Friday 30 March 2018

Sweet Cinnamon & Raisin Omelette Recipe


Sweet Cinnamon & Raisin Omelette Recipe

 Okay, this is definitely not me trying to say I’m some kind of chef. Not even remotely. This is me cooking literally the first actual meal since I left home seven months ago, realising I didn’t have any salt or pepper, or anything savoury at all actually, and thinking – why actually can’t omelette be sweet?

 And thus my sweet cinammon and raisin omelette was created. It actually turned out surprisingly good – maybe because it’s the first cooked meal I had in months, but whatever – and so I thought I’d share it.

 The wonderful thing about this is that you literally need barely any ingredients apart from eggs – and the whole thing only takes a few minutes to make!

You Will Need:
3 eggs
3 tpsps water
About 2 tsps sugar
1 tsp cinnamon
Raisins
Butter or oil

Method:
1.      Crack the eggs in a small bowl, stir in the water
2.      Add the sugar and cinnamon
3.      Melt some butter or oil in a small pan, add in the mixture
4.      Scatter in some raisins
5.      Gently push the edges away from the sides with a spatula, to stop the omelette from sticking
6.      When the omelette is firm and no liquid parts remain, fold the omelette in half with the spatula
7.      Enjoy!

Sunday 18 March 2018

Favourites of the Week


Favourites of the Week
Okay, I need to think of a better name for this at some point. But I thought it would be fun to put together all my favourite things for each week - you should all check them out!

Best Buy: Jackie annual 1978
Ebay


I’ve been collecting vintage girl’s annuals since I was about 9 – I love them for the fashion tips and old stories. This one hasn’t actually arrived yet, but it’s been ordered and I can’t wait to read it!


Song: Above The Clouds by Turin Brakes


I only discovered this one recently, and it’s one of those songs I can’t stop listening to! Both the lyrics and the tune are gorgeous


TV Show: 
Not Going Out Series 9 Episode 2: Escape Room


One of those shows that had me laughing out loud the whole episode!


Book: Ask the Passengers by A.S. King




I might do a book review on this at some point, but for now I’ll just say I loved the story. It was brilliantly written, and one of those books that’s set disturbingly recently for the story it tells, taking place in 2011. It’s more than just an issues book, though – the main character feels brilliantly vivid and real, and the book has so many other quirks that make it well worth reading.


Quote of the week:


(Pinterest)


Outfit of the week:

 (Hat: Depop, jacket: New look, patches: Ebay, top: H&M, skirt: forever 21)


DIY of the week: twirling Flying bird


I found this for one of the kids at the nursery where I volunteer, who’s really into paper aeroplanes at the nursery. It’s really nice and easy to make, even for kids of that age, looked great at the end and flew really well too. Great for kids and really fun to make J


Place of the week: Norfolk Broads


I picked this one because it’s almost our 10-year-anniversary of the first time me and my family went there on holiday. We’ve gone nearly every year since, and it’s just one of those places where I feel truly happy.





















