Fearless Girl

     I think we've covered how much fun I had over the festive period. If this were a film, we would now cut to a montage of me crying, staying in bed, listening to Madness on repeat, having an eight hour bender with my Mum the day after my birthday, opening the fridge door & shrugging before closing it again, chain-smoking, staying up into the wee small hours and then an absolute storm surge of wine.

     And then, just at the end, before it fades to darkness, one other little image would creep in too. A little image of a little thing (no, not me). A small statue that I've never seen in person, probably never will. A tiny thing, a seemingly insignificant thing, a silent thing that nevertheless speaks to me and holds my hand in the bleakest of moments.

     Her. Fearless Girl. I love this figure so, so, so, so SO much. I love her, just for being her. I love her boot clad feet standing apart, her fists planted on her hips, her chest out, her chin jutted up, the calm defiance of her face. I love the way the billowing of her clothes suggests movement, the sway of her ponytail. I love how even with that susurration of a breeze doesn't distract from the fact that she is planted solidly, ready to take on whatever is coming at her.

     Then you do see what is coming at her, or perhaps considering taking her on. Older than her, bigger, stronger, heavier, seemingly more dangerous, unpredictable & ferocious, harder, more powerful. The Bull of Wall Street was there first, intended to represent all of those aggressive, macho tendencies, that need to overpower and conquer, to be ruthless and feared.

     This girl came along with her response. To stand in front of something meant to intimidate her, something she can have no hope of defeating, and her response is instead to stand her ground and with every fibre of her being say simply 'I am here.' In contrast to her small, slight frame, the bull now looks clumsy, dull witted and lumbering, his body turned as if he's no longer ready to charge, but is weighing up his options as this girl stands there and says 'I am not afraid of you.'

     And somehow I know with absolute certainty that if he did decide to run at her, she would prevail. Either he would screech to a halt at the final moment or she would neatly sidestep – possibly even with an arm flourish of faux-politeness – and again, he would be the wrong-footed one, not this bold girl facing down the world with no hint of fear, her dress rippling, hair swinging, her boots linking her to the position she defends. For all of her lack of stature, she is stronger than than the Statue of Liberty, because she has freed herself of gestures and of being scared. You could bounce rocks off her, but I doubt you'd even consider it.

     I love her. She's become iconic, and I also appreciate she's been controversial too. Even as I write this, despite what I've just written about her refusal to back down and move away, she is, ironically, doing just that very thing and will no longer be facing her formidable foe. No pasa nada. She'll still be out there somewhere, that spirit and blithe determination living on, inspiring and encouraging others to follow her lead. Her beauty lies not in her face, but in her power, not in her size, but in her strength.

     When it comes to fearsome vs fearless, I'll always back fearless. For she is small but mighty.

It must be love

     The Blondies weren't with me for Christmas. A bit longer than that, really. They left the day before my birthday (which is 22^nd December, just in case you'd unaccountably forgotten to add it to your diary), and they didn't come back until the 27^th. That's an awfully long time to be on your own, and a fairly painful one too.

     I'm not bleating in the hope of sympathy. My family offered, in various ways, to host me, and I refused all offers. Because if I can't be with those whom I love most, then I don't want to be with anyone. Alone I can choose to sleep or not, eat or not, get dressed or not, drink (yeah, there was never going to be a 'not' attached to that one) or just sink into misery and cry endlessly, sitting on the second bottom step of the stairs, reflecting on everything that has, could, and will go wrong. Again there is no 'not' attached to that scenario. It happened. Quite a few times.

     But I tried not to let it, or at least not to give into it too much. The temptation to listen to tear jerking music so that I could descend into solo self pitying snivelling was strong with this one. But I Jessed up as much as I could, listened to endless podcasts, went into hiding on social media because I didn't want pity. Trust me, I was already wallowing in that. I attempted to only listen to happy, upbeat music instead, to at least provide one less excuse for leaving discarded tissues all over the house.

     Trying to stave off insanity, I plunged headlong into madness. Divine Madness, the soundtrack to my childhood and early teenage years, introduced to me by my brother, and never unloved since. The first nine tracks take me back to being 13, playing Sonic 2 on the megadrive with my best friends, glasses of Ribena in front of us, right up to track 10. It's such a simple song.

