Our City Our Stories Anthology (2024)

Our city our stories

CHAPTER 1. YOUR STORIES: Works submitted by Our City Our Stories workshops participants

CHAPTER 2. BILBOROUGH LIBRARY: Selection of works by writer in residence Peter Rumney

CHAPTER 3. THE MEADOWS LIBRARY: Selection of works by writer in residence Leanne Moden

CHAPTER 4. ST ANN’S VALLEY LIBRARY: Selection of works by writer in residence Jay Sandhu

CHAPTER 5: SOUTHGLADE PARK LIBRARY: Selection of works by writer in residence Thom Seddon

CHAPTER 6: RADFORD LENTON LIBRARY: Selection of works by writer in residence Paula Rawsthorne

CHAPTER 7: DALES CENTRE LIBRARY: Selection of works by writer in residence Sonya Hundal. ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

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INTRODUCTION

Our City, Our Stories is an inventive creative project, all about gathering local stories from Nottingham residents, and sharing those stories in creative ways. Led by Nottingham City of Literature and Nottingham City Libraries, this project took six writers and invited them to work in six local libraries:

BILBOROUGH LIBRARY

THE MEADOWS LIBRARY

ST ANN’S VALLEY LIBRARY

SOUTHGLADE PARK LIBRARY

RADFORD-LENTON LIBRARY

DALES CENTRE LIBRARY

Each writer worked with local communities, gathering stories about our lives, our spaces and ourselves. This digital anthology is the culmination of the project, and features stories, poems and other writing from people across the city.

Thank you to everyone who submitted a piece of writing to the anthology – your work is wonderful, and we couldn’t have made this without you. Thank you to Ruth Lewis-Jones for managing the project, and to Paty Bennett at Nottingham City of Literature for all her support. Thank you to the librarians at all six libraries for welcoming us so graciously into their spaces. And thank you to the writers: Sonya Hundal, Paula Rawsthorne, Peter Rumney, Jay Sandhu and Thom Seddon, who devised workshops, gathered stories, and inspired people to share!

Leanne Moden

Chapter 1: your stories

Stardust

Linda Woodcock

Sprinkle lots of kindness everywhere you go

Sow a seed of hope and watch a smile grow

Spread a little sunshine what a difference it would make

if we walked along life’s winding path trailing stardust in our wake.

Grandson

Sue Byrne

He is a guitar, sleek and slim. A rounded individual, with many tunes still to play.

He is a bottle of still, cool, refreshing water. A neurodivergent, knowledgeable, soul, Drip feeding information to those interested.

He is an Oreo biscuit, Sandwiched between strong beliefs and music. Sometimes crumbly

He is a plectrum, picking his path through life, In his own unique way.

Reflections on Pride

Annette

‘Sing if you’re glad to be Gay- I’m so happy to be this way’ sang Tom Robinson a decade or 3 ago

My best male friend & favourite dance partner in the 80s called himself “ A Proud Derby fairy “ - I hope repeating this outdated term in our more enlightened times - won’t cause any offence - because - Derby for short -revelled in his Fairy-ness, his Gay-ness and it opened up for me (being of curious nature) an interesting & fun new world.

For example, I had no idea that someone determined on the term “Gay” as it stood for “Good as You”

And didn’t know about gay clubs - so Derby decided to take me to a few- most notably - in Liverpool with 1 of his straight male friends

It was crazy fun, a myriad of pounding music and colour- quite educational - I saw so many different kinds of outfits, lots of leather and of course drag queens- not much visible on TV back then.

Derby introduced me to different people; everyone was warm & friendly - I don’t think I’d ever had so many hugs from complete strangers before

I look back fondly on those years - I was a union representative in a civil service job during the Miners’ strike and Derby was a fellow union activist and so we stood on picket lines together more than once.

So, it’s a sad memory how Derby became my 1st Gay discrimination in the workplace ‘Personal case’ - he’d been promoted to another office and subjected to pointed remarks about Rock Hudson & Aids. I’m proud to have helped him return, keeping his grade- back to our friendlier - much more open- minded office.

Fast-forward to this century’s noughties and being invited to Brighton’s Pride celebrations with my partner and daughter. We were watching the drag queen’s getting ready- to my delight my then 6-year-old daughter Katherine -told the Drag Queen’s Compare he reminded her of the gorgeous red-haired River Song character in Dr Who. To the happy delight of the Queen Compere.

Pride can be very useful in many ways I believe - it helps us accept our personal worth, our achievements, it supports us to stand up again when in pain, such as after being dumped by a partner when we find ourselves pushed into a corner where we do not deserve to be.

So, I’m very proud of the battles fought by Gay friends past and present- many of them so well characterised in the hilarious & brilliant film ‘Pride’- my absolute favourite film.

If you haven’t watched it- please do. It is a heart-warming true story of ground- breaking new friendships formed between the most unlikely groups of people, at that time- a true celebration reminding us how far the Pride movement has brought us - as well as making us aware of how much further there is to go.

A Better Class

Nimrod

“It won’t buy you friends – not any amount of money.”

Edgar walked out of the office with that parting shot ringing in his ears. He didn’t answer. As Eric Morcambe famously said, ‘There’s no answer to that.’ Why bother answering anyway? With colleagues like that who needs enemies? Especially people who were going nowhere, socially or professionally and didn’t understand why. There had been an endless series of petty squabbles over petty privileges and who had the most experience. In reality, they’d had about ten years in most cases, more accurately about a year‘s worth repeated ten times, and they’d never moved on. He had had six months of the Research Office and that was more than enough.

“We don’t do favours here. We’re about achievement – smart objectives, that’s what we’re all about.”

That’s what they were told at Induction. There was a nifty little infra-red device underneath the desk to remind you about that. It checked up how much time you spent away from your desk and reported it if it seemed too long. Another gadget checked on the number of key depressions per hour and which screens workers were looking at. All part of ‘management’s right to manage’ or mismanage as the case may be, but let’s not go into that. At least it’s over now, thought Edgar, clutching a battered suitcase with the contents of his desk as he strode to the lift. The only way now is upwards. There are people in college who are friendly enough and the new job in Outside Broadcasts can only be an improvement. Irregular shifts, true, lots of travel at short notice but at least I won’t be bored, less boring work, hopefully no boring people. More cash too. No need to buy friends if you’re among decent people anyway. Go for it!

College has been the main thing that’s kept me sane. A feeling that I’ve actually been achieving something, even if paying the fees has meant I’ve been permanently broke and it’s a cheap place to go to relax in an unfamiliar city when you’re broke like I am. References are handy too, especially when they’re from people who work for B.B.C. and might actually do you some favours if you play your cards right. It’s a friendly act even if they’re not personal friends.

Edgar headed down towards the Thames and a tavern he knew there. It was a homely sort of place tucked away up a side street but there was still an interesting view of the Thames from the upstairs bar. There was cheap cask beer there and a relaxed atmosphere where you could feel confident about talking to other drinkers, Journalists, folk from video studios, struggling photographers and painters, jewellers, potters. There were aspiring writers – people on the up and up, others flatlining, in recovery mode, Thames barge dwellers, cruisers, drifters, floaters, take-meas-you find-mes and people who didn’t seem to fit in anywhere in particular. Quite my style Edgar thought. I can just go in there as me and not necessarily be the same person twice running and nobody from the office will see me whatever happens. Free from surveillance. No professional conduct rules. Not their sort of place at all but quite mine. His salary was due in the bank tomorrow he could afford a few drinks; a much better end to the week than heading back to his cramped and dingy flat and escaping from Research needed celebrating.

Not many customers had arrived yet. Edgar tucked himself into a corner seat on the settle where he could gaze at the Thames. He took a couple of mouthfuls of beer and unfolded his newspaper. He speculated about whether he would be doing some work on the river with the Outside crew. Stories often seemed to break in or around the river. Being out in all weathers was part of the new job and perhaps he would see some grisly sights from time to time. Hardship and difficulty tend to draw people closer though – it would probably be a closer-knit team than the one he had just left. Take each day as it comes, that’s the way to do it.

At least there was the weekend to look forward to. Life would look better after a few pints. There might even be somebody interesting to talk to. More interesting than the crowd he had just left anyway; they could hardly be much worse. Best not to think about them –what was done was done.

Edgar thumbed through the newspaper in a desultory fashion. There was nothing to engage him. Politicians pontificating, minor celebrities scandalising and apparently enjoying the notoriety, sad sagas about local villains being called to account, then towards the back, the Personal ads.

Continued overpage

A Better Class (ctd.)

“I’ve had enough of those” thought Edgar. “Amazing how they often write the same things about wanting people who are genuine, committed, sincere, educated – and of course, solvent. Probably all the things the writers aren’t. Alarm bells! That excludes me for the moment, being sovent, perhaps for quite a while. I’ve had some bad experiences with answering those in my time. Let’s not even go there, it will spoil the taste of the beer.” Dropping the paper on the seat beside him he picked up an abandoned magazine. It was a fringe magazine, one of those odd things that appear like mushrooms in odd places and then mysteriously disappear. It might be worth looking at to see if there was a potential story he could steal – a long shot in that sort of mag but worth a look anyway. Might be good for a laugh, you never know. Cheap paper (of course), and it was “a magazine for the alternative community and for the cognoscenti.” Well, fancy that now.