Letting in the Magpies


One for sorrow, two for joy

 Why is it that the way I feel about that superstition always changes, depending on the amount of magpies that happen to be in front of me at the time? When there is one magpie, I’m convinced it’s a load of rubbish, and also kind of resentful that a magpie is no longer allowed to just be a nice magpie, no strings attached. I mean, what did the magpies ever do to us? On the other hand, when there are two magpies in front of me, somehow I’m much more willing to believe that it’s a good sign, that something nice is coming up.
 And it always annoys me that somehow, you’re much more likely to see one magpie than two.
 The more magpies the better, though, right? I mean, you can never have too many of our lovely black and white friends. Okay, so they do have that annoying habit of stealing all our shiny things, and you probably wouldn’t want them pooing everywhere either, but that’s not really the point.
 Lately, the whole magpie thing has kind of become a philosophy of mine for life. Because whether you want it or not, life is full of magpies. And whether you want it or not, sometimes they come in pairs, and sometimes they come alone. And sometimes, there is a magpie flying around alone, and then it meets another magpie flying about on its own. And suddenly there’s two.
 And without one magpie – and whatever it brings with it – you can’t get two.
 At the same time, then, there always has to be that worry, that for every two magpies, one of them is going to fly off, and you’ll be stuck with that one for sorrow.
So then, imagine if you get so scared, that you decide to get rid of all the magpies. You don’t have any pairs of magpies left, but there aren’t any single ones left, either. It’s safer that way.
 And you hide, and you live a simple, magpie-less life. No joy, but no sorrow, either. Just days, one after the other, for as many days as you’re meant to have.
I wonder just how many people there are in the world, who fear the magpies so much that they block out all of them entirely. It’s easier than you’d think. The less you have, the less you have to lose. And it’s all too easy, when things get too much, to block out your feelings; the pain, the happiness, everything that’s out of your control.
 I wonder how many people fear the magpies so much, that they forget to live.
 (Maybe I’m one of them.)


  There’s already been way too many magpies to even count in today’s post, but bear with me.
 A life without magpies sucks. It’s a life with no meaning, a flat, lonely life. But it’s difficult, when you’re in that safe cocoon of okay-ness, of every day ticking along neatly, to start taking risks again.
 Because that’s the thing about those magpies. For every two for joy, there’s that one for sorrow. For every high, there’s going to be a low. Because the more you let into your life, the more fun you have, the more people get close to you… well, the more you have the potential to lose. The more plans can go badly wrong, the more people rely on you, the more people’s problems become yours, too.
 And that’s difficult to take, sometimes.
 But it’s worth it, too. And sometimes, you just have to accept the magpies of life, in whatever shape they might come.
 The thing is, it works the other way, too. For every one for sorrow, there is another magpie around the corner, ready to turn one into two for joy. And in the same way, when life does take a bad turn, if you’ve let them in, there’ll be people around, friends and family and people who care about you, ready to support you.
 Letting in the magpies takes a lot of strength, but you CAN do it. And what’s more, you HAVE to – because life should be full of magpies, full of sorrow and joy, and you deserve yours to be. You can do it.


 I hope this made sense to some of you – it was really hard to articulate somehow, probably because of all the magpie metaphors! – but hopefully the message came through, anyway J

Monday 12 March 2018

Writing Tips Episode 1 - Creating Characters

Hi again :) Today I thought I’d give some tips on creating a character. I’m definitely no expert at writing, but this method has really helped me over the years – I actually got the idea from FanFiction originally, but I've found it's great for fleshing out characters in any kind of story – and so I thought I’d share it.

Creating a character is something which everyone loves – but it’s not always the easiest thing to do. Often, people base characters too much on the events that happen to them throughout their story, or even things like their hobbies or how they look. I guess it’s like real life – we like to judge people quickly, because it’s simple and easy.

 But in reality, and in a good story, people are more complex than that. They have a massive range of emotions and personality, strengths and weaknesses. Good characters have a distinctive personality, and many layers. How they act on the surface is not always the same as who they are inside. Maybe they act differently depending on who they’re with; maybe they put on an act, wanting to impress people or hide what’s going on inside. Or they have something else to hide; a good reason to put on a pretence – something that might make a good story.

 Inspiration for characters can come from many places – people you know are a good beginning, as they’re realistically complex. Basing a character on some aspects of your own personality is also a good idea – just make sure you include some of your weaknesses as well as strengths. A character who is the you you wish you were can be bland and too perfect. Or think of a random personality trait – caring, selfish, feisty, brave, angry, shy, sly – then add on another trait to counter this, and a reason for it. Maybe your character is kind and caring, but angry at the world – ever since her mother died of cancer. Maybe they’re feisty and opinionated, but sly – their confidence is all an act to become more popular, and really, they know how to get what they want – and have a plan that will change the lives of people around them.


