When You Were Small - Hospital Memories

Okay yes I know I said the next post in this series would be all about first holidays, not hospitals.  But I am sick right now, an awful annoying head cold/flu which has been gifted to me by Mr Socks, who coughed and barked and blew all the way to sharing it.  So being sick, I don't really want to think about first holidays, being sick I want to feel sorry for myself, so being sick, I got to thinking about hospitals. 

Now again I know, most normal people when they think about hospitals have sad memories, and yes, I also know I am lucky not to have these, never having to be in hospital until the delivery of my first daughter.  That being said though, I have a couple of very distinctive memories about hospitals from when I was small.  The first one is around my Mam's stay in one, and my Dad getting us fish and chips from the chipper every single night.  It is a pretty distinctive memory, but alas not the one which I am going to share with you here.  The memory I am going to share with you, is all about jealousy!

Not 120 Socks I hear you say - but alas every now and then even I have bad thoughts, and on this occasion, the bad thoughts were all about my big sister.  You see, when she was younger, about 10 I think, she had to go into hospital to get her appendix out.  I am sure she did suffer, even marginally with this illness, but I don't remember any of that.  What I remember are the presents - the colouring books and crayons, the large bottles of Lucozade, the puzzles, the sucky sweets with flavours of blackcurrant, strawberry, lemon, orange, lime, you name it, she got it.  Every day for what seemed like an eternity, more prizes were brought up to her. 

What did I get?  Not a dot, not a sweet, not a sip from the large bottles which went up daily, I got nothing, a big fat nothing, and as you can imagine this had a devastating effect on me.  I started dreaming about going into hospital, being knocked down by a car and everyone around the bed crying over me, pouring lovely drinks down by throat, willing me to sit up so I could draw them a beautiful picture - my sister at home bored, sweetless, drinkless, presentless - the list was endless!

Looking back, I'm wondering if I had been given even one sweet from the packet/packets which went into her hospital locker, anything by way of compensation for being the well one, would the memory have stayed so vivid?  To me being in hospital foolishly seemed like the best place ever, probably cause as a child I never got there.

Like most things in life, it is all about which viewpoint to look at any given situation.  Years later, my son went into hospital as he was having problems walking.  Thankfully, it turned out to be a temporary issue with limb development, but I remember being so worried, and him being so delighted that he had to go everywhere for about 3 days in a wheelchair, his sisters pushing him up and down the hospital corridors, all of them laughing, having fun. And yes, he did get colouring books, and drinks and sweets, and cards, and thankfully, he also got better. So we all got really lucky, and I will always be grateful.

I know there are sad memories out there, and I know mine is a silly one, but if you do have a childhood hospital memory which you would like to share, well you know what to do.  In the meantime, I will go back to nursing my head cold - cause being sick is no fun at all!

When you were small - Imaginary Friends

I've just received a copy of Derbhile Dromey's novel 'The Pink Cage' by post this morning and I'm really looking forward to reading it.  On the cover is a young girl, probably about 3 or 4 years old.  She is walking along a wide expanse of what I think is concrete with line markings on it.  To her left is her shadow, and being a soul with an expansive but often crazy imagination, I can see a whole imaginary and scary world within this shadow.  The lines intrigued me too.  I remembered being a kid and how when I walked to school, I made a point of never walking on a crack or line marking on either the footpath or the road.   Sometimes this meant taking little steps, sometimes is meant stretching your legs so far apart they hurt.  I had this thing about cracks, it was all about how they might trap me into another world if I fell through them.

Now you might be thinking this is leading nicely into the title of imaginary friends, except for the fact that even though I had plenty of imaginary worlds, I never did have an imaginary friend.  This surprises me greatly.  You would think me being me, that an imaginary friend would have been a must, but alas not in my case.  However my children did have them, in fact my son had an entire imaginary football team which managed to keep him very busy!

So did you have an imaginary friend, or friends?  Did you do daft things like me and stretch your legs way further than they should be stretched just to avoid an innocent crack?   

I always love to hear your stories, so please do share them if you wish, and yes, I am still a bit cracked!

For other posts from the
'When you were small' series, visit HERE

When You Were Small - The Teacher

It's been a little while since I've done a post as part of the 'When you were small' series, and it's not because I don't enjoy doing them, because I absolutely do, and more importantly, I love hearing back everyone's comments.

