ve pushed The Great Gatsby into my hands at regular intervals to bring me home. Words heal, you taught me that. And I’ll always be grateful.

Happy World Book Day.

Love,

Susan

“She read books as one would breathe air, to fill up and live.” Annie Dillard

Watch a little video of the love letter – including pretty pictures
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It’s Raining, it’s Pouring

It rains in Ireland. It’s now been three days straight of non-stop rain, with flooding in places and all-round general soddenness. The emerald isle wouldn’t be so green without it I suppose, but a break from the grey would be welcome.

Most of us feel a bit down on these dark days – why does the weather affect our state of mind? Perhaps it’s linked with food production when it can be a matter of life and death and the success, or otherwise, of crops. Maybe the mind sends warnings when the sun disappears since the body needs Vitamin D. Or maybe we just hate having wet socks.

A group of American tourists enjoy Bergen’s summer weather

Not long ago I spent some time in Bergen in Western Norway and came to understand what was meant by the phrase ‘coming down in stair-rods’. The heavy, solid rain just did not stop. Apparently Bergen, known as the city of the seven mountains, is the wettest city in Europe.  And yet Norwegians, and Scandinavians in general, are among the happiest people on the planet and regularly top the happiness index. What’s going on?

Talk to anyone from any of these countries and they’ll simply shake their heads and wonder what the problem is with darkness and cold and rain. Danish hygge has had a bit of a moment in recent years as us Celts try to learn from our Viking neighbours: snuggle under blankets, light candles, bake cakes and most of all – get outside.

No matter the weather, wrap up warm, grab an umbrella and hat and gloves and just go out the door. It keeps our Nordic neighbours sane and we can do the same. This could also lead to an important mind shift as we prepare for the challenges of winter, seeing them as an opportunity to hibernate, rest, and appreciate simple pleasures like sipping hot chocolate while listening to the rain on the windows.

On these dark days, with continuing uncertainty and fear, I’m embracing my inner Viking and the Nordic way of life – I’m off now to jump in some puddles. See you out there!

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Home Sweet Home

Working from home once seemed like a distant dream. Imagine, I would think, I could go to meetings without getting stuck in traffic jams. I could write reports in pyjamas. Pyjamas!

Like most dreams, once it’s achieved – or more accurately once it’s foisted upon you – it falls rather flat. Zoom gatherings (pyjamas just on the bottom half naturally), driving nowhere at all (thus avoiding any traffic), and then a surprising arrival in the form of lack of purpose. Turns out maybe I did enjoy the external working life after all. There’s really nothing like getting back home after a long day. Traipsing down the stairs to sit on a different seat is somehow not quite the same.

“Home is the most important place in the world” says IKEA (who should know) and I tend to agree. It’s a place of safety, shelter, comfort and filled with people and things you love.

Or it should be. I’m haunted by reports during last year outlining the rise in domestic abuse incidents with adults and children at risk trapped in their house. These places are not a home. There are wonderful organisations and individuals working around the clock to do what they can in these dire circumstances and I’m glad they’re there. I feel helpless.

What I can do, apart from give donations when possible, is find gratitude in this little terraced house I now call home. Yes it’s damp (the hall wall is mostly dispersed plaster on the stair carpet), yes it can be noisy (that’s terraced living for you), yes it’s small (I can sit at the kitchen table and reach out to the cutlery drawer without getting up) but it’s home. It’s cosy with a fire and candles lit, it’s got dark Edwardian green walls, it’s got a huge picture of Paris (ah Paris), it contains things I love (millions of books mostly), pictures from travelling days (remember those?), and of course a warm relationship with a lovely husband. 

Being in lockdown with someone you love and respect, in a cute little house with an overgrown garden (and the all-important shed for writing and thinking) is a blessing. I am safe.

And if I find myself drifting from this gratitude I can simply click my red heels together (or my red DMs) and repeat with Dorothy: “there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”