 The ideas are popping out already. Now all that’s left to do is to use them to make a character.
 There are a few key points that you should put in your profile, to help you to create a well-rounded, interesting character:


·         Personality (this should be a few sentences long at least, rather than separate words, and have at least a few different traits – though try not to have any contradictions unless there’s a good reason for it)
·         Backstory (What was a character’s life like before your story? Make it interesting, key to your character’s personality and important to the story – but try to keep it vaguely realistic. You want people to be able to relate to your character.)
·         Strengths (What’s good about this character? Give them at least one thing that makes them likeable – at least four or five strengths).
·         Weaknesses (Preferably give your character more weaknesses than strengths. Some of them can be resolved throughout the book, giving you a good opportunity for character development.)
·         Ambitions (What do they want? What are their hopes and dreams, their motives? These will be key for creating a good plot.)
·         Fears (Phobias are fine and can be both funny and effective obstacles for your characters – but think about the deeper stuff. Is your character afraid of being abandoned? Do they secretly feel like they’re not interesting?)
·         Names, appearance, friends and family are also important in helping you to visualise your character and the world around them.



 Next, take your profile and create a person. Put them into a difficult situation and think about the choices they’d make. Write from their point of view and figure out how they talk. Think about their flaws, why they are that way, how they could change and develop in particular situations. Give them a story. You’ve got the basic foundations for a good character – now it’s up to you to make them real.

Sunday 11 March 2018

Irn Bru Cupcake Recipe

These are great if you want a change from the traditional shortbread and tablet, but with the same Scottish flair. Plus, they taste amazing! Perfect for Robert Burns' Day, or any Scottish celebration.

What you'll need:


  • 2 eggs
  • About 130g sugar
  • Vanilla essence
  • 65 ml corn oil
  • 75 ml Irn Bru
  • 125g flour
  • 1.5 tsps baking powder
For the icing:
  • 100g butter
  • 100g icing sugar
  • 2-3 drops vanilla essence
  • 1-2 tablespoons Irn Bru
  • Blue food colouring


Instructions
Preheat the oven to 180°C
  1. Beat the eggs, sugar and vanilla essence together until they're creamy
  2. Add the Irn Bru and oil and whisk them together until they're well combined
  3. Sieve in the flour and baking powder, and fold them in well
  4. Put the cakes in the oven for about 15 minutes, or till they're golden brown, and allow them to cool
Icing
  1. Beat the butter until it's creamy
  2. Gradually add in the icing sugar, along with a few drops of vanilla essence
  3. Add enough Irn Bru to give the icing a texture that's creamy, but stiff enough to pipe on cakes
  4. Put about two thirds of the mixture into a seperate bowl, and add blue food colouring
  5. Put the rest of the mixture in a piping bag, and draw a cross on each cake
  6. Put the blue mixture in a separate bag, and fill in around the cross - making a Scottish flag 
Enjoy!!!