Edgar wondered if he could pass himself off as one of the cognoscenti. It didn’t always sit well with being sincere, genuine and committed etc but it might be profitable and right now he could use some cash. It would be wise to ensure it didn’t involve anything his new employer might not approve of. Fringe magazines come and go, especially ones printed on cheap paper which sometimes didn’t pay up for work done for them. I can remember examples of that thought Edgar – I can remember there were some shady goings on and there was that time when the Police wanted a word, a lot of questions without explaining why they were asking…………… makes me uneasy thinking about that, but then let’s not go there, water under the bridge………at least I hope so………..fortunately. Let’s hope so anyway.

“Have you found something there that interests you then, friend?”

A voice suddenly interrupted his perusal of the magazine. It’s owner was a tall wraith of a man in baggy designer jeans, a straggly pink beard and a red tee shirt inviting the world to Hack It! In jagged purple letters.

“Well, just passing the time and enjoying a quiet pint. Was this your copy?”

“I did bring it, came back for it actually, but you’re welcome to keep it. I printed it and there’s plenty more.”

Say Hi to the cognoscenti thought Edgar. It looks like it. Streuth! I wonder if there’s plenty more like him, never mind the mag. This one’s quite enough to be going on with, more than enough.

“Thanks, it always interesting to see what’s new in print. Just browsing you know, I like to keep up to date.”

“Do you write yourself then? Lots of writers drift in here.”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Edgar admitted. He hoped this wasn’t going over the bench seatingto develop into a shop-talking session. Instinct told him there was something rather seedy about this new arrival; he seemed a bit too sharp and perhaps a ne’er do well on the make. Another pint might make it tolerable though, for a while at least. One pint is good but two would be even better, especially if it’s free.

“Your glass looks a bit sad,” said the tall man, draping himself languorously over the bench seating. I hate drinking alone.”

“Well thanks, that kind of you,” said Edgar.

“There you go then, friend. Wilfred’s the name, and yours?”

“Edgar. I’m between jobs, really. Starting at the B.B.C. on Monday –outside broadcasts crew.”

“Sounds good. Busy sort of job I expect.”

“No doubt. That’s the nature of the beast.”

Face at a Window

Nimrod

The window and the face are both memories now. Memories captured in paint and crayon in a picture that I am not sure still exists, although the memory is vivid enough. It was called David’s Summer and was an image of myself when I was probably about five.

The picture shows me framed in and old fashioned open sash window, standing in the garden of a house called The Fields where we lives in Cheshire during the 1950s. I’m gazing solemly though the window and cradling a single daffodil flower in my arms. I used to entertain my parents in thise days with ideas about what I planned to do “when Summer comes”. The colours are mostly blues and greys with some subdued greens, not especially summery apart from the splash of yellow of the folorn daffodil and the whole picture has a sort of dream-like quality, frozen in time and even my face is greyish, almost as if it had been carved as a statuesque icon in a dark landscape.

Summer in those days usually met wandering around our quater acre garden, amusing myself by building dens in the over-grown hawthorn hedges, investigating objects that previous owners had dumped in the hedge. There was a discarded kettle, complete with a whistle, a shrapnel helmet from the last war, old birds’s nests, assorted broken fence posts and a mysterious curved mound of earth, which had probably once been an Anderson shelter although there was no doorway. The rusty corrugated iron sheets from an old shed which Dad demolished were piled up on this mound not long after we moved in. Our family seemed to hoard building materials in case they came in useful - there was still postwar austerity and money was tight anyway, but I can’t remember most of thise sheets being used for anything much, apart from a few used for an improvised garage for our old Austin 7.

Climbing on top of these and dancing on them made a satisfying clatter when other children from other parts of the village visited, although they didn’t often make the trip down the lane from the village to our house. The picture shows me as solitary and vaguely lost and that’s how I remember much of my childhood there. I was a bit young to do any serious gardening apart from sporadic and inexpert seed sowing and pushing a minature wheel-barrow around in a hopeful fashion. I was probably just in the way for much of the time.

The fields beyond the hedges of our garden were more or less out of bounds. Not long after we moved to that house the local farmer replaced his horse plough and wagon with a tractor plough and combine harvester which was a safety problem for kids. A gap in the hedge with some steps for my benefitprovided a splendid view of the local railway line and it was gratifying to have the train crews return my wave. It all unravelled when unruly youths decided to raid our orchard and the view had to be blocked with thorn branches to keep them out. My parents were careful to ensure that I didn’t get into bad company and certain people were firmly excluded from our garden.

Meadows walks and Marathons

Annette

Dodging hungry pigeons and angry Canada geese, I seek a path between their piles of poo -of varied consistency

Whilst simultaneously ensuring my dog Milly doesn’t venture too near- she has an unfortunate predilection for chasing anything with feathers and here on the Embankment steps, we are heavily outnumbered

Enjoying the air of the river Trent and the sunshine on my face

Am suddenly remembering when I lodged on Wilford Grove and took my landlady’s dog along this very route- but since then I’ve lived in my own house nearly 30 years – so I do find it fascinating and also strangely comforting

That the poo situation hasn’t changed at all

But- Neither has the excitement of our city’s Marathon, except that it has grown in numbers and reputation, attracting runners across our nations and beyond

Pulling Milly yet again away from a group of busy geese, I suddenly smile as I remember I was one of the team of volunteer Marshalls at the finishing line at our very 1st marathon

I walk along the 3rd Embankment step- not sure why it’s nearly always the step I seem to use

And remember:

The very early rising and departure from Hulland Ward, Ashbourne

Me getting our lunches and drinks ready (muttering grumbles)

The lovely drive, with sun on the hedgerows and fields

Then in Nottingham -the confusion of parking

Finding our respective way to where we each needed to be

And for me, a white marquee where I listen to our instructions, and proudly donning my Marshalls tabard

It was heady stuff: there were lots of people- officials in suits, members of the press checking their cameras

The proud mothers helping their sons pin on their runner numbers

Outside the marquee again - I could feel the excited nerves of the younger runners & hear the jokes of the more experienced as they all start to head towards the starting line and listen to the opening speeches

Then they were off!

And the spectators can relax, smile at each other and start chatting

And then - after a time - the half-marathon runners start to appear & I’m busy doing my job, smiling, encouraging and directing

And suddenly there’s a very sweaty boyfriend grabbing me for a very sweaty kiss of achievement, some yards after he’s crossed the finishing line- and just a few wolf whistles from some of the spectators too-

And I do believe I might have blushed

Happy Days

As I am now, back walking along the Embankment, in the Meadows

Milly is happy too- she loves this walk and it’s not every weekend we come here, so she relishes the different smells, sounds and abundance of “feathered friends”- even if she isn’t allowed to chase them

I can sense that she is anticipating when we will reach the Victorian footbridge, walk across it and it’s as if she can really smell the Trent beneath her paws

If I told you that I’ve been sad and lonely for years, I’m not sure what your reaction would be, so rather than try to guess, I’ll just go ahead and tell you my story.

I’ve lived here for three years and this whole time, I’ve not been outdoors. The last time I was outdoors was the day I moved here. I still remember that day. We were all excited about moving. We fantasized about our new lodgings, all the friends we would make and all the adventures we would have. We weren’t even bothered about the long journey or the fact that we were packed so tightly in a van. Adventure was calling and that was enough for us.

When we arrived, we were all taken to different sections and that was when the first strike of loneliness hit me. Some of the friends I had made on the trip had been taken to different sections and I had to start making friends again. From my section, I could see the world outside because there were large wall-to ceiling windows on my side. Some of my friends only got to see walls, while some others were luckier and could see the garden.

Don’t get the wrong idea. We weren’t prisoners though it felt like that sometimes. We were allowed to leave; it’s just that we couldn’t go out on our own. Someone had to take us out and bring us back.

Some of my friends got to leave the very day we arrived and some of them came back after a few days, while others came back weeks later. Some of them even stayed out for months and everyone that went out came back with stories. I really envied them.

One of my friends was picked up by a couple and they kept her for three months. During that time, she travelled all over Europe and when she came back, she had so much to tell us. Another friend of mine was not so lucky. She was left in a dark place and no one spent time with her. After six weeks, she was brought back and she looked really stressed.

I’m beginning to think that my name and the way I look must have something to do with my three-year sojourn.

My name is Trapped and indeed I’m trapped. I’m dressed in grey and burgundy all the time. I wish I could ask Ben Fervour what he was thinking of when he named me and clothed me the way he did. He named others and clothed hem differently and they had all gone out and come back. I’ll be honest and tell you that I was happy when one of those he named came back in such a terrible state that the caretakers said he would not go out again. I thought that was my chance but things just stayed the same.

I’m a book in the library and no one has borrowed me for three years.

My husband’s people

Sue Byrne

My husband’s people were Irish immigrants, bottom of the social scale until the Windrush generation arrived. My husband’s people worked on the railways, in service, built roads, went to mass, paid the priest, collecting for the poor from the poor. My husband’s people left Ireland to escape abuse, poverty and lack of opportunity. They didn’t vote, why bother?

