One night a little boy was woken up. It was a dark night. His Mummy and Daddy were dead, so he crept out and escaped.

Chapter 2

It was darker than ever. The little boy was scared!

The end.

Copyright Rowena H.

This was the second story I penned. See how I’ve advanced into chapters, and have already mastered the art of the cliff hanger! It’s a pretty terrifying story, for a 4-5 year old…

**Edit**

Apparently it wasn’t all that clear when I posted this, so to clarify – I wrote this *when*  I was aged 4/5!

When I was rather young, young enough to even mis-spell my name, I was evidently given a book to scrawl in and decided to label it, ‘Roenas Diary’. On the cover I have drawn a picture of what I believe was my sister Naomi, standing in the kitchen door with both arms out, holding on to the door jamb either side. I believe it was a life drawing, though I doubt she was posing for long, given the quality of the image.

Anyhow. The very first short story I ever wrote was penned here – a first draft if I recall – and it reads thus:

The Cat and the Horse.

One day the cat said to the horse, “Let’s have a race.” Cat ran. Horse ran too. They both ran. Then, with a crash and a boom, horse won. He gave a big bow. Cat said, “You did win.”

By Rowena H.

I’ve taken the liberty of punctuating the story, since I wasn’t quite so advanced, but I think it’s an excellent first piece of creative writing. I’m pretty sure it was about humility and acceptance, about being the better person and not being a sore loser. Rising above loss in the spirit of competition to congratulate the deserved winner. (Turns out I can be quite the sore loser, at times.) It was a life lesson I was already striving to learn!

Another fantastic point, and there’s a recurring theme within the diary, is that I felt the need to copyright everything I wrote therein. Of course, that copyright still stands – don’t think you can go stealing this masterpiece…

More exciting installments to come!

I came to learn with each excursion that the tour guides didn’t merely explain the sights we were to see, they were deeply involved in the history and culture of Iceland, offering us conversation about the land we’d visited as the journies took place. It was wonderful, not only as each destination is between 40-100 minutes away (sometimes more), but because they weren’t simply reeling off a script. The guides are passionate about the country and keen to talk politics and culture. Vidar himself is an Icelander, but all our guides – no matter what their nationality was – were as fervent as each other.

Vidar told us about many things as we powered through the snow, which was thick and fast at that time, explaining that in Iceland surnames are not passed on as in most Western culture – the men become their father’s son – and so his son would be Vidarsson, and so on. The women do not change names when they are married either, which feels so wonderfully progressive. (I didn’t get to find out how their surnames are given/taken.) Vidar also told us about religion in Iceland; back in time Iceland was having trouble trading with the other countries nearby as they weren’t Christian and so built a number of churches all over the land, adopting the faith in around 999, in order to trade. Even now, despite the vast number of churches dotted about the country, although they are officially a Christian country hardly any folk are committed Christians, visiting the churches mostly at Christmas – where they often get reprimanded by the pastors for not coming more often!

Vidar also told us about their Yule Lads, and we discussed the recent banking crisis and also Iceland’s situation regarding joining the EU. From what I could glean, at present Iceland has restricted trade exports to the EU as they are not a part of it, however joining would mean they would have to import goods from other EU countries – given that Iceland’s farmers produce more than the country needs it would be senseless for them to import meat and dairy, as they can already more than sustain themselves. Of course, it’s more complex than that. Their exports are largely related to the fishing industry, and most anti-EU MPs are concerned about their control over the natural resources being lost should they join – the fishing industry (inland, at least) is hugely controlled to stop over-fishing, and apparently only celebrities can afford the humungous fee required for a fishing trip. It’s likely though, that Iceland will be energy -independent by 2050, since over 80% of their energy comes from natural sources (geothermal, etc.) with the remainder being fuel for transport and fishing.

Our first stop was Thingvellir National Park, the very site in which, arguably, the first democratic parliament was held. The Althing general assembly was established around 930 and the meetings, to discuss political matters, continued here until 1798. Although on this day we could barely see a thing through the heavy fog and snow, we were told the site was chosen due to the fantastic natural acoustics – the politicians could discuss matters and be heard across the valley, so regular folk could keep abreast of what was going on. Here is where we discovered that the country is not only the youngest, in terms of their people, but the youngest geologically. Thingvellir is a spectacle, not simply because of the human history surrounding it, but it lies on a geological rift which is slowly tearing apart 2cm every year. The country is effectively part North-American tectonic plate and part Eurasian tectonic plate, and they are separating.