Anyone who has been following this series knows we have looked at first love, favourite toy, most important childhood memory, chores, etc, the list as I've said before is pretty endless.  There are lots of things and people which influence our childhood, but sometimes we forget one element which makes up a great part of our development, and that is going to school, and the teachers we meet there.

In Ireland we have primary school from about the age of 4/5 up to around 12.  After that we have secondary, which brings us up to university entry level.  When I think about primary school, for the most part my memories are all good ones.  I mean the classrooms were overcrowded, in my case accommodating two class groups together, for example 5th & 6th class.  I don't remember any teacher in particular from this time, although no doubt I should, as overall, I had a liking for school and that just doesn't happen by accident.

My hubby on the other hand, has a very firm memory of a primary school teacher, one whom he had for a number of years, Mr Moran.  I know this seems like a daft thing to say, as I am not talking about myself, but I know Mr Moran had a huge positive influence on my partner and in particular his love of books.  From what I have gathered over the years, one of Mr Moran qualities, was his realisation that all children have different needs, which was why he had plenty of time for sport, for classes talking about other cultures, for setting individual goals, and for story time.  Mr Moran it would seem from my secondhand knowledge, was a pretty brilliant story teller.  My hubby is dyslexic, and severely so.  A condition which wasn't diagnosed for him until well into adult life.  Nonetheless, when Mr Moran read out a story in class, he opened up a world of fantasy for all the children, those who could read easily, and those perhaps who could not.  This love was planted in my partner head, despite obvious reading difficulties, which meant that in later life, when there was a greater understanding of his condition, for the most part despite his early difficulties, he had an immense love for books and the stories within them.

I think I could write forever about teachers, and how they can influence you, because I do have two very distinct memories myself, both of which have stayed in my brain for a very long time, when believe me, an awful lot of other stuff has not.

The first was a temporary teacher we had in 1st year in secondary.  I don't remember her name, but I do remember that she was very young, and very petite, neither of which are of any relevance in themselves.  The part that is relevant however is how during her time teaching us history, we created a class project on Egypt.  I remember it so vividly, studying and copying the hieroglyphics onto large poster pages, how wonderful the project looked when it was put up as an exhibit in the classroom, and others students and teachers came to visit it.  I think right there, if the seeds had not been planted before, I realised how you could take something from your head and put it out there in a real and different way, and how working with others, sometimes you could create so much more.  The second memory I have is also of an History Teacher, but he was an English Teacher too.  After my 3rd year in secondly, due to family circumstances at the grand old age of 15, I needed to go out and get a real job.  The following year I enrolled in night classes to do my Leaving Certificate, our final exam before college entry.  Because the classes were at night, I met a great group of fellow classmates, many of them older than I, but I also met this teacher who has had a huge influence on my life.

Now I need to apologise here, because even though I know how important he was to me, I cannot remember his name.  This is not a slight on him, I am hopeless with names in general.  Anyhow (I knew I would have to get my fav crutch word in eventually), he was a very special man.  He opened up the world of English to me in a way which no one else had done.  I began to get excited about poetry, to understand Shakespeare, the tragedy of life, the beauty in a single word, I found meaning beyond the straight forward story within the front and back cover of a book, I learned about the layers in the creation of the written word, I learned to go beyond loving to read, I learned to love the language.  At the end of this post is an extract from notes in my English journal, ones he dictated to us on the very first evening of our studies, in fact they are the only words he ever dictated to us, but I understand why he wanted to impress them from the beginning.  I still have my journal from that time, I will keep it always.

Phew!  That was a long one.  I suppose what I'm saying is, teachers hold a special part of our formation, we often take them for granted, especially the good ones, and perhaps their influence is often not appreciated, but one thing I am certain of, their influence will never be forgotten.

If any of you have your own teacher memories, you can share them below by writing a comment.  I don't mind how long the comments are, the length and content are entirely up to you.

For other post in this series - check out http://tinyurl.com/626pkrb

Extract from my Leaving Cert English Notes:

Introduction:

I am doing Leaving Cert English literature, in the course of the year, I shall be exposing myself to a drama, an imaginative novel, and some poems.  I shall be asked to respond to the vision of the writer.  No two people can have the same response.  For instance, there is only one response to the question "What does two and two total?", but literature is an inexact science, and so there is not one answer, but as many as there are readers.