My husband’s people hid stolen goods to supplement wages, not easy in two rooms on Cheltenham Terrace.

My husband’s people didn’t hug or kiss each other.

The family was like an unconnected jigsaw.

My husband’s Dad visited Dublin occasionally to find his stepdad to beat him up.

My husband’s Mum never went back to Buttevant. She ran away at the age of fourteen.

My husband’s people and their children are all dead, but their arrows continue to fly.

ROCKET RANT

Edwina Crowder

I wish that I could count the times that I felt sad when I ordered a salad and it turned out really bad.

A ropy rocket salad served up in all its glory and just to spoil, it swims in oil! It’s every cafe’s story.

Don’t expect spring onions or radishes or beets, a sodden mix of rocket is all you’ll have to eat.

Forget about tomatoes with luscious lettuce leaves and quantities of cucumber cut small in cubes that please.

If I want a salmon steak or pork pie, chips and beans the salad that comes with it is never what it seems.

Just a side of rocket nothing more or less. If you can bear to scoff it you’ll enjoy whatever’s left.

A slimy, soggy salad is not my kind of fun and I believe that rocket leaves would make a rabbit run.

The Abandoned House story development

Family Day

The

Abandoned House - a story from Lego modelling

Elsie, age 8

Once there was an abandoned house. No one ever dared to look inside. One day someone dared to go inside. People waited and waited for them to come back out but no one ever came out.

Someone wanted to see what happened. So they opened the door with a creak and they were horrified at what they saw.

They saw the last person who came in dead with bloodstains on the floor, the arm on the bed, the legs laying down on the floor and the dead on display.

They then saw the mirror on the wall and quickly ran out…But before they could leave something grabbed them and no one ever heard or saw them again…

The End.

The empty photo frame

A poem from objects

Linda Woodcock

The photos were taken on a bright spring day. Our wedding day. A day full of love and light. We were smiling at each other.

The photos were put into a double frame. We were always together....

Until we were not.

Fifty years later I lost him. His photo had faded to nothing. The photo of me was grainy almost, transparent.

When my children came to clear the house they found the frame, but the pictures were gone. We were no longer there. We were somewhere else, in a place full of love and light and we were smiling at each other.

A poem from scribbles

Sandra Brader

A stranger walking in the Cold and snow. How far’s he come or How far he will go

He sees a shadow In the corner of his eye He feels so scared as if he might die

He turns his face up to the light Oh says he, what a beautiful sight The relief the joy the feelings of tears

Now he can get the bus home And have a few beers

she stopped

A poem from scribbles, by Linda

Coulson

She stopped right in the middle of the room. She started to think why am I here feeling rubbish? I could be doing this or that.

And yet I here am. Feeling. Looking. Seeing. Hearing other people’s opinions of me.

I must move on. I want to know how other people see me. If only I had more time.

She decided to get a new group of people. And then started to listen again. With fresh eyes, fresh nose, mouth, ear, eyes…

She Stopped story development

The street is quiet no

A poem from scribbles, by Linda Woodcock

silent too quiet too silent. I feel a disquiet not quite fear. Angel or demon? Which one?

Walk on the other side where it is safer away from him but he can see me and I can see him. So close now I see his eyes the window to his soul

The street is quiet no - story development

The Sun Burst Into Tears

Poems from objects and drawings by Year 6 students, Melbury

Primary School

Mysterious Boat

Bodies circled the gloomy island raining heavy boats struck by lightning people crush into shore the bodies lie on the dusty beach the birds circled the body’s darkness

The Burning City

Fiery flames, ear-piercing screams Waves crashing against the rocks crassh crassh Distraught people on their knees

The blue ember glowing brightly But she was tied up so tightly

The Mysterious Boat – story development

The Burning City – story development

Copper Knight

Now the sky’s gone

The people have awoke. Hear the monster’s bones crack in the wind.

The suit shines bright

However the night doesn’t glisten Listen to the armour cling in the Persons possessions

The Terror of War Screaming terror crying no one survived. Loneliness destined to claim land. Everyone died except me. Bodies everywhere flesh scattered on floor

My friends my family on the floor beside me! I’m going crazy

No one survived

The Terror of War – story development

The bottle

A poem from objects

Linda Coulson

I found a bottle on the beach. When I opened it, it was empty. And I thought “The message in the bottle’s gone”. And I thought “I wonder what had happened to it?”

As I looked around, I saw an island, and two people walking to the island. And I thought “I wonder what they’re doing here?”

And in the hand of one of the people, a man, I could see a bit of paper. And I thought “That’s the message out the bottle!” I knew it was the paper from the bottle.

As I watched, I could see them setting up a fire. They were putting drinks on an old tree trunk. They sat down. I could see him holding the message up. I knew it was the paper from the bottle.

The man was reading something from it to the other person. I really wanted to see it. But I couldn’t get to the island because the sea had come in. They were cut off. I couldn’t get to them.

In the morning I came back and there they was, the couple were coming off the island.

As they were walking from the island, in the hand of the person, him, he’d got a piece of paper.

The man still had the paper in his hand. And I thought ‘What have they been talking about all night?’

And as they stopped, they kissed. Or they done something, I can’t remember now. And he threw the paper down. And I thought “That’s the bit of paper out the bottle! I’d love to get it”.

And it was misty, it was rainy. Anyway, as they walked off I ran over, picked up the bit of paper. And guess what.

I couldn’t really see what was on the paper. But the man had removed some of the writing, in fact every other word.

I could only see every other word. It didn’t make sense.

I wonder where they went.

Family Day – ‘The Robot’

A story conversation

Age unknown

Can you tell me the story?

OK.

I just need to think….

Once upon a time there was a factory. And they made a new slimy robot… And they gave the robot to try to get everyone into the bin

Into the bin?

Yes.

The Robot Story development

The robot finally [ ] in the south pole. At night time…It blasted itself to the south pole. He went on the water and on a south pole chunk of ice.

And why did the robot want to go to the south pole?

He wanted to go to the south pole because he loved penguins.

Did he see some penguins there?

He searched all day till he found the penguins.

And then what did he do when he found the penguins?

It’s the end

The Robot final story book

the meadows Library

1970s Medders

Sue Byrne

The barmaid rings the bell, ten thirty. Time gentlemen please. Men reluctantly down their last pint, share their stories, jostle and joke as they return to their tall, terrace houses along Kirke White Street.

Lumbering footsteps announce their arrival home. Some peel off into unlit, dingy entries, others stumble up scrubbed stone steps. Outside toilet doors bang. Dogs bark, cats yowl.

Early next morning women hustle-bustle, collect cellar coal. Prepare breakfast, pack snap tins, in readiness for the man of the house on whose job they depend.

Blue

Amie Postle

A vein of blue tracing a line through the landscape – carving its path past houses and trees then into the Meadows. The life blood of a city built on honeycombs of stone upon stone. A blue tit rests by this river and calls it its home. Feathers that mirror the sky above, the sky that seems to envelop the nature reserve of the Hook, but reaches out as far as the eye can see. This sky reflects in the ripples and movement of the river, brightening its dark depths, shimmering with iridescence in the summer sun.

Early Morning

Ferzana Shan

Peace and quiet, dark with a hint that the light of dawn will soon break through. A stillness in the air, holding the space as the inhabitants of this piece of ground lie asleep. Drugged by their physical slumber, the homo sapiens lie safe in their beds, Paralysed and made incapable by the power of the night.

A car engine gently revs as an early bird gets going, starting their day before dawn break. Birds silent but slowly stirring, their musical chirping will soon ring through.

The tall, strong trees, with their bare branches, still and poised, enforcing the silence on the cul de sac.

A light shines through windows on. The odd house or two. The inhabitants are at home, or so the light suggests.

The only presence is the cold, crisp air silently hanging in the void we call space. Enveloping each and every house and building.

Out in the distance is a lit-up motherboard –the city as it appears from my hill-top house.

Mum’s Trifle

Edwina Crowder

Mum and Dad celebrated fifty years of happy marriage. Time has flown by like a whirlwind through our lives, leaving thousands of memories in its wake. My parents are now silver-haired but just as glamorous a couple as they were when they were young, in their post-war wedding photograph.

Early childhood flashed by in moments: birthdays blowing out candles, Christmases lighting up the Christmas tree, summers with picnics on the beach. And with every event, was Mum’s trifle. Yes, even picnics featured Mum’s trifle in picnic form, scooped up into little cardboard cartons.

We adored Mum’s trifle and on her Golden Wedding Day it was spectacular. A precious photo to remind me shows my lovely teenaged daughter, eyes wide, scoffing up mountains, as if she hadn’t eaten for six months and was having a feast.

Nobody created a better trifle than Mum: sponge cake layered with jam, jelly, an unmeasured portion of sherry liberally poured over the mix, pink strawberry blancmange and – for its crowning glory – lashings of double whipped cream topped with fresh strawberries and chocolate chips. However, for this special day she added cherries too, Maltesers, chocolate buttons and chocolate chips.