We picked up some lunch after Thingvellir and stopped for a coffee in a small garage, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Vidar picked up a thick block of Icelandic cheese, which Mum partook of, and I grabbed a coffee and a cigarette outside. It was literally an oasis of life in a long stretch of snowy road, surrounded by fields – some lava fields, many with grazing Icelandic Horses. We learned that these horses are something of a sui generis, and not merely for their miniature stature. (Don’t ever refer to them as ponies in front of an Icelander, they won’t be best pleased.) They have a unique gait, and being isolated over the years of breeding, means that there are no other horses like them across the globe. They were specially bred for their stamina, for they can travel miles across such changeable terrain, at speed and run in a very individual way; their fifth gait – the tölt – means that they can run at speed using the left legs then the right, effectively. (It’s the same as the walk, left hind, left front, right hind, right front, only much faster.) They also stay outdoors all winter, warmed by thick coats. My only regret is that we didn’t get to ride one!

On our way to the next destination we paused briefly on our journey, partly for a small break, but also because Vidar is a keen ice climber and so wanted to quickly check out some of the climbing opportunities. We’d driven around what seemed to be a huge and long lake, although this was the edge of the Atlantic Ocean, and stopped just by a huge cairn – most of these being landmarks so you don’t get lost. Traditionally, each time you pass one you’re to add another rock to the cairn so that they grow and grow, a habit I picked up where I could. Vidar told us that nearby, which we were to pass, was a recently vacated area where the American army had a small base with ships and submarines. This is where they set up during the second world war, I believe. After a few photo opportunities, and a few laughs with the American girls, it was time to set off once again.

We came to discover that Iceland has no army, although their police force includes a specially trained unit, who can carry guns. They also have a huge unit of people who are special mountain rescuers, many of whom include the tour guides who lead the glacier walks and other hikes, and even those retired from the list leave their contact details for instances of national emergency. This must go toward explaining how good the welfare seemed to be in Iceland, given that the income tax rate is roughly 22% across the board, as there’s nothing going toward an expensive army. I asked Vidar about the homeless, as I’d not seen anyone begging in the streets, and he simply said that the welfare system looks after them very well, with hostels set up for those without shelter. (As I understand it.) Another striking thing was the lack of pollution and violence – I didn’t see a single fight break out, in spite of the Icelanders’ love of a good session, and only once did I spot some discarded rubbish in the streets. And that was a few beer cans, which could have easily been from British tourists. Although, that’s a total guess. Also, only once did I see a police car, and they appeared to be nonchalantly making their way through Reykjavik.

After this we headed out to Barnafoss, one of Iceland’s magnificent waterfalls. Apparently, the waterfall is named thus because, years ago, there was a naturally formed stone bridge that crossed it. A lady came home one day to find her children had not returned home and so, asked around, only to find that they’d been spotted near the waterfall.

On approaching the stone bridge she found that part of it had collapsed and her children were nowhere to be found. She destroyed the remainder of the bridge so that no one else should suffer this plight. (Barna = children [or pregnancy, I think.], Foss = waterfall.) It was a fantastic sight, even through the heavy snow, and so strikingly blue in places. There was a cove, where the water had carved its path, so awash with movement, fury and foam that it was almost terrifying to focus on – my recurring thought was how futile it would be to try and survive should one fall in at that point.

Although the tour we were on should have included visits to geysirs and a glacier, the weather was simply not permitting. At this point it hadn’t stopped snowing all day, and in some parts it was at least three feet deep, so Vidar decided to see if we couldn’t manoeuvre the jeep across some of the roads to the lava caves. Although we’d missed out on some aspects of the tour, the rough ride and thick snow more than made up for it as we traversed the treacherous roads to the caves. At points the wheels simply span in the snow, and we had to keep a keen eye on the road markers, lest we got into some real trouble off the path. Vidar, who by now appeared to us as some kind of Icelandic He-Man. He was constantly nipping outside in a single layer, sans gloves and hat, and – in spite of being what we guessed to be about 45-50 – he was the fittest man I’ve ever known.

