Jennie Gillions – writer and editor

I adopted two six month old male kittens from a rescue centre on Sunday. One of them is currently dozing behind me on the back of the sofa; the other one is suspiciously quiet and I suspect he’s wandering around the forbidden work surfaces. I made a good choice. Despite being noisy, greedy and demanding they’re adorable and mean I can wander around the flat talking to them rather than to myself.

They were in the rescue centre thanks to a local dog walker who got chatting to four ‘youths’ (the centre website’s words) in a park. The ‘youths’ had four dogs and a cardboard box. A few enquiries revealed the box contained two kittens, who were going to be used as ’sport’ for the dogs – i.e. they were going to be let loose and ripped apart. Fortunately the dog walker was brave enough to grab the box and leg it to the rescue centre.

They’re so affectionate I believe they started life safe and loved. Worryingly though they’re also trusting – they both became lap cats within two days of being here – and I suspect that’s how they ended up in a box. I’d really rather they didn’t get stolen or adopt a local family that overfeeds them. I’m trying a Pavlovian experiment by rattling biscuits at them near bedtime then giving them food, so hopefully when they’re allowed into the garden they’ll know to come home when they hear the rattle. It’ll probably work as well as my attempts to keep them off the work surfaces but fingers crossed, eh?

Another article published – a piece on Hitchin’s lavender history featured in Hertfordshire Countryside magazine.

I was also shortlisted to final judging stage in Writing Magazine’s short story competition, with only my second short story written as an adult. I’m pretty proud of that. The story is printed below; have a read and let me know what you think.

’A nice lie-down’

To be honest, I am not very fond of my own company. I find myself boring now. I’ve thought everything before and nothing surprises me now. It’s hard to find surprises in here and you need some surprises, don’t you, otherwise life gets very boring. But I don’t have much choice at the moment. People come and visit, but they sound really nervous, like they shouldn’t be talking to me, so they don’t say much that’s interesting. The only new thing I’ve learned recently is Katie, who’s six, is becoming a bit of a brat, and I could’ve told Sam that would happen from the moment she started sort of speaking. That’s what’ll happen, I thought. Terrible thing to say, but they do spoil her, and, poor love, well she doesn’t really have anyone her own age you could call a friend.

They won’t even let me have the telly on. Apparently there’s no point, but I’d argue that. Countdown, even, or one of them finding-antiques-in-folks’-houses programmes. I like those. Sam did ask if I could have the telly on. ‘No point’, that Indian doctor told her, she says, but she did say he looked a bit sad when he said it. So that’s ok then.

Sam said that waitress came in once, but she didn’t stay. Burst out crying, and then ran off. Poor girl, wish I could tell her I don’t blame her.

Katie’s a bit fat, actually. I’ve never said as much to Sam. Maybe I should, but maybe she can’t help it. They certainly give her everything she wants, and she eats a lot, which can’t be good for her. I think she’d be much better off if she was able to go to school. They do have special teachers and things now, but Sam says she’d get bullied. She’ll have to face the world one day though, might as well be now. I do wonder though whether she’ll ever get a job. She probably won’t get married.

I started work when I was fifteen. In a light bulb factory, packing bulbs 5 days a week, 8 hours a day. Had this girl working next to me, Martha, we got on well. She came from a reading family, we weren’t really a reading family, but I did like history. I liked some of the romances. Elizabeth I and Dudley, that was really sad. I think she should’ve married him anyway, if she liked him. My parents never really liked Len, they thought he was a bit wild – I know it’s different, I’ve never been in charge of the country, but I’d have married him even if they’d said I couldn’t.

Now, Len, he was a surprise. Still makes me chuckle when I think of how we met. Lying next to the river, with Bet, sunbathing. He comes up and, cheeky as you like, he says ‘Nice legs, do you want to marry me?’ Cheeky beggar. Nowadays, see, girls wouldn’t go with a man who said that, because nowadays you’d be scared he was a rapist or something. Fair enough, lots of men are now, seems to me. But then, it was the war – you took chances and did as much as you could in case you didn’t get the chance to do it because you got bombed. And he looked like he was nice. So we went dancing, and I pretended to be sick from work so we could go to the seaside, and Len stole a motorcycle one day and we drove it all round the countryside until it ran out of petrol and then we had to walk home, 12 miles. We did some mad things, and every day was something new. We knew how to live every day, then.

It was a quiet wedding. We were just getting over Frank. Looking back, it might seem funny to people that we didn’t wait, put it off a bit until the funeral wasn’t so clear in our minds, but it made sense to us. We all knew Frank would have wanted us to carry on. And Len was at sea a lot, I didn’t know if I’d ever see him again if we waited. Frank’d never have forgiven himself if we’d not got married and then Len had got wounded or something. And in a funny way it made it extra special, and we all felt like he was there anyway – we read out a little poem about him. Still got that, at home, in a frame over the mantel. I wonder what’ll happen to it… Robbie should have it, really. I made that frame. Made my wedding dress too, I was crafty when I was younger and could see better. I was a bit naughty though. Wore really nice undies under my dress. Felt a bit like one of them femmes fatales.