My daughter looked like me at seven years old on Christmas Day. Eyes bigger than tummy, devouring the magic dessert. I couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, cherishing the delicious taste, making it last and last – until I was sick.

It was always my Dad’s favourite story, whenever friends visited, or I brought a boyfriend round, or when I introduced my future in-laws to my family.

Made in my Great-Grandmother’s Edwardian cut-glass punchbowl, my Mum’s trifle could feed an army. And, together with its beautiful memories, that punchbowl now has pride of place on my daughter’s table top in her home.

Embankment Summer 1979

Andrea Lucy-Hirst

A tree-lined walk on a sultry day. The river has a slow-arched curve and from the bridge, you can see where you’re headed.

The children moan ‘That’s a long way’ heels will be dragged except for an ice cream van then they are whippets with coins in pockets for a ninety-nine and a strawberry rocket.

The day has its own clarity. You wished you’d brought a picnic see yourself as that family sat in lush grass, eating and laughing. A family you know you are not.

Countdown the steps, sit a while watching the movement of water the rhythmic splash of a canoe cutting its strokes with certaintyyou would like that.

Strawberry-lipped, ice cream-crusted smiles what has been distant is facing us now.

What My Village Is Not

Barbara Hallam

Grey, Victorian tenements… not silent, dusty Cedars of Lebanon. Squeezed-in terraces… not beach space and tangy air. Front doors stand to attention… not delicate, open cheery blossom. Disparate of people… not chatter on the wing.

Back-to-back yards, lines and lavatories… not shriek and quickening of children. Bricks and terraces solidify the village… not Sherwood Forest green and glen. Incongruous silence, empty of people… not the bristle and buzz of nectar trees. Nearby stench of disinfected butchery sawdust… Not the stripe of running deer, tempered by luxurious leaf.

Washing from scullery flaps in walled-out breeze… not the gentle swing of purple-lantern, unsprung banana pods. A neighbour calls “Come sit on my lap” … not a moment away from my little tin bus. Sickly sweetness of the bon-bon jars… not the wholesome aroma of bakery bread. St Anne’s, church spires of sanctity and coloured-glass gospels… not a home, but living in rooms.

Vanishing Lady Feather Picture

David Hunter

I coveted it as a link to my childhood, not just as an attractive picture, which it undoubtably was.

My sister grudgingly muttered “Go on, then.” And that’s exactly what I did.

I’d always assumed it was coloured glass or enamel, if I thought about it at all. It was just a potent image linking me to the past, like some of the photographs and (much later) letters, which passed to me when my sister died and were brought to me by my cousin. There was an attaché case full of old letter from my Dad, from late in his war service.

It was valued as one of the few relieving patches of colour in a drab, post-war world of magnolia emulsion, mostly brown and grey clothes, and endless queues people habitually joined in the forlorn hope that there might be something worth buying and the supply would not run out before you reached the end of it.

I never discovered where the lady in the picture was supposed to be going, leaving or heading to the castle in the background, arrayed in all her court finery. Was there a story at all? I never discovered. But it’s not necessary to understand things or know chapter and Verse to value them and enjoy them. I only look at the picture occasionally, but it’s good to know it is there.

Will anyone value the Vanishing Lady after my time? One of life’s imponderabilities. Certainly it’s unknowable what it will mean to them. Works of art change in significance and value depending on who owns them. Flint knives are curiosities and relics of a crude and distant past. To the makers, they probably meant survival, status, power, perhaps mystical power that we can only guess at. Yet they are decorative in their own way, quite apart from their utility.

Creators of any artefact have no control over how what they produce will be used or appreciated by others. Browning once sad that when he wrote a particular verse, only God and Robert Browning knew what it meant. Now God held the secret to himself.

Edges

Becky Saunois

The puddle on the step of the stairs of the railway station.

The water will quench the thirst of that small bird flying around.

I will be quiet, so as not to disturb him. Last time I was late, and the time before that, it was icy.

I had held tight to the rail and even though I had some time that day, I dare not return to the ice for fear of breaking my leg.

Today, the trains lines are clear and constant and move towards and then alongside the platform.

We – that is the other passengers – move towards the edge of the platform and then, together, step onto the train.

Ready to take us to the next part of our journey.

phone alarm

Annette Watts

MEEP MEEP MEEP MEEP

My alarm goes off – I groan in response – its Meeps are quite insistent

My alarm is on my phone.

Err Where is my phone?

It should be plugged in, to charge overnight I’d deliberately bought a white plug and a 2-metre-long white cable, so that I could see where my phone was, on the end of it

Of course, it’s likely fallen off the table; the table which serves as my office and also as my bedside table

It’s a busy area.

Hunting for my phone, I realise it’s vibrated itself towards – and then off – the corner of said table and must be under my bed

I groan for the second time

This means exiting my cosy, three-duveted bed – I must leave it’s all-embracing warmth & take a look into the dark recesses of the Narnia-like space that exists beneath

My phone is still in alarm-mode – and thus it continues its shrill message to “GET UP!”

It’s as if it is shouting at me – this is personal

And then – suddenly I can see it – my phone

It is wedged between the Bart Simpson two-litre storage box, containing all my old & spare bits of (largely misunderstood) IT, mobile accessories & digital cameras – and my under-the bed documents storage box.

With a gleeful swoop – I can at last switch off the alarm’s MEEPs … and do

BUT I find myself emitting another – my third deepest and most heartfelt – groan

Because as I switched off the alarm, I saw the time – 6.00 A.M. I had completely forgotten to switch it for my usual Tuesday morning’s 07.00 A.M alarm

I have lost an entire hour’s sleep on this cold, grey, winter morning

(And I swear I can sense my phone is smirking)

An Imposter Paella Wedding Breakfast

Fiona Linday

As peacekeeper at our daughter’s wedding, there simply could be no arguments. So, I waltzed back to my kitchen to prepare an easily digestible, plain cheese sandwich for an awkward old dear. Meanwhile, I had to reassure our other guests that there was no problem whatsoever with the paella and that they should keep relishing it. We also provided a vegetarian potato curry, so there were a couple of tasty, savoury dishes.

This kerfuffle came after the wedding party tucked into our succulent feast. That was all apart from an opinionated elderly relative who ungratefully spat out her first mouthful. She howled, “ Oh no! That’s just not right!” Her reaction implied that we should jettison our laden plates and immediately discard them into the recycling bin before catching salmonella. So, I raced over to soothe her, only to hear her announce, “I simply can’t consume this paella as it is just not authentic. They have added that foul, fatty chorizo sausage. I’ll be up all night with stomach ache!”

Weeks before, we approved the caterer’s version of paellaincluding pancetta, chorizo, garlic, thyme, and chilli spices added to the pork, chicken and seafood. On the big day, the caterer had carefully chopped the meats and flaky white fish into bite-sized morsels to retain a mouth-watering texture. Also, the light, chewy octopus illumined saffron yellow rice. Then, the cook delicately garnished the precooked, vibrant-coloured ingredients with chopped parsley. She dotted rosy king prawns to decorate the rice pan, which smelled like the beach when kept hot by a gas bottle flame. A fruity citrus aroma floated across the paddock as she squeezed over juice from lemon wedges, and voila! The taste was delicious. Our accomplished cook proudly dished up the rice sensation on wooden plates to the line of excited queuing guests. We should have considered being unable to please all of the people. What could possibly go wrong?

However, since spending a sizzling summer on the Costa Del Sol, paella has been one of my favourite go-to meals. That was a few years ago before delicacies such as chorizo sausage sneaked into our kitchen. Still, we were confident in the exuberating flavours. Thus, this staple family dish, served in a huge circular carbon steel flat pan with two handles, was the main flavoursome course at my daughter’s festival wedding.

At least, almost all of us happily devoured her exotic wedding breakfast.

Not Mutton Dressed as Lamb

Fiona Linday

A claim to fame is I was born at home at Coppice Road, Arnold. It seems fitting to a tree friend to make a link. So, Nottingham City was home for my infancy until my growing roots stretched out to the southern suburb of West Bridgford, for my early years. There, my favourite garden tree was an early blossoming purple lilac. That is where my sister and I hung a blanket over a low bough to form a sweet-smelling play tent.

As a teen, my branches naturally sought nourishment at the village of Plumtree. We swung from a tyre to a mighty Horse Chestnut branch which produced shiny conkers to entertain us. That is also where I learnt about the circle of life. Dad bottle-fed a few kayed lambs, and I joined in their care. I foolishly named them the Three Musketeers. Then I was too busy with senior school peer pressure to notice the odd sheep rustling. Inevitably, once the lambs matured into sheep on our smallholding, their destiny was for the dinner table.

Being naive meant I learnt the hard way- my boyfriend invited me over for Sunday lunch with all the trimmings. Slow roasted with rosemary and garlic, the tender leg of lamb was delicious, doused in meat juice gravy laced with freshly chopped mint. I admitted to my future mother-in-law how much I enjoyed the darker, crispy outside bits by nibbling seconds. Before I noticed her widening grin, “You’re most welcome,” she admitted. “The lamb was locally grown.”