I am unique, I am as unique as my fingerprints, so that I see, feel things in an unique way.  When it comes to the character in a play, or the character in a novel, or a poet's feelings, I can never fully identify.  But I can observe with care the other person, and then transfer myself to his or her situation, and try to listen to my feelings there.

When You Were Small - The Chores!

This is the seventh post in the 'When You Were Small' series, and I have become very fond of them.  Firstly, I enjoy the personal experience of looking back and trying to remember things like -Who was your first best friend? At age did you fall in love?  Favourite Toy Memory? Favourite Memory? What did you dream about being when you were a little girl/boy? - I guess the list is as long as childhood. 

But the second thing I have become very fond of in relation to these posts, are the memories that many others share.  I find I am like a little child in a sweetshop when I see another new comment has come in.  It sort of reminds me of the excitement I feel when I get my hands on a new book, and I'm not fully sure what adventure, story, emotion, I am about to experience.  Like my own memories, some stories are funny, some sad, some a mix of both, but all of them have one essential ingredient in common, they are real.  Over the last few weeks reading these memories from all parts of the world, from different age groups, backgrounds, male or female, I've discovered another interesting gem, which is, we are all more alike than at first glance you might think.


So, apologies for the long introduction, but I felt the above needed to be said.  Today's question, is this one:-

When you were small, what was the best or the worst (or both), chore you were given to do.  I knew mine straight up, and in a way it was, the best and the worst.


As some of you might have read before, I grew up in a flat, so we had no back garden or front garden, but we did manage to have a step!  Okay, let me explain, outside each front door, there was a concrete step.  I suppose the step was the first thing people saw when they came to visit.  So having a clean step was a mighty important thing to have.  With this in mind, my chore was to clean the step.


Out I'd go with my metal bucket filled with soapy water and a hard steel brush, and I would scrub.  In the scrubbing came the joy, all those magical suds created patterns, patterns which I could change depending on the direction or the size of the swing.  I made lines up and down, across and over.  I made circles, and circles within circles.  The more I brushed, the more suds I would create.  Rivers of them would go streaming down to the doorways of other flats, my feet, my clothes, would get soaked, but it was such fun. 

The bad bit, and it wasn't really all that bad, was when the water went completely cold, because I knew it was nearly over, and the time had come to wash away all the lovely circles, lines, suds, and the white wonder would disappear to concrete grey again.


At the end of it all, my Mother, who was  the one designating the chores, had a clean step, and I had the wrinkled skin of an old women from hands being in the water too long! 


When I think about the step, strangely enough, I think about my Mother.  I think the step for her, was a small piece of something to be proud of in an otherwise very dismal place.  Now I know you might think that strange, but that's the way I feel about it. 


Seeing as how the step has brought back thoughts of my Mother, I have put at the end of this post, a very short poem called 'My Mothers Hands'.  To explain a little, the opening is a memory of when she would hold my hand on the way home from school, her front door keys in them, hurt, because she held my hand so tight.  The final part deals with her battle with diabetes and dementia near the end of her life, and the two angels, are the two children she lost as babies after I was born.  I hope you enjoy it.

My Mothers Hands

Her hands held little fingers with cold front door keys,

Wrapped a red coat over,

Protecting me from more than rain.

Pushed prams, peeled spuds,

No lady hands, but lady owned.

Skin like alabaster, soft not weak,

Hands of pain, hands of an optimistic soul.

Sprouting blood bubbles in pin pricked old age,

Folded quietly in distant melancholy,

Stolen by her minds disease.

In death as in life,

Angels drawn.



*

When you were small - Memories!

Time to take another trip backwards!  I'm thinking maybe today's post might be a bit trickier than previous ones.  After all, it's fairly easy to remember your first love, first best friend, most memorable toy - but this one took me a while to work out, so maybe it will be difficult for you too.  The funny thing is, once I worked it out, I couldn't understand why I had such difficulty with it in the first place.

Anyhow (fav crutch word), when you think about childhood, if you could only hold onto ONE childhood memory, which one would it be?  Tough - you must agree.

I remember Billy Connolly telling a story about taking his kids to Scotland and how they went to wonderful places, they saw the salmon leap, they had a picnic next to a castle, and he made up stories about Kings and Queens, they did lots of wonderful things, so much so, that by the end of the holidays, he felt pretty confident when he asked them which part was the most memorable.  He was convinced it would be either the salmon or the magic castle, but children are never easy creatures to predict.  'Sesame Street', they told him.  You see, they had one of those mini screens in the back of the car, and as they would drive from one wonderful place to the next, they would watch 'Sesame Street' on it!