A true adventurer, and a wonderful conversationalist, even admitting to us that he must be crazy to do ice climbing – I believe his words were something along the lines of, “I don’t even know why I do it, it’s horrible! Even when I’m up there and it’s dangerous, I think to myself why am I doing this, this is awful!” Anyway, on a particularly tricky incline we almost got beat. Vidar lowered the tyre pressure to .1 (or something, the lowest possible in any case) and made several reverses to clear a path. Forwards, bounce up! Swing back down. Back again. Forwards, bounce up! Swing back down. Back again. And after four goes, we suddenly broke the barrier and made it up and over the hill, which was about a metre incline. The snow was that thick. We were delighted, it was amazing.

My Mum was vaguely concerned with the attempts, reminding me that Vidar had mentioned whilst re-telling a story earlier, that if he was ever nervous about something we’d not know it as his fears wouldn’t show, but I was just overjoyed to see more of Iceland. The story he told, in any case, was about a two day hike he’d been on with two Spanish tourists and they’d been trapped in a snow storm. He was genuinely worried, as should any of them panicked and tried to flee that would have been the end of them, but fortunately they were most sanguine and trusting of him and his guide friend, and so they made it through the night by remaining in their tents whilst the storm passed. Incidentally, whilst I remember, Vidar is also a friend of Simon Yates and made a film with him called Ama Dablam. I intend on seeing it sometime, but you should too.

Anyway, we’d finally made it to the lava caves. With signs up declaring certain paths ‘impassable’ the danger of the natural world felt clear at this moment – with so much snow, there was a chance we’d not be able to drive out. As we approached the mouth of the cave a tiny wave of fear hit me. It was almost a sheer drop, the opening being barely three people wide. I asked Vidar if he was certain that we’d all be able to climb back out, and he said, “I don’t know, maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we spend the night in the caves!” There was a delightful glint in his eye, but he knew how to shake things up and make them a little more exciting. The very fact that he’d said so made me go into Frodo-mode, and I felt we were all entering some ancient Helm’s Deep. Only on a much smaller scale.

After Schmidtt and Vidar had descended, I came next and chose to slide on the snow rather than crawl downward. It set a trend, it being easier for the rest of the party to shoot down, and we all made it into the caves in one piece. The ceiling from there on in became very low, and although none of us were too claustraphobic, once it receded upward again I breathed a sigh of relief. Crawling through we’d occasionally knock ice stalactites onto the floor, which echoed like broken slithers of glass throughout the cave. They were truly beautiful, and I did my best to photograph what I could. The entire caves had formed from lava and volcanic rock, I believe they’re more lava tubes – formed when low viscosity lava channels through under the ground and forms a crust, which thickens to create a ceiling. (Although, for these particular caves, I couldn’t tell you precisely how they formed – I’d not really much of an idea exactly where we were in Iceland at the time!)

We reached a large open space and took a minute to sit and turn off our torches, to take in the true darkness. There being absolutely no natural light, it couldn’t get much darker, and we tested our eyes to see if we could see our hands in front of our faces. It was remarkable; despite the fact that there was no light, and so you simply couldn’t see your hand, I almost felt as though I could see it as my brain knew it was there. It was as if my eyes were creating the form of my hand in blackness, like a shadow hand, as they knew it was there even though there was no light to reflect its presence. Vidar then told us a little about the elves, of which there are many stories in Iceland, and then an old ghost tale about the caves. Once there was a woman who had gotten pregnant, and for reasons along the lines of – the baby was illegitimate, or she couldn’t care for it – she wrapped it up in special cloth and took it to the lava caves to leave it there. Apparently even now if you listen carefully you can hear the sounds of children crying, coming from the caves. Of course, the crying is usually the wind, although historically women did leave children in the caves were they not able to look after them.

After a little more exploration we started heading back and Vidar decided to take us via a new exit. He did a test to see if we had our bearings, which I utterly failed, and we came to a slightly less (although still rather steep, and much narrower) hole to the surface. I made fast work of the climb, hoping to make up for my shameful lack of directional navigation, and swiftly made it to the top in a surge of victory. Soon enough we were all ready to head back to the vehicle and journey home. It was a magnificent day, and one I shall remember for a long time to come.