Of course, the chuckle extended around her dining table to my intended, “Larry was absolutely delicious, wasn’t he?” I remember elbowing him before returning home to count my sheep. For a week or two, I declared myself vegetarian. Sadly, travelling on the bus to town and visiting the Exchange Walk health food shop to chew on liquorice root did not fulfil my appetite for protein. Eventually, I accepted that our lambs had a good innings - receiving many handheld treats to fatten them up before they went for the chop. Later as a parent, spicy curried lamb samosas often graced our farmhouse kitchen table satisfying my children’s tastes. We were complete with an apple tree orchard to provide tangy crumble puddings. So, I could not resist those flavoursome treats. My plump shape reflected my tastes.

Then, I swung in a hammock under our current pear tree with grandchildren. From the smell of lamb on them after devouring handfuls of moussaka at their nursery, I was reintroduced to the delightful moussaka aroma. That overpowering rich smell was addictive to the point I regularly prepared the wholesome dish, in our salt and pepper-haired setting. And, at our downsized castle by the canal, my husband coppiced the overgrown hawthorn and bramble bushes to replace them with mixed standard whips. So, appreciating a few productive trees has borne fruit for my family.

One day, I will plant an elder tree with its fragrant flowers and sootdark fruits- the very essence of summer.

Workshop at The Meadows Library

valley

We’ll never know

Everyone

Heat waves

When the sky Falls

Something in the water

Light As a feather

Golden Hour

Lightning Thunder a storm

How far does this road go?

My favourite meal

Beth

At birthdays we would have BBQ spare ribs, burger, corn on the cob with salad and we would really appreciate the whole day.

We would start cooking the BBQ about mid-day start eating about 2 in the afternoon start drinks after that beer for the adults and soft drinks for the kids

Leven and Thoren

Arseima, age 7

First,

When the owner left the house, he left his door open. Then the lion went out of the cave and into the house. When he saw a Tiger in the house, they became friends. Then the owner comes back to the house. When he saw a Lion in the house and the Tiger out his cage.

Donkey

Ceilia Nyaguthii

An animal, Kenyan people would usually use them to carry their items.

Firewood, vegetables and many other things. They carry firewood from the forest to the town which is too far, they seem to be very tired because they don’t eat or drink.

The way they beat them like they don’t feel pain, that hurts me a lot.

Tuesday morning

Bana, age 8

When the mean villain saw a cave and went inside the cave. He saw a scary Bush and a mysterious tree and and then he ate his head and his arms and then the scary Bush ran away and went to another country to go to another cave and then the mean villain does not know where scary bush has gone so he went to eat the mysterious tree that is alive so he cannot starve then he was starving so he had to go to Ross ice and eat all of the trees and then fell sleep

She eat the last cake

Keziah, age 8

One day Chelsy was walking

In the forest

Chelsy met Jesy

He was a cat

They became friends

Chelsy and Jesy

They go

To the playground

They like to play

On the swing

They talk

About their favourite Cake

Nit and Natter

Haiku

Berry Picking

The cottage looms large The suns out, Railway cuttings Me, blackberry-stained fingers

Death of Nelson

I felt the shot, hit French me flags and smoke, I’m down My god, i’m gone, victory

Front Doorstep

Doorstep drinking tea

Slight breeze between cup lip and me Coolness hot summer day

Snow

Water, then patterns Cold are the people that play with me White for all to see

Valentines Day

ESL group

What colour is love?

Red. Rose. The colour of a rose.

What might someone who is proposing do and say?

Dawit- Before in my village they ask your uncle, who will go and ask the family if their daughter wants to marry his nephew, it is tradition.

Joel- When somebody wants to propose marriage they will buy a ring. The man will kneel down and open the ring box and say “Will you marry me?”. I proposed 12 years ago. I am married now, my girlfriend is back in my country (Cameroon). When I proposed she smiled. It was a big surprise for her to hear me say that I wanted to stay with her for all of time. She cried joyful. I said to close her eyes. When she closed them I kneeled down and opened the ring box and then told her to open her eyes.

Elisa- In mine (Honk Kong) the girlfriend never asks about marriage.

Patrick- She will keep it hidden in her heart and wait for marriage.

How is Valentine day celebrated in your country?

Joel- The Valentine’s Day people go to the nice place like the gardens which people sit in a chair and have a glass with family. Its not cold in February, the sun is too hot. They will go for a picnic with balloons, celebrations.

Patrick- The lovers will be together and have a dinner and celebrate with lot of flowers.

Dawit- Only the young lovers will celebrate. The old people don’t care. They celebrate with a restaurant with their girlfriend, give flowers, drink wine.

Elisa- I think that everyday is Valentine’s Day. Not just one day!

Patrick- Youngers cannot afford this too, they have no money.

A Tree is Like A Family

Brenda Pearson

A tree is like a family

The roots go deep into the ground

Branches sprout in all directions

They go everywhere

The roots go deep into the ground

Sometimes to places they shouldn’t go

They go everywhere

Meant to contain surprises

Sometimes to places they should not go

Always an evergreen Meant to contain surprises

Like families, a tree can create problems

Always an evergreen

The roots go deep into the ground

Like families a tree can cause problems

A tree is like a family Chapter 5:

Picture Frame

Sue Thomas

The silver picture frame peeped at me shyly from the charity shop window.

I didn’t need another one. I had many others in the house, but this one was small and dainty. Just right for what I had in mind. I went in the shop, the door’s bell tinkling as I went straight to the desk and asked to see the frame.

It was perfect. My purchase was put in a bag and out I went.

On arrival at home, I searched through my drawers and finally found it. The old photo of my mum as a girl. It was soon inserted behind the glass, proudly set on my mantlepiece in pride of place.

Welcome back, Mum.

My Poem About Snow

Barbara Strickson

I love the snow, it’s fun to me. Little children – and big ones! –making snowballs to throw. The snow looks beautiful when fresh on the ground, crisp and clean.

Coming in from the snow to a warm home, to a hug, makes you feel cosy, makes you feel snug.

It reminds me of ice skating, sledging, Christmas with family and friends, to explore this beautiful season, to share this creativity. Thank you Lord God for your masterpiece. What a sight to see.

My Poem About Snow

Our Stories

Alaa, Ebonie, Jane, Laura, Ruth & Thom Southglade Library Group Poem

We weave stories together on endless threads

The audience who can feel can understand what is written Stories connect us to the rest of humanity Tell us how our life becomes wonderful

A way to bare a small hidden part of our souls Stories bring out people’s emotions

The only way to get others to hear

Stories resonate – rumours, half-truths, quests

All have a place in history

The only way for a truth to be told Stories celebrate our many little links Our woes, our wonders, our peculiarities In the future, in stories, we can flash back to all the fun and peaceful times we had Don’t be scared – share your story

Old Stoneface

Dave Thomas

Old Stoneface is as old as the hills Left on a beach by a mermaid

Made into a broach by a Viking Lost in a raid on Lindisfarne Found in Southglade library Reborn again as Old Stoneface

I Am

Alex, age 14

I am a writer and neat

I wonder how my life will turn out I hear my fans cheer my name I see an ocean of people supporting me I am a writer and neat

I pretend that I will be the next Taylor Swift I feel the stage lights beating on my skin I touch the pen and ink flows out of me I like performing and socialising I am a writer and neat

I know how to do calligraphy I say ‘omg, that’s brilliant’ I dream for success in my teaching career I hope that I can be smarter than Athena I am a writer and neat

I Am

Uswa, age 7

I am a nice and positive person

I wonder why the sky is blue and the grass is green I hear cats meowing around the park I see kids playing on swings and slides I am a nice and positive person

I pretend to be a scary monster I feel happy and kind I touch the paint that is on the wall I like going to the park

I love playing on my swing

I am a nice and positive person

I know how to do my times tables

I say ‘I love you’ I dream about flying anywhere I want

I hope I can teleport one day

I am a nice and positive person

I Am

By Veronica, age 15

I Am

Veronica, age 15

I am quiet and sweet

I wonder about if ghosts are real because to honest, the idea has an appeal I hear the busy noise of people around shopping and walking around town I see the crowd as I’m on stages slowly fade away and soon I get lost in the magic of the play I am quiet and sweet

I pretend I’m famous when I sing along to songs (even though I flick between the long and short ones) I feel alive when I’m performing Being exposed to bright lights and the audience I touch my rabbits soft coat

Silkiness spreading on my fingertips

I like animals

And I wish to speak their language I am quiet and sweet

I know how to act How to become a character I say fun facts, bringing a new subject in a convo that seriously lacks I dream of being on Broadway or being known for all kinds of art For that’s what I want to do in my heart I hope to open a cat café where stray cats can have a home and play

I am quiet and sweet.

Two Weddings

Noraiz, age 9

In October, we went to Pakistan to meet my family. We were invited to a wedding on my dad’s side so we set off there. On the first day of the wedding, we had a celebration called Mehdi but I got too sleepy so I went to rest at my cousin’s house. On the second day (which is called Baraat) we finally met the bride. There was a girl section and a boy section. The bride would sit with the girls and the groom with the boys just in case they did not want to the marry each other! Afterwards, we ate lunch which had many kinds of food and then we went back home. The last day (which is called Walima) we had an imam (a holy person in Islam) who would give questions and the last question was, ‘Do you want to marry?’ After that the groom’s side would take the bride with them if they both accepted it.