Then Robbie came along, and Clare, and Sam. We always tried to get them to get the educations we never had, and make the most of themselves – I think we did all right, they’ve turned out fine. Except for Katie. But you know people get settled, and they get boring, and I get itchy when I’m bored. Len tried as long as he could. We always went dancing until he couldn’t really walk any more.

In Medieval times they drowned them, apparently. In some countries they still put them in horrible hospitals and they don’t ever get to see their families.

Feels a bit like that in here.

That boat trip just before Len got ill, that was great, that was. All of them clubbed together and sent us round the Med. We got to see Greece, and Italy, and we got taken on a tour of the museums. I don’t think that guide we had, what was her name? Stella. I don’t think she should have been looking after a group like ours, all old people. She told us some nasty things about the Spartans and how they used to have – relationships – with boys. Len and I didn’t like that much, and some of the statues were a bit frisky. But we liked the buildings and it was nice to be in the warm weather. I surprised myself that trip, never thought I’d go sunbathing, not at my age.

Never thought I’d learn to drive, either, but needs must as they say. Couldn’t get out and about as much without Len, and the buses round our way don’t go at the right times for getting the shopping done. I wasn’t very good to start off. Went into our hedge. Bless Sam for being so patient, else I’d never have passed. Been a lifeline, that has. Nice little thing, it has a CD player so I can listen to my books, and a nice low, roomy boot so I don’t need help with the bags. Clare helped me pick it out, her Simon knows about cars.

I’m bad at being bored, always have been. The car meant I could go and see people. Chat to people, you know, that’s how I met the waitress, in the cathedral caff. She used to sneak me an extra biscuit sometimes, and not let me pay. I suppose when you think about it, it is sort of her fault, but I don’t hold it against her. I did ask. We used to talk about the cathedral. Finished in 1145, she said. King Henry VIII got rid of the monks, and then it was damaged pretty badly in the Civil War. That was another romantic marriage, Charles I’s. Him and Henrietta Maria really loved each other. Didn’t end well.

No idea how long I’ve been here. Too long. I need something to do, but that other doctor says there’s probably no point trying to ‘stimulate’ me. I can hear them talking about me, but they don’t know. I suppose I should be pleased they’re not saying nasty things, but then it’s not as if I’m any trouble, is it? All they have to do is make sure I don’t die, I don’t even eat proper meals. Took me a while to get used to not having to get up to use the bathroom. Used to get up two or three times in the night, so in a funny way it’s quite a nice change.

Sam always whispers to the doctors. Why? If they think I can’t hear them, what’s the point of trying not to disturb me.

Sometimes people cry when they visit. I hate that, I wish they wouldn’t, wish I could tell them actually I don’t mind. And I don’t, really. I mean, it’s boring but I’m pretty comfy. The nurses move me around every now and then to make sure I don’t get bed sores. I’ve been trying to get it across that I’d like people to read books to me but I suppose I’m not moving my fingers as much as I think I am. I suppose people would probably make a bit more fuss if I was, anyway.

Sam said that waitress has sold her motorcycle. What a shame. It’s not her fault, I did ask for that ride and I can be very determined. Bad luck that car coming round too fast, that’s all. Lucky they make you wear a helmet nowadays, else I’d have been dead apparently. I was having brilliant fun up till then. It’s almost worth lying here all day to have felt that young again for a little while. Frank and Len, if they’re watching, they’d have laughed. When I wake up I’ll make sure I tell that to that poor waitress.

There are lots of crap towns in England. I’m not going to name this particular crap town for fear of reprisals – so apologies if you recognise it. It’s probably isn’t yours. Could be yours, though.

Yours is by no means the worst town I’ve been to. It is however the worst one I’ve been to recently. Even the name is depressing. It’s physically impossible to smile when you say it. Stuck in traffic all the way through we had ample opportunity to observe what it has to offer – and concluded that isn’t much. There’s something vaguely despairing about it, a miserable grubbiness that penetrates everything, buildings, streets, shops, even the people. It’s scruffy and charmless, and gives no impression that people love it.

There are some lovely buildings – the school, for instance, is stunning – but, rather than making me fonder of the place I’m afraid I just pitied the architecture for ending up here. Every time I thought the high street was improving (a handsome well-kept store or bank, for example) something grotty would pop up and ruin it all over again. Amusment arcades with lots of neon (I hate those). Betting shops with drunks lolling outside – at 3.30pm on a weekday. It was all rather cheap and tawdry.