Saturday 10 March 2018

Go Back To Where You Came From

“Go back to where you were born.”
 That’s one of those cliché statements you’ve probably heard countless times. If you’re lucky, like I suppose I am really, it’s mostly from within the mouths of racists in fictional books and TV shows, maybe on the news too. It’s often followed by a defiant “Um, excuse me, I was born here actually”, ending up with Ignorant Racist giving Defiant Victim a withering look, and sodding off to bother some other poor immigrant, thus making a point that racism is bad and, in fact, just comes from ignorance.
 I’m lucky, really. I’m white. I’ve never really experienced racism, or even snide remarks. Growing up bilingual never meant anything to me except being able to understand more people, and later skive my way through language exams which were always easy for me.
 It’s only recently that I’ve been forced to think more about my nationality, and what being an immigrant really means. That’s partly because of everything that’s happening between Britain and the EU at the moment, of course, but also because of the new experiences I’ve had with my own life.
 See, mine’s kind of a weird situation. I’ve lived in Scotland since I was a baby. Went to nursery there, grew up there, lived in the same house from when I was three until I left high school in August. For as long as I can remember, and before that, it’s been my home.
But I’m not Scottish. Not by heritage, not by birth. Technically, I suppose, I’m an immigrant. And I have a German passport and birth certificate to prove it.
 And, I suppose, that’s partly why I decided to spend my gap year working in Germany, in the very city where I was born. I was curious; I’d never lived there, beyond the four months between birth and moving to Britain. I’d only ever seen the city during the summer, when my family would usually spend about a week there each year. I wanted to find out more about it.
 Applying for the gap year was my first hurdle, of course. Application forms and interviews are scary enough on their own, let alone in a language I only really spoke to my Mum. I was used to basic vocabulary, but I quickly realised I knew next to nothing about the formal tone and sophisticated words that came with the adult world. How would I? I’d never been to school in Germany, never even officially learnt to read and write. The only person I spoke to in the language on a regular basis was my Mum; even the differences such as “Sie” and “Du” seemed strange.
 Once the agency I was applying through established that I had no family living in the city where I’d be working, they quickly suggested I apply through the international programme. International gap year students were given extra support at the beginning, and more help and information with things like bank accounts and health insurance. Obviously, that made more sense to me.
 It was only when I started the gap year, though, that I realised how much of a foreigner I really was. Most of the other international people could speak next to perfect German, along with fluent English, and their own languages. I’d always thought I was lucky, knowing two languages from birth; but the English language is such a large part of the world now, it feels like it’s almost taken for granted, in the more educated areas anyway. My German clearly wasn’t of much value either, compared to people who’d grown up speaking their native language.
 And it was more of that; any Germans I met immediately knew that I was British. To this day I can still only pronounce my “r”s, and “ch”s, in the English way; people would be surprised at how good my German was, assuming that I’d learnt the language at school. I even got told once that I looked British, from the way I was dressed.
 In the nursery where I was volunteering, the kids would often struggle to understand what I was saying, especially at the beginning – sometimes they thought I was speaking a different language entirely, and I’d have to explain that I was speaking German, I just had a weird accent, because I was from a different country. I remember one 4-year-old blocking my path once, and telling me that she didn’t like me because I wasn’t from here. I felt like I should explain that, actually, I’d been born here – I’d just never lived her – but unsurprisingly, that really confused her.
 Most of all, though, it was the culture that didn’t make sense to me. The style of clothes, the rap music that everyone my age listens to, the fact that shops were closed on Sundays and the whole German population seem to wake up about an hour earlier than Britain. I’d find myself listening to bad Scottish folk music, dreaming of Irn Bru and Blu Tack and multi-pack crisps.
 Half a year later, I’m enjoying my gap year. But the longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve known, with complete conviction, that Germany isn’t my home. No matter how long I stay here, I’ll always be the British girl. I’ll always be the one who doesn’t come from here.
 But at the same time, when I finally come home, it will be just as Britain is leaving the EU. Just as people start scrutinising my German passport for slightly longer at the airport; just as people start taking notice of my date of birth.
 More than ever, I’m finding myself torn between those two sides; that 4-year-old girl at my nursery, putting it bluntly; “I don’t like you, because you’re not from here, and I can’t understand your language. My brother, putting it even more bluntly; “You were born in Germany, you live in Germany. You’re German.”
 I’m still not sure where I fit in between those two statements, those two countries. Throughout my whole childhood, that never mattered. But I have a feeling that the older I get, the more it’s going to.
 And if someone does tell me, one day, to “go back to where I came from”, I have no idea what country they’ll be telling me from. And even less of an idea where I’ll go.

 I’m white; I’ve never experienced racism; I’m one of the very, very lucky ones. I’ve lived in the same country my entire life, bar a few months. So why does it suddenly feel like I don’t belong anywhere?

Friday 9 March 2018

On The Wall (First Post!)