We then went to Lahore for another wedding. We had a girl on our side of the family getting married this time. On the first day (Baraat) where we meet the groom the only thing I thought was that it was… BORING! So I got to watch my mum’s phone instead. Then we went in a taxi to my auntie’s house and the last day (Walima) was the most fun part of my trip since I was able to play with my cousins. We went to eat which was yummy, and then the imam came to ask the questions. All the answers were a yes, so the bride was taken with the groom to his house.

After the weddings we packed our stuff and went to the airport to fly to Qatar, which was at least three hours. It was 6a.m. when we arrived there. We waited another four hours and finally it was time to come home to England which took even longer – nine hours! My dad hired a taxi which came to Birmingham airport to pick us up. I slept on the drive back since I was tired. When we reached our house, we took our luggage inside and unpacked. Then after just three days, my dad got a call from his family saying someone had passed away so he went all the way back to Pakistan again!

By Laraya, age 11

Who Am I?

Laraya, age 11

I am smart and kind I wonder about my destiny I hear volcanoes erupting I see unicorns dancing I am smart and kind

I pretend I’m the ultimate werewolf, better than the rest I feel feeling I touch life by being positive I like writing I love music I am a softie

I know how to code I say that I am great I dream big dreams I hope to be famous I am perfect!

Who Am I?

The Library

Thom Seddon

Once there was a time when any self-respecting story would haunt only the grandest of homes.

But now any house can hear the sound. Footsteps in their bones, fingers walking on spines are nothing unusual. Not all stories are up to mischief.

Inside, look up at ceiling. Outside, look up at the sky, see a formation of passages, images, lines. The daughters of heroes, the nephew of survivors, a changing rhythm, a brave decision, the greatest love emanating.

Then look below. Look deeper. Look deeper still. In the cellar, in dreams, under windowsills, phantoms in photos, graphs of the face, journals in dim and cosy spaces, capturing the invisible.

Who was that? Well, it’s Typical Jack, with his pink chubby cheeks and his yellow hard hat, knocking through the bricks. He takes one last look around, at lines, at images, passages. They’re all shifting about.

The stories weren’t all there before, unwritten on the walls of the house but we’re learning, listening, holding, bumping into stories of the old city, steering clear of modern tourist traps, of big, ugly budgets, of smaller hearts, kinetic tantrums, tighter mouths, of ranking top 5’s. Who was Jack? Well, he’s the brother of another man that survived in the city beyond the body.

See, just like that, stories drive, pilot planes, move objects then put them back again, tap the glass of steamed up stained glass panes.

And now, softly, gently shuffling back to bed, good night, tucked in, snug in the smallest room in the house where sleeps the loudest voice, somehow. But even in the silence, the house hears the sound.

Nothing unusual. Just a full heart beating, tired eyes resisting sleep –unable to put a story down.

Written using elements of ‘Ghosts and the Spirit World’ by Paul Roland and conversation snippets from a workshop

School Days

Members of the Radford Care Group Day Centre

Peter

I went to a boarding school in Derbyshire called Hopewell School. It was just for boys. I’ve still got a school presentation from 1971 for making the most progress.

It was fun boarding and I had great mates. One day I climbed out of the bedroom window and down the drainpipe. I saw a van with the keys in it, so tried to start it up but couldn’t. Then a bloke from the garage opposite came out and got the police. They sent me back to the school and I got the cane off the Head.

In the school grounds we had a steam roller and old Barton bus to play on. We used to pretend to be the bus driver. We used to play basketball and football - the pupils vs the teachers. We played outside a lot. A great game was ‘Greasy Pole’. It was an actual greasy pole in the field, and we used to thrash each other with pillows and the one left clinging to the pole won. In winter we’d go out in our wellingtons because the snow was so high. We had fun.

Keith

I have one leg shorter than the other and this caused problems from childhood. I went to Alderman Derbyshire School in Bulwell. I had short hair that was a little bushy.

I walked to school every day. I remember a shop by the school that sold lovely bread that we’d sneak out to buy. The girls did cookery lessons and I’d eat it. We’d use slingshots to fire at apples and tincans (never people). Next door to the school was the TA centre.

I left school at fifteen and went down the pits at Bestwood Colliery in the 1950s. I later moved to Hucknall pit which had more space and light, but all the dust still. When the pit closed I said, “I’m not going to another pit.” I still worked underground, but a different role. I went on staff management and was in charge on certain days. I got extra pay for it and I did First Aid.

David

I used to walk two and a half miles to Fairham Comprehensive in Clifton. I didn’t mind as lots of boys would meet up on the way, though I hated it when it was raining and didn’t want to come out of the house. Sometimes I used to think, “Jesus Christ. I’ve got to walk all that way back!” But I didn’t skip school. I loved it. It’s true – they are the best days of your life. I thought, “I’ve got to learn something.” Clifton lads were rough. I wanted to be different. The P.E. teacher was fantastic. He encouraged me in football, cricket, basketball. I played football for the school. We had some rough matches, but very enjoyable as I liked being active.

I had a good mate called John Connelly. He lived round the corner. If I wanted to play, I’d knock him up to play football, cricket or kerby on the street.

Radford/Lenton Library

Steve

After Douglas Primary I went to Cottesmore Secondary Modern (boys’ section) in Radford. I didn’t enjoy it as the discipline was harsh. Many of the teachers were ex- military. There was one teacher we called ‘Biffer’. He’d jump off the desk to cane boys.

However, one of the teachers was a famous mountaineer who’d climbed Everest, Doug Scott (Doug was also an ex-pupil of Cottesmore School). Doug would organise trips for us to Wales and Ireland to go climbing. We’d travel in a big Army lorry and he’d provide all the equipment. The families had no money, so it was a fantastic opportunity. We would rock climb and do bouldering.

This instilled a love of climbing in me and the other boys. Years later I’d take my daughter, Clare, rock climbing in the Peak District.

Music and Memories

Members of Radford Care Group Day Centre

Merilyn

We used to go to Sherwood Rooms - six girls wearing flared dresses with netting petticoats and full make-up. We went for fun and to listen to the music and to meet boys. It was dark with flashing lights and a Glitter Ball in the centre. We’d dance in a circle, putting our handbags in the middle and we’d all go to the toilets together. I liked going there but couldn’t go regular as my Dad worked shifts and I had to look after my Mum.

At home my Dad would put the radio on in the living room and I’d do the Twist. When I heard Elvis sing or saw him on the t.v. , I felt happy.

Ivan

I love all reggae, especially Bob Marley. I love dancing and used to dance around my front room and at The Palais in the city centre. I listened to music on a record player and now on a C.D player. Music makes me feel happy. I’d seen my wife before, but I met her properly at a dance at The Palais. I was wearing a suit and jazz music was playing. I asked her to dance and then sat down and had a drink with her. We went back to my parents’ house. We’ve been married for fifty years. We continued to go out dancing. Me, my wife and friends would go to The Sherwood Rooms.

Haydn

I used to go to Sherwood Rooms, formerly Astoria, and dance in the middle of it all – jitterbugging. I’d join in all the dancing. I went with my mates that I used to play football with or mates from cricket or work. We lived in Long Eaton so would go out in Nottingham or Derby or sometimes, even stayed in Long Eaton.

I’d always wear a suit out as I liked to look well-dressed and smart. We’d go to the pub first and then the dance hall. We’d ask the girls nicely if they’d like to dance. Nine times out of ten you’d end up dancing with the same girl every week, on a Friday and Saturday night.

Music always made me want to get up and dance. My mum and dad were really good dancers and we were well known in the dance halls – I think that’s where I got my love of music and dancing from. Music always makes me feel better and cheers me up.

The Radford Pink Ladies Litter Pickers

Mary, Fozia and Jane

At first the council gave them orange hi-viz vests.

Mary protested that they looked like they were doing Community Service.

So pink vests were issued – which was much better.

Of course, it’s not just ladies – men are part of the team and children, Roped-in by their mum’s.

Anyone can volunteer to litter pick in Radford, They even made Jane an honorary member – and she’s from Wollaton!

At first, they just did streets with their long-armed pickers, cleaning fluids and rubbish bags. Then they branched out.

They discovered that lots of the rubbish was blowing out of wheelie bins - so it was being binned twice!

They’ve picked up a lot of nasty things; needles and condoms, but the gun and knife were found by Litter-Pickers in another part of the city.

They find food dumped on the street – often rejected items from the Food Bank.

The Radford Pink Ladies Litter Pickers are never off duty. Their mission never stops.

It’s nice when local residents walk by and thank them.

It’s upsetting when people have a go at them for, “Doing the Council’s job for them.”

But they won’t stop.

This is their home.

Cleaning up the neighbourhood is rewarding.

