Fi Phillips

Years ago (decades actually), I attended a writing class run by a local poet, Pat Borthwick. I was the youngest attendant by far. Pat's classes centred around using our life experience and memories as a subject and basis for our writing. Homework would often require us to tap into our life - one Sunday morning, a poem using symbols to describe a loved one, a holiday memory. The others in the class, including Pat herself, had a wealth of experiences to call on and I quickly came to realise how describing what some might consider to be a mundane act could often lead to a fascinating read. By comparison, my own life experience seemed, if not boring, then limited and pale. I felt I had few memories to offer up that would make for an entertaining tale. Move on around ten years and I started to write murder mystery plays for the am dram group I was part of. Based around a known cast and a familiar stage, what started as a way to fund a hobby quickly turned into a business I loved (an...

My parents had what I see as a traditional marriage. My father was in charge of the money. My mother was in charge of the house, and me. She was one of those people who tended to just put her head down and get on with things.Of course she had a good moan about all the work she had to do, from time to time, but for the most part she was very good at looking after us both. My father and I always had clean clothes and food on the table. Everything we needed from packed lunches to polished shoes to appointments made was provided for us. One task she did hand over though was decorating the Christmas tree. When I was a very small child we had a green tinsel tree. That's the best way I can describe it. It's branches were adorned with what seemed to be green shredded paper. It always looked rather threadbare when we removed it from its box. The magic came when we added tinsel and baubles. I don't know where the baubles came from, whether they had belonged to my grandparents o...