 Hi :) I've been wanting to make a blog for ages, but I always think one of the hardest things with something like this is getting started. Do I jump straight in? Do I write a long intro post trying to summarise everything I (and probably this blog, too) am about? To be honest, I'm not even sure what that's going to be yet. I'm a complicated person, like most people in the world probably, and I've got loads of thoughts and ideas inside me that are desperate to get out. But I'm not sure yet how much I'm ready to share, or who's even going to be around to listen.
 So I'll start with a short story I wrote about a year ago, for school. It's definitely not perfect - it was one of those pieces of homework I ended up finishing at 3 in the morning the night before it was due, so it's definitely kind of rough around the edges. And I tried WAY too hard, too. But I feel like it gives you a good idea of the sort of person I am, and the sort of things I'll be writing about. So I guess it's as good a post to start with as any.
 Here it is.

On The Wall


She is sitting perched on the wall directly across the road, watching. How on earth she managed to get up there is a mystery – it’s high enough to block the house behind completely. The very fact that she knew how to get up means that she must know the street, and know it well – and yet no-one recognised her when she walked over.
 But here she is, legs dangling, staring ahead, school bag set down next to her. A few minutes ago, she took a camera out of it, took a snap of whatever it is across the road that she finds so fascinating. Apart from that, nothing. She just watches.
 No-one really notices. They’re all too busy, like they always are, walking past back and forth, getting on with their own lives. One snapshot moment is all that she gets of each of them as they walk by; just one frame of a whole world. But they’re not really what she is watching, anyway.

Isn’t it strange to know the whole history of a place, the entire story even before you existed? To live it for years and then, simply to leave it behind. Because suddenly, it’s not yours anymore. It’s shifted, from your world to someone else’s. It can be hard to let go, harder than you might think sometimes.
 It doesn’t matter, anyway. No-one stops long enough to notice her.
 Only I do.
 She’s been there a while now, a longer while than would make sense, just sitting and thinking. I couldn’t say what about, exactly. I’m not a mind reader. But I know enough to make a good guess.
 She was always interested in the history of that house, the one that she’s staring at. How it came to be. Or – her mother was, really. I remember how she always used to teach her about it. She’d complain at first – it was like school, and she hated that. But the stories always interested her. I found them interesting, too.
You can tell, even by walking by, that it stands out from the rest of the houses in the area. They’re all grey cement, built 40 years ago or so, at a time when convenience was most important. They’re nice enough – perfect, really, a row of identical grey houses, side by side. It’s just a shame about that one odd one in the middle, spoiling the pattern.
 It was a shame about the old woman who used to live there, too. She was off her head, people said – age seemed to have stripped her of all sense. The housing developers offered her everything – her pick of any one of that lovely row of identical houses, along with a nice sum of money. An offer you couldn’t refuse. Only, of course, she went and did.
 So they sighed and cursed and built around her, leaving her stranded in the middle, between what had previously been nothing. And there she stayed. Until, of course, she passed away, just months the building was finished. Typical. It made a good story, though.
 And at first, I do wonder if that is what the girl is thinking about – she did always love a bit of drama, especially anything to do with the past. If she’d had her way, she would have turned back time to watch the horses and carts go by, drivers in top hats speaking in voices and accents no-one will ever know again. She loved the unknown, too. Any good mystery.
 But in the time that she has been away, her interests have died down. She’s been starved of the stories too long. There is more on her mind now – another story, another world that I only know the beginning of. The part before she left.
 I would love to know more, find out how it ended. I don’t know whether it is to satisfy my own curiosity or because I genuinely care, though. Part of me, like her all those years ago, just wants to be entertained – and it feels wrong to feast on someone’s sorrow like that. Even if she did the same to me.
 But she doesn’t know why she came. I can tell. She was looking for something, I think– that is why she is here. But she doesn’t know. And sitting on a wall where no-one sees you, staring at the place that was once your home, can only get you so far. She is about to leave, I can see. I suppose she is starting to realise that this is real life – real life, where there aren’t always any clear endings, any conclusions. Sometimes, things just go on and on. Until they stop. And a stop is not always an ending.