Weddings

The Radford/Lenton Library Knit and Natter Group

It is with such happiness that we share the stories of the main event in our lives – our weddings. We share treasured photographs of our younger selves - brides in shimmering dresses, wearing bangles and golden jewellery. Nearly all of us grew up in Kashmir, Pakistan and got married there. We are Muslim. Chetna grew up in India and is Hindu. She married in a green sari. She holds all her memories in her head of that day, because she has few photographs.

Some of us knew our husbands-to-be very well, but some of us didn’t know them before the wedding day. However, we all think we got good husbands.

Before the weddings most of us had a Henna Night in our family homes. Family and friends attended. On that night there’s dancing and food and celebration and often an expert Henna artist will come and draw intricate patterns on hands, particularly the bride’s hand. We light candles and have fun and the celebration can go on until late.

The bride’s parents’ give a dowry to the bride – this can include everything for the home - like furniture.

On the day of the Nikah (which is the Muslim marriage ceremony) there is Baraat, which is a wedding procession that escorts the groom to the place of the wedding. Every bride gets ready in their wedding clothes and is told when the groom arrives with his relatives. Red and gold are traditional bridal colours.

Religious callers are often the ones who conduct the ceremony. Weddings often involve over 1,000 guests. In Kashmir, the houses are big and there’s lots of space outside for the weddings. But now people may hire a hall or hotel instead.

The groom gives the bride many things like dresses, gold and jewellery (if they can afford it).

After the ceremony the groom takes the bride from her house and to his family’s house and often there’s lots of crying as the bride is happy to be married, but also sad to be leaving her family as now she will live with her husband and in-laws.

The bride travels to the groom’s house in different ways. Fozia was carried by her brothers in a Doli (which is like a sedan chair). She didn’t stay in it for long because it was such a rocky ride, but the red doli looked very special.

Once at the groom’s house there is a stage and sofa where we sit as a married couple. There is an exchange of presents from the groom’s side of the family. This is mostly money, but it can be jewellery.

The second day of the wedding is the reception from the groom side which may take place in a wedding hall or at his home. The event is often glitzy and golden. Again, the bride and groom are on the stage. There is a big, delicious wedding cake that we cut, and tables are filled with traditional food for a large buffet. There’s Kashmiri chai and coffee and soft drinks and dried fruit. There’s music and drumming and often musicians.

There’s dancing at the reception and all the bride’s friends dance around her -but it depends on how traditional the families are as to whether the males and females get to dance together. There are no speeches; not like in British weddings.

Then there’s your life after the excitement of the wedding. To get on with your in-laws it can help to cook a sweet desert like Halwa and help your mother-in-law in the kitchen. It’s good to have a sister-in-law to also share the work and support you.

Ghosia went to her sister’s wedding in Islamabad. The signing of the official documents often takes place in the mosque, but her sister signed them in the house. There were many drummers and bagpipes players who were wearing, what looked like, kilts. They accompanied the wedding car through the streets and petals were thrown. It was a happy day.

Yasmin married in England because her husband was already here. However, the rest of us moved to the U.K sometime after getting married, to join our husbands who had jobs here.

When we moved to England the loss of our families and community was a hard transition. Farzana initially came over to London and it was a shock how busy everything was. She was used to having so much space, but no one seemed to have room in London. But in Nottingham we’ve all found friendly British people and we’ve managed to build a community.

From Afghanistan to England

Wahida

It was happening!

It happened in 2014. I got married in Afghanistan that year and my husband was already living in England, so I decided to come to the U.K. The visa process took about a year and a half. During that time I lived with my in-laws in Afghanistan. My mother in-law was supportive and showed me how to cook and clean.

In 2016, I came to Nottingham to be with my husband and this is where I’ve stayed, spending three years in Radford and now Lenton. I’d been learning English in Afghanistan but when I arrived here the accent was very different, and I’d been taught to say words differently.

I used to live in a city in Afghanistan, but it didn’t have many facilities. We had to wash things by hand, which was okay in the summer but very cold in winter. We could see a doctor anytime, as long as we could pay.

So, the U.K and Afghanistan have massive differences. I remember when I came here, everything and everywhere seemed similar to me. I was worried that, if I went for a walk, I wouldn’t find my way home and I’d be lost. The houses are smaller here because in Afghanistan multiple generations may share one house. Sometimes your neighbours share the house – they have their own bedrooms but may share a bathroom with 2/3 families. The houses often have gardens for vegetables and flowers.

After living here a couple of months I started college and got used to Nottingham. After a year I got pregnant with my first child, and it was a lovely feeling for a mother raising a child, but it is also very difficult for a new mum and dad.

I had my second daughter in April 2020. Because of Covid my husband was not allowed to be with me in the hospital and I was frightened and thinking that if I died no one would know. When I was moved to the labour room, they let my husband in.

I earned lots of experience between 2016-2024. I got older, wiser and more responsible than before. Now I’m a mother of two adorable daughters! I raise them and they raise me. They teach me much more – how to be calm, happy, kind and even sad.

I am trying to learn how to write stories, texts and improve my writing. I go to Nottingham College and have a lovely teacher in The Adams Building who helps me with the struggles of learning. One day I will write all about my life, from childhood until now.

To migrate from your beloved family and country is really hard, but this is the life of many people. I miss my family a lot, but I get use to it. I have my own family now, my husband and my two daughters – I love them a lot.

Pauline Davies at Buckingham Palace

(Founder member of Radford Care Group)

Andy Davies

On Tuesday 20th March 2007 myself, my wife Christine and brother Julian and his wife Alma and, of course, Mum, went down to London. We had booked a hotel in St.John’s Wood and when we found our rooms they overlooked Lords Cricket Ground which was poignant because my Dad had played cricket at Lords for the RAF against the Army.

On Wednesday the 21st March we went by taxi to Buckingham Palace arriving by 10 a.m to be greeted by a policeman carrying a machinegun. He checked our documentation and we waited for Mum’s brother, John. When John arrived we were directed through an archway to be met by a Palace official who directed us up the stairs to a long corridor lined with antique furniture. Even the toilets were impressive with ornate fixtures and fittings.

We were shown into a very large ballroom with a low stage at one end. We were sat on the fourth row from the front. At 11 o’clock sharp a Palace courtier placed a chair on the stage.

When the Queen came onto the stage she placed her ever-present handbag on the chair. We had a programme of events so knew who received what. After the ceremony the award-winners came in to meet their families. Mum said a very nice young man had congratulated her and said her MBE for services to charity was very well deserved. I turned to see who she was pointing out and the person was only the Liverpool Football Club legend, Steven Gerrard!

After various photographs we went to a very posh restaurant for a celebratory meal and then headed back to Nottingham.

Something I Barely Know

Maya Mansoor

I am something that words cannot explain, something I barely know.

A spectrum of personalities and pasts.

A husk of a person with a highway of opinions, thoughts, hopes, dreams, goals, emotions.

An endless list still to be filled. Still to be discovered.

The person who hangs out with my friends is different from the person who is alone at home.

The person I sometimes am, is not the person I want to be - but I can’t help it.

Sometimes, I feel like a wax statue, numb and stationary in the body of an extroverted clown.

Sometimes my brain juxtaposes my body, leaving little hints and clues on how to grow and how to act.

But it’s not just me who makes me be. It’s the haze of the world around me, the past, present and future.

I struggle to keep ahold of the buzz of shops and teachers and friends and food,

Pushing and pulling me in and out of storms and sun.

It’s the hurt and sobs my past experienced. The bullies and expectations, The wishes and woes.

The grey clouds that blinded me to see everything I have. But that is only a singular part of me.

I am also the confident girl who tries to help and understand. The one who has forgotten the opinions that don’t matter. Who has stopped trying to swim back to shore in the storm. Who has instead, floated and breathed and let the whirlwind of life lead her.

Who has realized that everything and everyone has a reason; A Butterfly Effect.

Who indulges in the acts she has discovered to love and is still looking to find.

I am something that switches to someone new every day.

I am something words cannot explain, but can attempt to scratch the surface.

I am something I barely know. And that’s okay.

The Little Big Things

Amaya Cespedes

I am my mother. A carbon copy, in fact. A strong, independent woman who used to, and still does, pick up extra shifts on the weekend to keep the chaotic family at home happy.

I’m also a daughter. A shining star in the life of my parents who tucked me up in bed, drove me to school and gave me the warmest hugs.

I am a granddaughter. A little laugh that visits everyone in a while. A squeal and a shriek when the story is just a little too scary for the strong little girl huddled against her grand father.

I am a joke. Heaps of laughter elicited whenever a certain topic is brought up because I was just a sister who got her head stuck in a neon-orange fence, when chasing her other half, when she was trying to cast me off for the day.

I am a friend. A sigh in maths class when we catch each other’s eye.

I am a notebook, overused and filled to the brim with empty and lost thoughts.

I am a soul, wholly unique, though stuck in this temporary body to finally flow freely one day.

I am an aunt. Not a very good one, but I do indulge in a bit of playtime every once in a while.

I am the loss for that grandfather I had to let go and that grandmother I never got to meet and for my tiny nephew, not even five.

I am number 68 in an area in Nottingham, listening to the dogs barking away at nothing.

I am quite a lot. But I guess I’ll settle for being called Amaya.