We grabbed a bite and a beer, but swiftly retired after such an excursion, keen for the next trip out.

If you wish to see the full story, in pictures, here’s the set:

Thingvellir, Barnafoss and Lava Caves.

We ambled in the direction of the water, with mountains clear in the distance, and came across this curious and beautiful piece of architecture. Navigating across the roads initially seemed a challenge, but soon we realised (for the most part) that in this country cars actually stop for pedestrians. It almost became embarrassing as we were never quite sure footed, occasionally needing to reverse our direction, but nevertheless the drivers all patiently seem to slow and wait for you to cross before continuing on – especially in the inner more pedestrianised areas. It was another lovely aspect that we soon grew fond of, and worlds away from the righteous grumpy vehicle owners back home. Stop, mid flow, in the UK, for some pedestrians? Pah! They’d sooner burst your ear drums with their obnoxious horns. (Well, a lot of them would.)

So, the curious beautiful building. It’s pretty much brand new, as we discovered on entering. We stood in awe of it for a small amount of time, wandered to the waterfront for more photo opportunities, and then re-approached the majesty of the prismatic structure to investigate – could we get a coffee inside this spectacle? Yes, we could. Because, it’s the Harpa Concert Hall – a huge concert hall with conferencing facilities, exhibitions, a full and varied programme of the arts, a café and  restaurant. As far as I can glean, Harpa means “harp”, which of course makes sense. By day it reflects the sunlight with its beautiful glass design, and by night it flashes many colours, like a light show, a beacon of artistry across the horizon. (If you’re in the right place to see it.) The ceiling inside is visually stunning, an Escher-esque vision, where wall and roof and shadow make infinite patterns.

We stopped for a latte and had a bit of fun trying to find the toilets, managing to both get a little lost before moving on. There were intermittent clusters of people who came to the cafe, some seemingly important and appeared to be meeting to discuss the arts, and others tourists like ourselves. We did have a lovely group of German folk approach us to ask us questions for a survey they were doing about Reykjavik and the arts, although I couldn’t say how useful we were – we’d been there barely a day so couldn’t answer much of what they were asking. Even so it was lovely to be treated as if we were locals, I assume we had dressed the part.

After a coffee, and many photographs later, we wandered back down into town having planned to visit a few of the museums and galleries. The first stop after our waterfront jaunt was the Reykjavik Art Museum. We took a long time soaking in all the artwork, which was wonderfully varied, with two gorgeous installations and a host of collections as well.  One of the installations, which I’ve sadly forgotten the name of, contained what appeared to be the bow of a ship lit in orange, with projections of the seafront on some of the doors, and the sounds of someone running (timed as if beat driven) in the background. It was pretty fantastic, and although I doubt I drew from it what the artist intended, I loved the soundscape. And feeling like I was under a great ship.

We wandered up to the other gallery spaces and took in a hugely varied amount of artwork, from the Erró exhibition, Kjarval – Key Works, From Sketch to Sculpture – Drawings by Ásmunder Sveinsson, Björk Viggósdóttir – Kite and more. As far as art galleries go, it was a fantastic space and certainly kept our minds ticking. Reykjavik is the world’s most northern capital, and it’s certainly a magical place. With a population of only 120 000 it’s remarkable how much there is to see, how much culture and beauty can be found there.

The art isn’t merely contained within the museums, it’s all about the place. We could barely walk five minutes without discovering another sculpture. They had projections on the walls of seemingly random shops throughout December as part of a ‘Santa hunt’, since they’ve a number of Santa characters as opposed to our one jolly Father Christmas, dubbed the ‘Yule Lads‘. It was like Light Night every night. These Yule Lads are somewhat darker characters than our Santa, and work for their Mother Gryla, who has an insatiable appetite for naughty children and comes to seek them out come Christmas time. She lives with her husband Leppaludi and the Yule Cat, who is also a bit of a nasty chap. Some choice characters include Candle Beggar, who follows children to steal their candlesticks, Door Slammer, who slams doors during the night, Sheep-cote Clod, who harrasses people’s sheep but is troubled by his stiff peg-legs and Door-Sniffer, who has an abnormally large nose.