 She doesn’t notice me walking over, not at first. Even as she’s reaching for her bag, she’s still looking ahead, her eyes glassy. It’s only at the point that I come closer than the others did, the ones who just walked past, close enough for her to know she’s been seen, that she looks up.
 Alice is taller than I remember. Her messy blonde hair, which constantly skimmed her shoulders as she was growing up, now hangs well down her back. And she’s started wearing make-up – a touch of mascara, reshaping her eyes just slightly. She never used to.
 She recognises me right away, though, so I can’t have changed that much. Doesn’t really react much – I suppose, for her, I’ve always just been part of it, part of the background – but she nods.
 She speaks first: “Hey.”
 “I haven’t seen you around for a while,” I say.
 Alice shrugs. “You wouldn’t have.”
 “So… why are you here now?”
 “Dunno. I just felt like coming back. Seeing what it was like.”
 “Makes sense.” I look around, find the familiar niche in the wall, the perfect size for a foothold. Like her, I know exactly how to get up.
 “So…” I hitch myself up to sit beside her; then pause, wondering whether I should go on. “How have things been lately?”
 She shrugs again. I guess that says it all.
 “Same,” I say. She nods.
 I look ahead, across the road from us. The house really is the same as ever. Reddish cobbled bricks, the gaps between them grey with dirt and age, but the same old windows, chimney behind a mossy roof. To an outsider, it might not look like much. Just a home, like any other. But it’s ours. Or, at least, it used to be.
People go past. A man in his 30s, in a black business suit, briefcase in hand. You see less and less of those nowadays -people seem to dress more casually each year. A mother pushing a pram with one hand, phone pressed to her ear with the other. Two middle-aged, middle-class women, chattering about politics, and whatever new bad decision has been made, and how it’s going to mess up the world this time.
Alice is still staring ahead with those same glassy eyes.
 Another man, tapping away at his phone. That’s the second we’ve seen so far. I’m sure if I stayed here long enough, counting phones, we’d get to double digits pretty rapidly. An elderly woman goes by, whistling under her breath. She is one of the few who notices us.
 “She’s the only one who’ll have a happy ending,” Alice comments; she still stares ahead, eyes fixed. “Well – she’s already there. The others are all just too busy. It’s that phone guy who I feel sorry for. You can tell his whole life is just online. And the worst thing is, he won’t even realise what he’s missing. It’s that baby who has it worst, though – I wonder just how many years it’ll be before his mother buys him some expensive electronic device to keep him out of bother while she gets on with her own busy life. He’s probably got some baby tablet already, just waiting for him at home. And whatever those two women were complaining about, you can just bet they won’t bother doing anything. They’ll be sat at home on their couches, blaming everyone else.”
 “I didn’t realise you noticed them all.”
 “How could I not?” she asks. “They walk around in front of your nose, absorbed in their own little lives. They’re so transparent – everyone. You can tell exactly where they’re going, what they’re going to do. I just like predicting it.”
 “And you’re good at that?”
 “I dunno. But, you know, there’s usually one fairly safe bet which fits them all. Precisely nothing. There’s not much point in it, but how is that different from anything else in the world? It just gives me something to do.”
 “Fair enough.”
 I take another look at it – the house she’s been staring at all this time. It’s still just exactly the same as it always has been. You can just see it the way it once was – a worker’s cottage on the outskirts of a farm. It still looked the same all those years ago – red cobbled bricks, chimney, door. Just slightly cleaner gaps between the bricks, a roof slightly clearer of moss.
 “That photo you took,” I say. “Can I have a look?”
 She passes me the camera. It’s a good photo – for once, the background is free of people. I like it that way. All there is is the red brick house, sandwiched between the thousands of identical grey blocks. They’d be easy to cut out of the frame, somehow. Then that shot of the house, alone, could come from any time when it existed. That’s the good thing about old buildings. They never really age.