I Stand on The Left

Jasmine Newton

I stand on the left.

I shout out, my voice muffled and stunted, but heard. I am the smoking gun in the hands of every sheriff. And the bullet in every bone and muscle and gut. I am the corner of every room And the glass in every rigid cut.

I am the belief and the lack, thereof.

I am the watchful and judging eye of every screen. And the stinging ink on the pages of every novel you read. I am who I am because you look ahead. You look at me and I speak.

I look at you and you look ahead. You look at me, but you don’t see me.

Play-Doh

Maja Skraba

People are like Play-Doh, They are shaped by others. You can be soft and fluffy, Or hard and tough. Different people shape you differently. The Wrong people will shape you badly, Like stuffing Play-Doh in a mould that’s made for something else. You must find the good people, People who help you grow And turn you soft and fluffy.

Two pieces of fabric

Khushnuda Shaikh

[Green with an embroidered border] It reminds me about the old saree which I wore for my school gathering when I was just 9yrsold. The colour itself is very lively and the saree border is amazing. Such sarees were worn by our grandmother, so it’s somewhere relating to me.

[Yellow cotton with a floral print] The print yellow and green are very colourful and lively. My kids remind me about my beautiful childhood. I used to be a bubbly and chubby girl, always full of excitement and the green colours reflect my grandmother’s old house in India where we, all of the cousins spent our vacations.

Pieces of fabric

Traveller

Alysia Ali

The hot sun melted my pale skin causing a cherry red colour to be revealed from my skin. The golden sugar-like sand crunched beneath my feet. I walked further, away from the raging sea which splashed back and forth with anger against the still grey rocks. The empty sky covered the whole beach like a blue blanket. I picked up my biker’s jacket which was covered with funky patches of clothing to show my travels around the country. It was damp and old but it carried all my memories and joys from my travelling.

My favourite bed

Seigha Linda Onwuteaka

My favourite bed is a very special place

It’s a collage of hues – blue, green and beige

The silk sheets are so soft to the touch

They wrap themselves around me so snugly

I slip in under the sheets

And like ice-cubes under running water

My aches, worries and doubts melt away

The comfort soothes my tired body

I hardly realise I’ve slept off

Until the jarring sound of my intrusive alarm

Wakes me up to face a new day

‘If only I could sleep some more!’

I go through my day with this knowing

That at the end of it all

My amazing bed

Waits patiently for me

It’s so special to me

No-one else gets to see it

It’s not in my room

It’s only found in my dreams

Llandudno summer

Samantha Chowdhury

The summer sea glinted like wintery stars. The wind kicked at the sand and the children kicked at the water. It was a nice day, not uncommon for a Llandudno summer and today there was life within the peace. The tourists had begun flooding in, charmed by the beaches, the fair and the seafront. I sat on my own, counting my pennies and watching my stall. Llandudno was not necessarily a romantic destination but anyone in love was willing to pay whatever they had for a heart-shaped trinket. It fascinated me, I suppose, the silly love between the couples who ran down the beach and bough each other ice-cream and ‘I Love You’ keyrings. I often looked at them and wondered whether their joy would last until the evening or if their love was the stronger kind that lasted until a financial crisis. Then they would hate each other twentyyears later for the gifts they bought each other twenty-years before on Llandudno beach.

Story development at Dales Centre Library

Blue jeans

Souad Benaiche

Blue jeans – the most wearable clothing in the whole world. We can see it everywhere now: trousers, jackets, skirts, dungarees, bags and even shoes. This fabric reminds me of the old fishermen in my country who wear it all the time. It was called the ‘blue changuy’. A long time ago jeans were specific for males but now it is for everyone. Jeans fashion never ends and I don’t think it will end because it’s the most comfortable clothing for all occasions, except bedtime. Why not? Maybe, we will see jeans pyjamas in the coming years.

Fabric

Fatin Elkurchi

This fabric reminds me of my childhood. When we visited and stayed over at my grand mum’s house, she had a scarf with the same colour and nearly the same pattern. I remembered all those lovely days when all the family gathered around her and she told us stories from the past every time. Lovely memories.

Spring

Aparna Sharma

This fabric reminds me of spring season as it is one of my favourite seasons: the blossoming of flowers, new leaves and colours erupting everywhere (my favourite part of Spring). As the season of Spring comes, new hope and new opportunity come along with it.

Contents of a box

Olutola Oludimu-Adeyemi

I got this box and I am greatly motivated to write, maybe because the contents speak to different aspects of my life. The Scrabble letter ‘A’ reminds me of my love for playing Scrabble and that the busyness of everyday life has made it so difficult to create time for the things you used to enjoy so much. It also reminds me of growing up and time with my siblings, who I really do miss a lot.

The smell in the box is a reminder of my love for the sea; being at the beach enjoying some quietness and looking at the sea with my feet in the sand. Or, maybe even at noisy beaches enjoying the lively music and dancing, forgetting all the things that do not work, living in the moment and grateful for the things that do work.

Looking at the key, I wonder what door it opens and if that door leads to greater happiness. Sometimes, I wonder what happiness means, at what point will it be achieved? I have, over time reminded myself that only I hold the key to my happiness. I must create it and strive for it –taking time to smell the roses, enjoying time with family (since that is my happy place), taking time to travel and see new places, visit and meet new people and make the most of my youth. Who says tomorrow will come?

I look at the house and wonder who once lived there – a house that must have been filled with laughter and voices is now empty and overgrown with leaves. Where are the occupants? Are they now in a ‘better place’? Are they living better lives? With people doing more in a bid for a better life, a better place for themselves, for their children, you can only wonder if they do find the ‘perfect place’.

Looking at the word, ‘Clapping’ cheers me up, knowing I do have people believing in me, cheering me on. Trusting me, believing in me and just being my cheerleaders. It feels good to be clapped for, to be told you are doing well, that you are moving forward and that you have done great. It is often a form of reassurance that you have taken the right step and that it will all fall into place –the puzzle-pieces will fit eventually.

Money, the major piece at the centre of it all, without which life could be very miserable. Money, the supposed key to many things. Money, the prayers and desires of several. I have many thoughts about money: the desire for it, the assurance you get from it, the things you can achieve because you have it but at the end of it, I have come to realise that money means nothing. It cannot buy health if the health is lost and it cannot bring back a loved one. It cannot answer ‘all’ wishes and when you die, you leave it to the wind.

Hospital

Julie Allen, Lynne Fell, Sue Lynn, Sean McKinley, Sarah Thomas, Anita Young

The City Hospital in Nottingham has two separate entrances which need different buses. The hospital is on two quite confusing levels as it was built on a hill. If you are not sure which entrance you need, you have to walk miles through the hospital and if you are lost, no-one is around to help. The amount of pen-pushers in hospital is annoying. Too many walking around looking important.

I’ve been there for my mum and dad. Now, I’m there for myself. In agony, walking. Not nice places to be but where would you be without them.

The hospital and the NHS saved my life many times. I would not be here, otherwise.

I am one of three children and each of us ended up in intensive care. Sadly, both of my brothers didn’t make it.

I ruptured my Achilles tendon six years ago and had to wear a cast and crutches. I had to walk over a mile to reach the bus stop. My younger sister is a SR nurse and she and our family felt so let down by the NHS and City Hospital for losing our dear mother. They neglected her.

I was in a psychiatric ward in Mansfield for six months and it was really nice. The meals were good and the staff were lovely. It is a very scary place when you suffer with depression.

Music

Lynne Fell, Louise Hailes, Leah Jackson, Sue Lynn, Jean McKinley, Sarah Thomas

I can’t dance anymore.

I like Motown music

Music reminds me of certain things, people and places.

I felt like I was in the kind of bar I would not usually go in, Full of chavs in baseball caps and with empty drug bags in the toilets.

The song itself made me feel a bit bleak and sad.

Queen makes me think of Nan gardening.

Not just Queen but many songs remind me of drinking in the pub.

I was reminded of the mid-80s plush bars with elaborate cocktails And a big-screen video-jukebox. Lots of big hair and Guys in pastel-coloured shirts with ties.

Music helps me relax and cheers me up when I feel down With anxiety and no sleep.

Listening to Celine Dion and other soothing music helps with my tinnitus.

Pop music makes me happy.

Gotta have the stereo banging when ironing.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Our City, Our Stories is a creative project, about gathering local stories. People all over Nottingham joined us for relaxed workshops where we talked, listened and wrote together, building stories based on people’s experiences and ideas.

Thank you to all the writers, shadow writers, librarians, Nottingham Libraries team, and to Ruth Lewis-Jones for making this project happen encouraging those hearfelt and profound stories to be heard and shared. Thank you to Arts Council England for your support.

Big thank you to our Nottingham Trent University’s Creative Writing students for acting as shadow writers and supporting the writers and the workshops: Eloisa Herron, Riley Terry, Laura De Vivo, Leah Jackson, Tilly Hollyhead and Sarah Smith.

If you want to read or listen to more information about our stories, please scan the QR code.

Family Day workshops at Bilborough Library

Published in 2024, Nottingham City of Literature.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without prior written permission from the author, with the exception of non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.