After finishing up at the art museum we took a wander around town, stopping at the odd sculpture, marvelling at the odd building and made our way down to the pond. (Which is a little grander than it sounds.) It was completely frozen over, and usually folks skate on it, but at the time it was covered with snow rendering that impossible. It didn’t stop people from having plenty of fun on the frozen surface though. This is also where you can visit the geese and ducks, who are incredibly tame, and feed them bread if you wish. We came back to feed them shortly before leaving Reykjavik, and it was a rather hilarious experience. They all flock over, making an incredible racket, and once we’d finished feeding them our croissant scraps Mum decided to pick up an entire frozen crust to throw for them. Of course, it was too big for one mouth and so the lucky/unlucky goose who caught it ended up in a furore of feathers and beaks trying to devour it to himself. Much giggling ensued.

We then made our way to The Settlement, Reykjavik 871±2, which is a fantastic place to learn about the history of Iceland. As we learned on our tours, Iceland is one of (if not the) youngest countries both as a civilisation as well as geologically. The earliest settlers are roughly dated at around 872, although folks did stay over during winters before that, and there are stories of a slave having escaped and settled in the south some years before this – but that’s not official. The Settlement is an excavation of one of the first houses in Reykjavik and reveals much about how the early settlers lived and interacted. The main space is a huge hall and you can see the original structure right in front of you, as well as many interactive displays. The hall was inhabited from around 930-1000, and the significance of this excavation comes from the remnants of a wall, dating back to before 872, which can be dated as such given the eruption of Torfajökull, which spread tefra across the region and can be dated via glacial ice in Greenland. It’s the oldest evidence of human habitation in Iceland.

After such a long day we left our explorations there, grabbed some food, and prepared to head out in search of the Northern Lights. We booked this tour with GTI, a smaller newer company, who apparently will let you try another night for free should there be no Aurora on your tour. The chap driving us was called Ronald, I think, and he was lovely. We drove about an hour out of Reykjavik to find a quiet and light starved spot, with the orange hue of the city in the distance, and nothing else but mountain and snow. Sure enough, bang on time, the lights came out and we all piled out of the van to view the spectacle. In spite of the -18 degree weather I was enraptured by the vision of green dancing above the horizon into the sky. After a few attempts at photographing the lights with flashes on mini cameras, folk eventually stopped taking photos as they realised that the approach wasn’t going to work. I was working with a 30 second exposure, a coffee cup, mini tripod (thanks to a lovely Australian chap) and lots of lying down fully on the ground, in the snow to get a shot! The news seemed to spread and so a few people passed on their emails for copies (I will email those later today) and I managed to get an initial set of wonderful green solar activity.

They began to die down after about an hour and, in between many breaks to warm up my digits in the van, our party seemed ready to depart back to the warmth of the city. Then, a mere 10 minutes later, a second light show began so we made another stop. This second set, the encore if you like, was back with a vengeance – at one point glowing and stirring so fast and so bright that you could see them glittering in motion across the sky, almost in fast forward, as opposed to gently changing shape as clouds do. As if alight like a distant flame of mercury, they merged a bright yellow in one small spot lower to the horizon, but never quite became the incredible red shade I’ve heard can occur on a really good night.

We’d been in the country but a day and already I had fallen utterly in love.

For the full story, in pictures, see these collections:

Reykjavik

Art Museum

Aurora Borealis

I’m nervous. If I sit very very very still, I can feel it. It’s like I’m about to let go of something I’d been saving, something precious, for a long time. The fact is, that was taken some time ago. But I wasn’t aware of that at the time.

***

I went on holiday to Iceland, not so far away as to be dramtatic, but I needed new landscape. That’s a partial lie. I’d been dreaming of Iceland for sometime; I craved the snow and the rock, and if I close my eyes I’m still there – scaling mountains, breathing crisp air, bathing in warm waters and watching the aurora gild the sky. Here’s our story. (I took my Mother.)