Which kinda leads me to my answer.  Now as none of my family read my blog, I am probably pretty safe saying this, but it wasn't a wonderful Christmas memory, or an endearing family moment, or even an act of human kindness or tenderness, it was the Washing Yard.

Okay there you have it, if I could hold onto ONLY ONE childhood memory, it would be the Washing Yard - Why you might ask, or not, but sure I'll tell you anyhow.

I grew up in what were called flats, run down buildings sort of thing.  This meant we had no back or front garden, nor did we have much else either, but we did have a washing yard.  The washing yard was a brilliant place - there would be rows and rows of washing lines full of laundry, the sheets were the best because you could run through them and pretend you were flying.  Plus it had tall poles to hold up the lines, which you could swing around and climb.  Now the washing yard was out the back bedroom window where I slept, and the window was one of those with 3 window panes across.  My brother, sister and I would sit in front of the window and each of us got our own window pane, I know, sad but true.  Anyhow (told you it was my fav crutch word), we would look out the window, and when it snowed we'd pretend we were traveling through galaxies, or at night we would try to guess which window would light up next, because obviously, everyone living in the flats had windows which backed onto the washing yard, and like Christmas lights, at night each of them would switch on and off. 

Often, especially at night you would hear noises from the washing yard as families might fight, a Dad coming home drunk and raising all hell around him, or even worse the banshee wailing.  In the morning, the place filled up with seagulls, millions of them, or so it appeared to me as a child, and again the washing yard took on a whole new image.  I suppose what I'm saying is that more than anything, the washing yard fuelled my imagination, whether from listening to stories from each of the windows, or seagulls, or running through sheets, it sparked off so many things which made my childhood extra special.  My brother ended up becoming a Professor of Physics & Astronomy, which in my opinion was connected to the galaxies we travelled through together.

Gosh this is turning into a long post.  Anyhow, here's a poem I wrote earlier as they say, called 'The Washing Yard'.  I hope you enjoy it, and please, if you can work out which childhood memory you would choose to hold on to, then let us know!

The Washing Yard

Rows of dance on washing lines

Beneath one hundred sheets a child could fly

Curl metal bars and catch blue sky.

Turn snowstorms into a Milky Way

Laugh and play too young to know

As children blow at Jinny Joe.

And as the night light fills its sky

Banshees wail and babies cry.

Strange voices haunt the Washing Yard

Windows switching on and off

Each pane a different story told

A zillion words bound metal poles.

Then in morn all night sounds forced to hide

When from its sky come seagulls high.

Hoards of birds create such clatter

Swoon and squawk discarded matter.

Magic, to a young child's eye

As adults watch their lives pass by.

Buried in some human tomb

A child's joy,

In an adult's gloom.

Who was your first best friend?

I don't know about the rest of you, but I am really enjoying these posts about When you were small, and the main reason I'm enjoying them, is because you have all been fantastic about sharing your stories.  I hope this next trip down memory lane, will facilitate some more gems.

So, this week's topic, in case you haven't read the title is 'Who was your first best friend?'

We all probably agree that friends, real friends are brilliant. They become a great part of your life, one that isn't like your immediate or extended family, your partner, your boss, your bank manager, but they are the guys that you often turn to, when all the other categories don't quite fit.

With real friends, you know, if you are in trouble, or in need of advice,in a second, they will be there, and likewise, you would do the same for them.  They are there in a mini crisis, when really they should tell you, they are too busy, or go away - but when you say the magic words - Can I ask you something?- They will listen, and unless it's for your own good, will oblige.

So I got to thinking about best friends, and first best friends, and probably like most people, I remember my first best friend really well. Perhaps because, friends are your first links outside of the family nest. 

In my case, her name was Betty, and she came from a family where the children managed to get into the double figures.  This was not an unusual in good old Catholic Ireland, but being the youngest in a family of four children myself, despite my fondness for Betty, I was also very envious of her.  I mean, I wanted a baby sister or brother too.  I wasn't bothered whether it was a boy or a girl, I just wanted a baby, someone younger than me, that I could mind, etc etc.

