Wash, rinse, spin - the correct link

Oops.

The link in the last post didn't work. I had a brief moment of encouraging you to read my (not-quite-award-winning) story without actually being able to link you to it. I shall add it to my long list of items that are contributing to my astonishing learning curve when it comes to computers/the internet/blogging/social media/anything technological.

Here it is again: Wash, rinse, spin. Do leave a comment ... about the story, please, rather than about my technical incompetence: the repeated failures there go without saying!

Marital incompatibility

I am reading Island of Wings by Karin Altenberg at the moment. It is the tale of a woman who goes with her husband (a Scottish presbyterian minister) to live in St Kilda's, Britain's most remote island. Set in the 1830s it tells a tale of primitive living in a bleak place. In contrast, my husband is reading Spud - Learning to Fly by John van de Ruit, the third book in the Spud series. It was my Valentine's gift to him: given we both loved the first two books it was a fairly safe bet.

The other evening we were lying in bed reading our respective novels. I was contemplating what life must have been like for this poor woman, on a cold bleak island in the middle of nowhere (quite literally). What would it look like: the crags, the scrubby grassland, the lack of trees?

*chortle, chortle*
My husband is enjoying his book.

I return to the isolation of the minister's wife. She can't speak a word of Gaelic. Why doesn't her husband try to teach her a few simple words to let her communicate with the natives? Surely she would be more content if she had others to talk to; someone other than her husband, who is solely focussed on his mission to save the islanders' souls?

*chuckle, laugh*
I give my husband a look. He straightens his face and returns to reading.

My heroine is pregnant... and now she chooses to go for a walk up the hill. Her husband doesn't think this is safe. Can he be right? I read on, anticipating the worst. She slips, she falls, she...

*raucous guffaw*
The bed shakes with my husband's laughter. "Sorry," he says, but can't hold the laughter in as he returns to his book.

For me, I read of inevitable loss, of the husband taking control in a tragic situation, of him naming and disposing of the baby before she wakes up. I read of the woman's meek submission to her husband's will.

*more laughter*

I give up reading. Sometimes you have to recognise you aren't going to win.

(I'll let you know how good the book is if I am ever given the space to finish it!)

The hunter and the hunted

As we sit down for tea, I ask my daughter what she has been doing at school.

"A story," she says, "about a hunter."

"Oh! What's it called?"

"The Hunter."

Given my daughter's poor comprehension skills I am surprisingly delighted by this response! She struggles to recall stories and tales with any accuracy, and open-ended questions are a virtually a no-go area.

"So, tell me about The Hunter. What happens in the story?"

"Well - " She screws up her face trying to think. An open-ended question: almost impossible to answer. I prompt her again.

"Who is in the story? What are the characters?"

Her face lights up. She can do this. "A hunter." I'd guessed that! "A girl and an elephant - a baby elephant."

"Oooh. What happens to them?"

"The hunter kills the girl and the elephant. Shoots them." This with dramatic demonstration.

"Really? The hunter shoots the girl and the elephant?"

"Yes."

She is adamant and won't be dissuaded. The hunter kills the girl and the elephant. I can't quite believe that school are reading this to 8-year-olds, and there doesn't seem to be much plot line behind her retelling of the story. I'm highly suspicious.

"And is that it?"

"Yes."

"The end of the story?"

"Yes."

There is no movement in her tale and she doesn't seem at all upset. I leave it, but speaking to the teacher subsequently I learn a different story. The hunter kills the elephant's mother (shades of Bambi here, I suspect!) and the girl and the elephant run away to escape the hunter. A much more likely story, spread over a week of readings and class exercises.

It is just another demonstration of how she struggles to grasp the facts of a story told to her - and, of course, any other facts (such as the teacher telling them to sit down and do some sums, or make an aeroplane, or whatever is next). Because of this, she falls behind in class.

Yet, given the menu at Sunday lunch, she can read words like 'sizzling' without batting an eyelid. Reading good, spelling good, comprehension negligible.

I shall enjoy the memory of the dead girl and elephant for what it demonstrates about my daughter. And I'll continue to enjoy her story-telling because she is trying and she is caught up by the magic of the tale, even when wildly wrong.

Words on Wednesday

I know

For a Monday lunchtime the café was busy, humming with conversation. Joan sat awkwardly, uncertain what she should say.

Ted nudged the salt across the table. “I know you can’t take your potatoes without it,” he said with a smile, chocolate-brown eyes melting her hardened spirit.

She gave a false smile, took a deep breath and consciously relaxed her shoulders. Oblivious to her discomfort, he chatted on, recounting stories from work and joking about his foolish colleagues. She stared at her plate, pushing the peas around aimlessly.

He paused for breath, and in that moment the room seemed to fall silent. “I do love you, Joan,” he said tenderly.

She looked up at him sharply. “I know,” she said.

Beside them, the waitress noisily stacked bowls, plates crashing, cutlery clanging, a fork unexpectedly falling to the floor.

Joan sighed. “I know,” she repeated softly.

Reaching down to pick up the fork she caught the waitress’s eye. They stopped mid-movement, staring at each other. And then she knew.

She knew she had to end the relationship.

This was written in 20 minutes as an exercise, based on the picture 'New York Restaurant' by Edward Hopper, c 1922. 

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:New_york_restaurant_by_edward_hopper.jpg