On arrival, flying through the snow and cold, we were welcomed       immediately by this lovely message. It’s a little warmer than the Heathrow efforts, in spite of the actual weather, and instantly made us feel invited into the folds of the country. Customs was actually a pleasant experience – in this country they smile as they check your passports and bid you a pleasant stay. Sadly the same can’t be said of other countries I’ve visited.

Mum’s giddiness at the adventure became instantly evident on arrival; she’d  bought a hat with amusing tassles and burst into fits of laughter as soon as we were ready to grab a taxi into town.

As soon as we got into the cab we discovered how lovely the folk are in this country. Our taxi driver was all too happy to tell us all about the culture, his main critique being that Icelanders love to shop a bit too much, even if they need for nothing they still insist on spending. I couldn’t say that I noticed, but that was his opinion. Especially in December, apparently. The journey from Keflavik was a fairly lengthy one, over an hour, but you can always book to go via the Blue Lagoon if you wish. After bidding our driver fair well we walked into the hotel, Centerhotel Thingholt, and felt instantly delighted that we’d chosen to stay there. It’s practically on top of the main shopping street, with plenty of bars and shops two minutes from the front door, and the staff were absolutely lovely. In particular we were enamoured of their quirky lampshade, which for some reason felt reminiscent of Shelob’s lair, although it didn’t feel sinister.

 That evening, after plenty of delighting in the little things that came with the room (Mum’s not been travelling in a while) we decided to venture out and grab something to satiate our growing hunger. Having no obvious review website of choice we were left to fend for ourselves with a little nudge from the guide books Mum had stocked up on. We opted for an Italian place that seemed to be a stone’s throw from our hotel, and still managed to get lost. It was my fault, really – I’d orientated the map upside down, somehow, and so we walked left out of the hotel instead of right. Even so, it made for an enjoyable circuit before we dined, and once on course found our destination with ease. And the food was delicious – pesto came with my bolognaise. It was delicious.

After that we went in search of a drink, and being so indecisive, ended up opting for the one venue which sounded like it had some life to it. I mean, it sounded like it was full of rowdy young lads, but we were heading in regardless. We purchased some drinks, sat down at an empty table, and marvelled at how friendly the folk were in Iceland – my friend had said that everyone seems to know each other in Iceland and this became evident. All around us lads were greeting each other, hugging, and it felt as though the entire bar knew each other – what a place! Shortly after we’d started our beers, a camera man arrived and began to take photographs of everyone in the bar. This was unusual – was this par for the course here in Reykjavik? Was the bar getting promo pictures? No. Moments later, one of the group made an announcement to the bar, the entirety of which gathered around our table to hear this chap’s speech.

Yes. We’d been in the city less than 12 hours and we’d already gatecrashed a party.

Turns out it was some fellow’s work do, and he’d been promoted or something, and the reason the entire bar knew each other was that we had wandered in to a private office party! No one seemed to mind too much, and apart from a few raised eyebrows (and no doubt some confusion come the next working day when they reviewed their pictures and questioned who the hell those two random women were) we were able to hide our heads, finish our beers and get out.

It was a pretty good start to the holiday…

***

I don’t think that the dreams are prophecies. I think that people can be in tune with themselves and others, more than one could realise, but not in some mystical fashion. Perhaps that is me rationalising. I don’t believe in many things, superstitious or religious. But I do dream and I do allow my mind to wander. I am a dreamer and I am a romantic. (I don’t mean flowers and chocolates.)

I dreamed that I was rummaging desperately through my hair, which was almost vibrantly ginger red, fervently searching. I found it. One thick, wiry, long grey hair. Grey makes it sound dull, it was not. It was silver and stark. I plucked it out and held it tightly between my finger and thumb, grasping it and eyeing it closely. I woke up, and instinctively pulled up my hand, to find finger and thumb in a tense grip. I looked for the hair, but I had failed to pull it from my dream.

I even looked on the mattress, before fully wakening, in vain.