Of course, as a child, I didn't see the real hardship associated with having children in double figures, especially when money was in very short supply.  Nor did I fully grasp the fact that, after me, my Mam did have two more children, neither of which survived beyond the first days of birth, but I do remember Betty.  The reason being, she was my friend, my best friend, someone I could confide in.

I am not sure what I learnt from my early relationship with her, other than the very real sense, that my life was better for having her in it.  In part this might be why, I value friends so much today.  There are a lot of people in this world, but friends are in shorter supply than one might think.  If you manage to find one, a good one, hold on to them, they are irreplaceable.

So who was your first best friend?  Do you still know them now?  Were you jealous of them?  Did you outgrow them?  Lots of questions, can't wait to hear your answers.

Are you Guilty?

Following on from:-

When you think about childhood, what toy comes to mind?
                                    &
When you were little, what did you dream of becoming some day?
                                    &
When was the first time you fell in Love?


We now reach the Guilt Zone!   We have all been there I expect.  You know the procedure, you do something, you regret doing it, then you are burdened with guilt!

I am pretty sure I started doing things WRONG from a very young age, after all it is all part of growing up, but when I think about the first time I remember doing something wrong, there is no doubt in my mind as to which event wins the prize.

I figure I was about five at the time, could be wrong give or take a year.  My Mam had given me 2 coins to put in the Gas Meter, a bit like an early 'pay as you go' system.  Anyhow, there I was with the 2 coins, and my logical brain immediately figured out that there was no way ANYONE would know if I only put 1 coin in the meter and put the other one in my pocket!  And so I did.

And guess what, my logic was right in part, except for one small detail - the ANYONE, included me.  I knew I'd done it, and though even now, I have no memory of what I spent the money on, the GUILT took hold and stayed in my five-year old brain, and stayed and stayed. 

We didn't have a lot of money growing up, and I may have been only five, but I knew that much.  I also knew, that I had betrayed a trust.  Now, I am not saying I articulated it to my brain exactly like I'm telling you now, but I know, I didn't have a good feeling inside me afterwards.

In the general scheme of things, it is not a big deal, but it stayed with me, and maybe on reflection it has turned out to be a good thing; because although, I have often done things that I have felt guilty about afterwards, I think in the main, I learned something really important at a very young age.  I learned that the prize isn't always worth the price, and if you think you are going to do something that will cause guilt afterwards, think again, because guilt really ain't a good thing to have in your life.

Now I know all of you out there are PERFECT, but if you happen to remember a tiny incident, or even a mad big one, and it has stayed with you from childhood - like the first time you remember being tempted - Did you do it, or did you not?  Spill the beans, you've come to the right place to share!

ALSO - I need to come up with a LABEL/TITLE for these posts, I can't keep listing off previous ones to explain what's going on - so if you have a suggestion, hit me with it.  I was thinking about 'WHEN YOU WERE SMALL?'

At what age does love begin?

Following on from previous posts dealing with questions like, 'When you think of childhood, what toy comes to mind?' or 'When you were little, what did you dream of being when you grew up?' - Inevitably we get to the LOVE QUESTION?

So assuming you are one of the lucky/unlucky people in this world that has fallen in love - How old were you when you fell in love for the first time?

Not wanting to ask these questions, without being prepared to answer them myself; well I had a little think.

I do remember falling in love for the first time, in fact when I thought about it, I also remembered falling in love for the second time, and both seem to have remained with me in part because neither were very successful.

The first time, I was eleven, and it was a boy from school.  He was intelligent, attractive, funny, caring, just not caring for me!  If I remember it correctly, in order to gain his attention, I embarked on a process of getting to know him, become his friend so to speak.  Unfortunately, I misjudged the level of enthusiasm required, because we did become friends, in fact he told me, we were best friends, which is why he shared with me his secret desires for another girl, who happened to be far prettier than I, or at least so I thought at the time.  Not wanting to embarrass myself further, and reveal to him the real motives for my interest, I embarked on a plan to help him meet up with this other girl.  I know real handkerchief material here, but the thing is, I can't remember if I ever succeeded, which in a way is a good thing, because somehow, I guess little eleven year old me must have moved on.

