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Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

We dream…

Blessed are the Tories, theirs is The United Kingdom.
Blessed are the Bankers, for theirs is a big fat bonus.
Blessed are the Rich, for theirs is no longer 50p in the Pound.
Blessed are the Super Rich, theirs is called tax avoidance.
Blessed are the Frontbenchers, there lies the problem.
Blessed are the Lords, for there will be no reforms.
Blessed are the Rockstars, they will have titles bestowed upon them.
Blessed are the Royals, theirs is the Civil List.
Blessed are the Media, for in their hands the truth lies.

By Felicity Fox

Horse_Glasgow

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In my hand he held my heart

My love
My love

In my hand he held my heart

Silently I was crying inside. But my son’s entourage was an unusually welcomed distraction, deflecting from the highly anticipated event, the first day of school.

No wonder my son looked slightly on edge, with so much build up. I think he was starting to believe that we were giving him to the Missions. It’s not like it’s the first time I’ve said goodbye, but for some reason, this one magnifies that this is the first of many to come.

We all know the stories, but when it’s your own story, it’s raw. And I felt alone.

Well, I would have if my over-the-top, noisy, Italian, and brash father-in-law had allowed me to lament in the moment. But no, he was a running commentator on the day’s event and how my emotions were stacking up. My mother was adding some realism, years of experience as a school teacher; my husband was nonchalant; my mother-in-law was reminded of her boy starting school, but was on a strict warning not to cry, so she looked like she’d sucked a few lemons, straining to hold it together. The circus ensued with the little brother pleading to join the big one. And after a few poses for Facebook, show’s over, and it’s time for school.

In his hand, he held my heart. And we walked on.

I was more nervous than he. Schools do that to you. He hardly spoke, but I knew he was assessing the situation. He does this. And all I wish, is that his teachers get to know him like I do. I haven’t totally lost my sense of reason, he’s still a five year old. I’d have thrown him through the doors when he was two, when the thought of Boarding School didn’t seem so bad, but not today. He is perfect and I won’t be told otherwise.

In my state of delusion, we made it through the grandparents, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and the flash photography. But I saw no one. So consumed by holding his hand and steering him through. There may have been tears and tantrums but we walked silently on.

My nerves grew. I wanted the transition to pass seamlessly. Because you see, I thought he was starting next week and today wasn’t the day for my son to realise that his mother’s still looking for the parenting handbook.

My fly by the seat of your pants approach suits me, but my son needs everything just so. I had to step up and make him as proud of me as I am of him. Ok I got off to a bumpy start, wrong class. Though, I was sure it was that one. The relief when I found his peg and hung up his jacket. If I could have ripped the thing off the wall, I think I would have. I was raw.

Never have I felt so happy yet so sad.

P&RBut there were no tears. I wouldn’t do that to him, I had the rest of the afternoon after all.

And as I’d expected he turned and I let him go. To make new friends, have good days and bad days, dreams and disappointments, and to start making stories of his own.

When I’m not there

It’s not the badge that you wear,
Nor the scroll that you hold,
It’s calling him a star,
It’s who you are.
It’s the time that you give,
The love that you bring,
The heart that you show,
The pain that you hide.
It’s every day that you’re there,
It’s his eyes at your name,
It’s the void that you fill,
When I’m not there.

Thank you.

By Felicity Fox

20120702-222247.jpg

Felicity Fox 9-5

9-5=mortgage
As I boarded the train today with a neighbour and colleague, another 9-5 in front of me. Black shoes, black dress, brown bag, I know next month? All adding up to a mortgage and after school care and lots of todos. Talking about some work things, some moaning things, texting, liking; it’s not rude, it’s work, and I drifted in and out of the conversation, mind elsewhere, really anywhere. Stepping off, my companions started to sprint. It’s the morning and I’m still coming to. Had I not been listening when we decided to race? Love races, any kind really, or lets just have a chase, in Central with my equally trapped companions. It’s not just me. There really wasn’t time for thoughts. We are racing down the platform. It’s 8:30 and its a full blown mummy and daddy sports day race. Those two sneaks, but I can still take them. Swinging my bag as a weapon, I began taking bodies, leaping, cutting inside a few suits in a sea of badly cut cloth, swiping a few and running pretty close to the inside on platform 7. The barriers are always a stumbling block but I chose well and I was first, turning in triumph to parade my victory. The neighbours were nowhere to be seen, surely they couldn’t have beaten me. I was practically pushing people on the track, they couldn’t have. Nowhere to be seen, as they were queued in a long line of passengers without a ticket for the new non-workable barriers. So, there wasn’t a race. And we’re going exactly where we were going before, to work, for 8 hours. To pay for the football lessons, the swimming lessons, the shoes, the parties, the presents for the parties, racing to answer the cc’d email that’s blatantly telling on me, and in eight hours I will be racing to make the train to take the wee fella to the football classes I’ve worked to pay for, but there will be no platform races today or any other as I joined the rat race…

Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

Beatitudes by Felicity Fox

Blessed are the Tories, theirs is The United Kingdom.
Blessed are the Bankers, for theirs is a big fat bonus.
Blessed are the Rich, for theirs is no longer 50p in the Pound.
Blessed are the Super Rich, theirs is called tax avoidance.
Blessed are the Frontbenchers, there lies the problem.
Blessed are the Lords, for there will be no reforms.
Blessed are the Rockstars, they will have titles bestowed upon them.
Blessed are the Royals, theirs is the Civil List.
Blessed are the Media, for in their hands the truth lies.

By Felicity Fox

20120718-183104.jpg

Marks on the Wall by Felicity Fox

Marks on the Wall

She’s a Million miles away,

Destruction and beauty captured.

Art and frustration as raw as the burnt ground.

No one’s taking note,

No one’s listening.

Fenced in, she leaves her mark on the wall where others have been.

Void from any use, in this World.

Apart from the sketches, where will she leave her mark?

Kicking the sand, she knows she’s alone.

Caving in, she walks on.

Original musings by Felicity Fox

When I’m not There by Felicity Fox

 
Glasgow Boys by Felicity Fox ©
Glasgow Boys by Felicity Fox ©
Captured in the doorway of a Glasgow building in the City Centre
It’s not the badge that you wear,
Nor the scroll that you hold,
It’s calling him a star,
It’s who you are.
It’s the time that you give,
The love that you bring,
The heart that you show,
The pain that you hide.
It’s every day that you’re there,
It’s his eyes at your name,
It’s the void that you fill,
When I’m not there.
Thank you.

© Felicity Fox