A friend forwarded the above opionion (in the form of a huge rant from someone she knew, regarding taking the right to vote from those who are ‘thick’ to use it wisely) from an email she’d received. And I had to respond. I have left out their words, and name, since it would be unfair to publish that. However, my thoughts were (and are) as follows:

*** certainly has some strong opinion there. I can’t help but feel it’s hugely important to point out though, that if you simply replaced the word ‘thickos’ for ‘Asians/women/blacks’ and you’d have a sure-fire case for discrimination. And some very unsympathetic and righteous discrimination of the less academic at that! The thing is that as much as it pains me to think that people who are less well read can have  as much a say in the running of this country, via the vote, to start dictating  privileges such as that would be an absolute indecency of human rights. The better approach would be to understand why people such as those described feel disinclined to vote/vote based on such a superficial basis – they are certainly not encouraged by the press to judge people on anything other than appearance, the spoon-fed analysis of the papers propagates the situation as much as it does ‘dumb it down’ for people, and where does the learning about political parties take place? Not in school, and certainly not without bias if the odd MP does visit schools.

Ignorance isn’t bliss, it is control – the apathy *** has mentioned here isn’t something for which we should seek to punish, it is something we should seek to understand and rehabilitate as it is this exact apathy that keeps the government so in control over our lives as it is. Apathy has allowed the expenses claims scandals to become what they have , for example. And it’s that kind of ‘head hunting’ attitude that I feel has only been encouraged by our media and political system – so quick to criticise and tear people apart but rarely seeking to understand and change the root of the problem. I think the last thing this country needs is active encouragement to feel less of unity and more of divide. Sincerely - that’s where parties like the BNP take their memento! All three parties are seeking compromise as we speak, albeit in the name of their own political longevity, and all I can hear is how impatient people are to find out/decide whose heads will roll. Not to mention how volatile the markets are when such a thing as compromise has taken over. Oh no, what we need now is some more machismo, some more ridiculous displays of power, some more recklessness? When will patience, empathy and understanding be given it’s precedence? Oh, I’m sorry – there’s a massive patriarchal erection in the way. A sword fight if you will. (Yes, I did just blurt that out on the keyboard.)

My remedy for the ‘thickos’ that have not been encouraged to vote wisely would be to change the way that education works, to ensure that everyone gets a knowledgeable start – and then a person’s choice of apathy/vote can be fully informed and of their own choosing. People did fight and die for suffrage, and were my own life in question I think I would take that a hell of a lot more seriously, since *literally*, where people have no vote, they have no opinion and therefore no voice and no recognition of existence. Don’t forget that the process of dehumanisation, to strip people of their rights (i.e. tell them that as a result of some test - of which I can’t imagine who would deem themselves irreproachable enough to compose - that they do not deserve the vote) and treat them as lesser beings, is a well known and well documented process of torture and discrimination! The logistics of how one might come to that conclusion, that they were in fact the person/committee to decide who may or may not be granted the vote, would lead me to infer that they themselves were somewhat unstable/delusional.

As for comparing something practical, which has obvious dangers (such as death), to something meant to be unbiased and pertaining to a free society, well that is just silly. The ethical debate over the study, and indeed judgement, of intelligence is not only far from conclusive, it is massively sensitive also. To try and set a bar at which someone passes an intelligence test is a ridiculous notion, even a basic A-Level psychology student understands that. For a start the intelligence tests that are in existence are hugely flawed by western bias and gender bias – we don’t even have a conclusive definition of what it is, certainly not one that takes into account all manner of people. Secondly the massive implications intelligence tests have, most especially in relation to ethnicity (which is inextricably linked to money and location), would almost certainly lead to a hugely prejudiced outcome – i.e. second generation ethnic minorities who have less of an established income to the white majority have less means to better education, leading to affected grades and so on. You can imagine the divide that might be cause and the unjust nature of that kind of dictat.

Everyone deserves democracy. Democracy *is* precious. We are truly lucky to have managed it for everyone in the UK – there are plenty of 3rd world countries who would vouch for that. That is why *every human* should have a right to it.