 I never thought I'd miss you

half as much as I do.

And I never thought I'd feel this way,

the way I feel about you.

     I can't quite write those words without having to swallow a bit too hard. Idiot. But sometimes the simplest lines are – like love – the best. They cut through pretentious, self-conscious referencing or airy-fairy metaphors, to what is open, direct, honest. What is true. And sometimes it is as easy as a hot knife slicing through butter.

     I could write on and on about love, about how it feels, what it is, how it changes us forever. I could tell you all of that, and god knows I have done in the past, self-indulgently and at length. But it really is the simplest of things that convey our truest feelings – a look, a handhold, an understanding. An appreciation of what someone gives to us, even unknowingly. It seems so little, yet means so much. But being small doesn't mean it's not mighty.

     How can it be that we can say so much without words? Because we know. Because when The Blondies finally came home, they followed me around the house like a pair of not so little turtle doves, gently cooing, and I quietly, secretly rejoiced. Loves of my life, I don't need to say it, do I? You know. You know what it must be. It is madness, to love you as much as I do. But to me, it and you are divine. Promise.

Time wounds all heals

     We went to Horsey Gap to see the seals. Along with pretty much every other person in Norfolk, or so it seemed. Christ, it was mobbed. The slowest part was just inching down the track into the car park, and then following the traipsing hordes up onto the dunes, where you're securely held back by constantly having to sidestep family groups, and are, in any case about half a mile from the seals. Compared to Winterton or Blakeney Point, both of which have utterly captivated us all over the years, this was decidedly underwhelming.

     The Girl expressed this most openly, by sulking and trudging and saying 'when can we just GO?' because that always improves a situation, and makes everyone in the vicinity radiate patience and joy. But not too long after this, both Mum & I conceded she had a point and began the walk back to the car, our route taking us past that familiar Norfolk landmark, a coastal pillbox. Usually rubbish strewn, graffitied, left to moulder away in the landscape, smelling of wee. This one was no exception.

     But maybe it was. Built as a solid, squat, defensive structure, over 70 years on the Norfolk coast had done its work, and the outer shell had been weathered and beaten into submission, revealing the structure beneath, which again, faced with the elements had begun to buckle and corrode, facing outwards like an offensive weapon, not the protective construction it was once supposed to offer.

     Sharp, curling, cruel little spikes rippling metal, perfectly placed to take out the eye of some unwary seal porn enthusiast, or catch on your coat, or scrape the legs of those children whose parents thought it would be a perfect #makingmemories photo opportunity and had hefted their offspring up onto the roof of the pillbox without quite formulating a plan as to how to get them down again (clue: not easily). Prongs really, to hack into delicate flesh, to catch and harm. The hurt beneath the benevolence, the steel beneath the outer skin. That which is its strength and support is also that which damages.

     'Well now' I thought to myself. 'there's a HANDY METAPHOR. That something that from a distance looks blunt and solid has been so ravaged by time and passing circumstance that when viewed up close proves to have scars and open wounds that are in themselves capable of wounding. But you have to be close enough to see that, to feel that. That's the only way it will touch you, or you touch it, although everything in you screeches 'noli mi tangere'. Or in my case JESUS CHRIST THE GIRL DON'T PUT YOUR FACE THERE EVEN AS A JOKE.' Not that I'm anxious or anything.

     But it is a handy metaphor. We hurt the ones to whom we are closest, or those we touch. We let them in, or let them near, and they see us in our weather, eroded state, the cracks showing, spikes and all. And that it why it hurts, and that is why sometimes we are cautious – because we fear being hurt again. And that's also why sometimes it's so familiar that we forget the danger of not approaching things as delicately as we should. We assume familiarity equals safety.

     You just know I'm going to end this with some other kind of clunking great metaphor, don't you? Yep. Because having tested if a certain prong was indeed at a level certain to take her eye out, The Girl turned to me and said scornfully 'It's totally blunt Mum. Not sharp at all. It just looks like it should be.'