Fi Phillips

I was once accused of 'holding court' when out with a group of friends. At the time I didn't really know what he meant. Later on, he explained that I had a habit of pulling people in with my way of speaking. My father did the same. He would talk of memories of his childhood - Rosie the working horse who refused to be ridden by the small boy my father had been, the ghostly cow, the accidental job on a steamer - and paint a picture in my mind's eye. This is one difference between writers and non writers. We remember and recount our memories like a story, filling in the gaps of sound and smell and colour. Whereas our non writing counterparts remember in disjointed details, we paint the entire canvas. So let me paint you some pictures, some memories, that I've shared on this site with you: the disapproving lecturer - Write It Proud the support of friends - My Small Kindness the old lady at the door - A scary (true) story for Hallowe'en Now it's you...

Monday was the birthday of my late father, Charlie. He would have been 88 years old. That's him in the photo, standing in a street in York with my mum. He was an ever supportive influence in my life, softly spoken, strong, thoughtful and eternally optimistic. He was probably better thought of and more kindly remembered that he realised. He was a hard worker, my dad. He was also a dreamer, full of ideas and thoughts. He did his best to improve himself so that he could support his family which often meant we only saw him at weekends, a treasured forty eight hours when family time was spent out walking, maybe driving in the countryside, or in the garden. A country lad at heart, my father usually found a way to drag us out into nature. When he retired, my father decided to research his family history. I can remember the trips he took to London and Edinburgh (sometimes with my mum and on other occasions alone) and holidays spent traipsing through overgrown graveyards in Scotland. ...