Anyway. That was my penneth. If you got through it, well done. The steam’s just about done from my ears and fingers and I thank you for sharing the moment. More discussion, less oppression. And such like.

x

**Warning. This idea may fall flat on it’s face. It may even be more flawed than the photography version.**

Today’s effort:

The agrestic constituents of Leeds North West troubled me the other day; during this zeitgeist for debate the last thing I want to see stumped into the ground is row upon row of defiant blue placards. Why do so many happy (and interestingly enough, male) Lib Dems here keep asking me wouldn’t I rather be on the cusp of an exciting change than amongst the happily converted? Obviously, I keep saying, I’m really glad that the majority around me share my voting preference. I’m not interested in some manly, adrenalin fuelled, nail biting will-she/he-won’t-she/he election evening. Sounds fun, but I am glad I live in an area that agrees with me to be frank. Whether we’re a shoo-in or not, I’ll vote the same way, no matter what the excitement – I am not that flimsy.

How pointedly X-Factor to be caught up in that way of thinking, I mused, which is fast becoming a very real point of concern for many a trembling Labour/Tory follower. And golly, don’t we love our reality popularity contests here in Britain; the accolade of many an insentient show being so laden in our recent history. If these polls are anything to go by we are a fickle people are we not? I am hoping that it is more the case that folk have finally come to their senses and want to get this real ‘change’ (buzzword alert) that everyone is talking about. Though I am aware of its downfalls, I am all for seeing how proportional representation will go.

But, just as I begin to bloviate about the fact that of course it’s better to be in an area where you’ve no doubt that your chosen MP will win, I see those stubborn farmers’ choice placards and discover a worrying 5% margin. And, well, I admit – I am caught up in the moment at the very least, just as everyone else is. After all, five or six weeks ago none of us plebeians were using words like ‘constituents’, ‘franchise’ and ‘quango’ were we? (Really, we weren’t were we!) So to draw a line under my little tuppence, (and I don’t mean the euphemistic version of that word, obviously), you can never get too cosy. I don’t think for a second the area that I’m in might be swayed against the tidal Clegg-some wave, but just to be sure I’ll ride the tide and give the yellow submarine a shout out. Come on the people’s champion; come on Greg Mulholland!

I remember when I was waiting for my GCSE results, this same thought came at me. Here is safe. Here anything could happen. Here I only need wait, and there is little more I can do. I’ve done everything I can. Only the act of opening that envelope (and in this case, opening the email? Answering the phone?) made the grades a reality. Until then I could have achieved anything and, in a really small moment of fear, I didn’t ever want to know. At least not knowing wasn’t failing.

So, I wait.

Curled into a ball, hiding under the duvet, distracting myself with as much mind-blocking TV and music and internet as possible. I keep slipping back and then have to crush it, lest I be crushed. Wondering if I should call, email, put in some last lasting good words. But it’s so unseemly to be over-keen.

So, I wait. The revolution of doubt and conviction goes on. Round and round. I feel explosions on my skin. Waves of gunfire. My mind is making war with me, I am a battlefield of cold sweats. My to do list; an Escher sketch. The list goes on. I can’t get anything finished until I know. I’m good for nothing until I know. The thought of where I am now, so banal. And I feel as though every thought is jinxing me. This whole process will be over in a few days, and yet I’d rather this permanent flux, than hear the answer I don’t want. Of course, that’s silly. There is only forward, but y’know. Right now this is all I can see.

I really am crossing every digit. I daren’t even promise to report back. I daren’t even press ‘publish’ lest it anger the gods. Lest it affect fate. Lest it make me think of any other ridiculous ‘just-in-cases’ that might spring to mind.

Gah.

I can’t stand this. I am desperate to know. I am desperate for a yes.

*** So, for those who know, this is an edit of something I didn’t dare post when in limbo. For those who don’t: I wrote this before knowing whether or not I would get the job. Foolishly, I was too scared to post it whilst I was waiting to hear back, but I’ve decided to put it up, regardless. It has brought up that question of whether writing is wasted if it isn’t in the public forum, and I guess I think that it was utterly worth getting it all out of my system, but now that I’m safe I want it to be out there.

My heart is prettiest when it’s adorned upon my sleeve.

And, I got the job. Yes. I got the job.

Laura Johnson

More to come soon! Lots more, I promise.

P.s. Is it unseemly and over the top to chase for an answer? I don’t want to hassle. And I don’t want to spoil my chances. But I don’t want to seem disinterested either. Gah!

Here’s hoping I’ll be shouting from the rooftops sometime next week. I so, so want this job. And I’ve really worked to get it too.