The second time I fell in love, I was fifteen.  He wasn't particularily attractive, I remember that, so it was the old personality attraction going strong.  We were friends already, in that kind of girls and guys that hang out with each other in a group thing.  I must have driven my girlfriends mad talking about him, cause I remember I did a lot of it.  Anyhow, as is the way with these things, opportunity eventually presented itself.  It happened at Christmas time, and there was a local dance going on.  Needless to say, the preparation was a major affair, me sensing that my moment of Love's dream was about to happen.  Now you could have knocked me down with a feather, when he came over and asked me to dance.  There was a slow song playing, (not going to tell you which one, I need some secrets) and we danced, and I knew, this was it, at last the two of us were together.  Now, I made the mistake of thinking, that he was on the same wavelength as me, believing there was no need to interrupt our beautiful moment with small talk.  I know hard to believe, seeing as I had done nothing other than talk about him, until I was in his arms.  So we danced, listened to the music, holding each other in blissful silence for at least 5 minutes.  At the end of the dance, he thanked me and went back to his friends, obviously mistaking my silence for complete lack of interest.  I was devastated all Christmas, no amount of festive flavour was going to lift my gloom.  But after plenty of tears, regrets, and wanting to hit myself over the head for being such a ninny, eventually I got over this one too.

And yes, for any of you out there who might still be tempted to grab a hanky and cry on my behalf, I did fall in love again, and was lucky enough to be loved back!  So smiles all around.

Now having ranted on for so long with the above, I think I will leave my research notes on the tell-tale body language signs of someone being in love with you for another day.  There are some really interesting pieces of information, that one should be aware of.  They could have helped me no doubt at the time, but something tells me, I still would have jumped in feet first!

Please leave a comment, if something comes to mind, other than the fact that 120 Socks is a lunatic, a loving lunatic mind, cause I know that already!

Toy Memories

Since starting on Twitter I have learned lots - first thing I've learned is you need to be disciplined about your time on it, otherwise your whole writing/working/living day could disappear!

I will post some handy tips soon about the pitfalls to avoid, however this post is about something more endearing, wonderful, engaging and hopefully will receive back as many darn good memories as 'what you dreamt about being as a little person,' proved to receive.

Anyhow, another gem idea from Ethel Rohan (if you are not follwoing her on twitter, then do) was asking about your favourite childhood toy, and seeing as how I noticed other Tweeters (not sure if that is the proper term) also talking about this yesterday, I took it as a 'sign' for a blog post, as signs are always good, and for the most part should be followed.

So here it is - Question- When you think of childhood, what toy comes to mind?

Mine was a yellow duck on wheels that I could pull along -  it went missing in the way that toys mysteriously do, and my little girl brain has held on to it ever since.  Whether it was the toy itself, the whole moving, following you part of it, or whether is was because it went missing. that caused it to shoot  to number one spot in my memory, I will never know, but sure isn't that the mystery of life.

So here's your chance - get that memory out, share it, I know I am looking forward to reading it.

Also just to add here, I've spent 20 minutes trying to get as close an image to my yellow duck as possible, the connection is still strong - I didn't find the right one, but this is the closest with the extra little ducks for family - put away the hankies, I will recover soon, honest!

Happy Sunny Tuesday!

When I was Small

I saw a nice message on twitter earlier asking 'when you were little, what did you want to grow up to be.'

And I got to wondering if these early dreams ever really go away.  I tried hard to think back and remember my little girl dreams and this is what I came up with.

I remember wanting to be a glamorous famous singer.  Shocking really, the goals we set ourselves, especially seeing as how I don't have a note in my head, (no really), even Happy Birthday is a struggle for me, especially when I get to the higher notes.  Of course this sent me on another tangent, wondering if we are inclined to wish for things we can never have or be. 

Answer: Probably only those of us that have a desire to beat ourselves up over the impossible!
(I come in and out of this category depending on mood and weather.)

Anyhow, I remember wanting to be a teacher,  own my own bookshop, the latter being a really big ambition of mine as there were times that the secondhand book shop near where we lived, felt like a home away from home.  It was the love of books that set into my head a dream of being a writer some day, and perhaps seeing my book on a shelf, all new and interesting, with my name on it. 

Also, I wanted to fall in love, get married, have a family.  Luckily, very luckily for me, I was blessed on that score.

Now I don't so much mind not being a teacher, I got some practice rearing my children, nor do I mind very much not owning a bookshop because, I can still visit them and relive that excitement all over again, but seeing my book on a shelf, well that ambition will never go away, which kind of makes me believe, that little girl dreams will always live on.