I know I sound like a snob – and when it comes to towns, sorry, but I am a bit. I come from a nice one, and think everyone deserves to live somewhere slightly attractive that they can be a bit proud of. I’m sure most of the people here don’t deserve to live somewhere this unpleasant – it’s hideous. It was nice to leave. Sadly the next town is a veritable armpit. The difference is I know some people who live in the second one and they do deserve it.

Like, I presume, many other people, I have a weird relationship with IKEA. I love how it correctly assumes people would get lost without arrows. I love that the owners have planned it to be a full day trip, so people will need to eat – and they can get a full meal for £2. I love the free pencils. Unfortunately it also has the ability to make my money fly from pockets, to be spent on (mostly) pointless items that won’t look nearly as good in my house as they do in the shop. Desk lamps, plants (real and fake), own-brand shower gel, a First Aid kit, two bath puffs and a print of some penguins. All from just one trip, when what we really wanted was a full-length mirror. Have you ever sat at home, peering into your underwear drawer and thinking ‘Y’know, I could really do with some cheap nylon sock dividers’? No? Me neither, but as soon as I open a slightly sticky drawer in IKEA and see them nestling, all colour-coordinated and lovely, they seem like the best idea in the world. Logic tells me that the little compartments won’t be big enough for my socks, or my drawers will turn out to be completely the wrong size… but this is part of IKEA’s cunning plan. Sock dividers, we think – marvellous. Then, when they don’t fit, we are forced to buy a new IKEA drawer unit so the sock dividers weren’t a waste of money. Ditto with IKEA sheets. They only fit IKEA beds. Intensely irritating. So your shiny new bedding either has to go in the bin or be forced onto the bed, ill-fitting and slightly awkward, looking a bit crap. Essentially, if you want to live in a house entirely fitted out with IKEA, fine, but fitting a lot of the stuff around your existing furniture can be a problem.

Just a thought – IKEA would be shite if it was British. Part of its joy is Scandinavian-controlled neatness and efficiency. Handing it over to the British would instantly make it grubby and horribly incompetent.

It’s not the STUFF in IKEA that’s fun – though a lot of it is very useful, reasonably priced and practical; it’s IKEA. There’s something phenomenonally entertaining about wandering off the delineated path to look at futons and emerging, confused, in ‘kitchens’. Is it possible to dissolve teeth in the pear cider? Will there be a comedy argument in the miserable traffic jam of slow-moving families? Oo. There’s the fun. If treated predominantly like an exhibition of shiny lighting and human nature, IKEA is wonderful. Just don’t try and fit their sock dividers in Argos drawers. It will only lead to disappointment.

Yes, I realise to the majority of people that is rather a bizarre take on a much-loved pastime. I do love massage – there’s something very sensual about it, and it’s pure hedonistic pleasure. I love having my tense muscles relaxed, and I love the atmosphere of treatment rooms. However, for me it’s always tainted slightly by crippling embarrassment; being virtually naked in front of strangers, depending of course on your profession or personal tastes, is usually reserved for nightmares.

I mention this today because I had a full body and face massage yesterday at my local salon in Crystal Palace. It was superb, but I found it extremely hard to relax for the first twenty or so minutes because my brain refused to let me. Was my very lovely therapist cringeing with horror every time she kneaded a bit of flabby skin? Had she noticed some stubble? Did my feet smell? You get the picture.  This was despite constant reminders to myself that she was being paid quite a lot of money to pummel me, and in any case she must have massaged far fatter, hairier, smellier and generally less pleasant people.

Fortunately, the therapist and I were able to bond over a mutual love of tattoos – I have a large, rather beautiful one on my back that she enjoyed looking at – and that made me a lot less self-conscious. By the time my appointment was over my whole body felt amazing, and I plan on going back once my bank balance allows. Levels of insecurity have reached ridiculous levels though when I feel the need to lose weight and remove every strand of body hair before going for a massage…

I’m quite a creative soul – occasionally, I like to get together Caroline, Lucy and wine, to express my creativity in fuzzy felt. Luckily we’ve known each other for so long that this is not remotely embarrassing.

Killing the Rodent of Unusual Size

This is a recreation of the firepit scene from The Princess Bride, where Westley kills the ROUS. I’m strangely proud of it.

Inigo killing Count Rogen, the six-fingered man.

And this one is a recreation of Inigo avenging his father. ‘My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.’

Donald Pleasance tripping over Richard Attenborough.

I know this scene from The Great Escape isn’t exactly accurate – in the film James Garner is sitting on the top bunk, not leaning against the door. But it’s still pretty good.

Hello, and welcome to my site. I’m Jennie, an experienced voluntary sector professional and published writer.

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