 “It’s probably changed,” Alice remarks, looking over my shoulder at the photo. “Inside. Someone will have moved in, redecorated it.”
 “We don’t know, though.” I don’t know whether I’m upset or triumphant about this. “It’s not your home anymore. This is the only part you get to see.”
 “It will have, though,” she says, looking over again. “I do wonder, sometimes, who bought it. Dad moved us away before he sold it. Probably one of those nothing people.”
 “Probably.”
 “It sucks, though.” she mutters. “Right?”
 I nod, again. She hasn’t had the easiest of times, that’s for sure.
 “It’s just so unfair,” she continues, still staring ahead. “That old woman… you know, the one Mum always used to tell me about. She lived there for years – ever since it was still part of the farm. Did you know?”
 I knew.
 “Her father used to work there. Ever since he was 17. He was an orphan, Mum said. But the farmer – who used to own that manor house round the corner, the one that got knocked down years ago so they could build those flats – he took him in. Gave him a job as a farm hand – and that cottage. When he had his daughter, he wanted to marry her off to someone rich, at first. Wanted a better life for her, even if it meant he’d have to sell the house when he retired.”
 She raises her voice. “But she wasn’t having any of it. She got a job as a seamstress, so she could earn her own money and keep living there, even after her father died. And then all those years later, she refused to move out. Refused to let some money-obsessed building company knock the place down. Because it was her home, you know? A piece of the past. And she didn’t care that it didn’t fit in with some fancy vision, no matter how much cash it might bring in. It was worth more than money.”
 I don’t think I’ve ever seen Alice this animated. Suddenly her glassy eyes are lit up. It’s like she’s come alive.
 “She did something,” Alice continues. “She never settled for complaining. It was her home, and she clung on to it. But all that, none of that mattered. Because she died. She had to leave it all behind. None of it made a difference.”
 It did, though. That’s what I want to tell her. Only, she’s staring right at it – hasn’t torn her eyes away all the time she’s been here. The old worker’s cottage, an island of worn red brick between the greys. But she only seems to see the things she has lost.
 “It was years before it finally went to someone who cared about it again,” she says. “Us. And I lived there my whole life, just like she did. I was happy there – you know I was. But I’m still alive. I’m still here.” And now, finally, she turns around, tears her eyes away from the house. Looks right at me. “Only, I’m not.”
 And she sits on the wall, and stares and stares ahead, and people go past and don’t see her, and time is the only thing that passes. And the world changes around us as we sit.
“Next to Mum dying,” Alice tells me, “Losing the house was nothing. I shouldn’t care. So… why do I? It doesn’t make sense.”
 “Not much does,” I say.
 “Tell me about it.” Suddenly, Alice just looks drained. “We ruined it. We ruined the story. It didn’t used to matter that some old woman died, because that house was still there. We still cared. Me and Mum. We made what she did matter. But now we’ve made it all for nothing. Everything gets washed away.”
 The house is still standing, right now; and Alice and I are still on the wall, looking at it, at least, from the outside. One day, I suppose, someone will pull down that house, bring it back to the rubble and bricks that it once was. And just like the woman who held on, just like Alice, it will no longer be there.
 I don’t know what will be left for me then. But I won’t be around much longer, anyway.

 “There’s this thing I read once,” Alice says, finally. “About how, in old buildings, echoes of people who once lived there linger on. Not like ghosts, exactly… just little things. Whispers of sounds you swear you can hear. Of words said long ago. Phrases and voices that seem to linger in the walls, sometimes, when the time is just right. I remember, when I was a kid, I used to spend all my time listening. Lying in bed, or home alone, I’d try to make something out of the silence – I wanted there to be something. I never heard anything, though. The silence stayed silent. The past was gone.
 So I suppose… I don’t know. It just feels like that was the only place that would have stayed like it was, at least for a while longer. It would have had something left of her.”
 “That’s what you’ve been doing, then?” I ask her. “Since I last saw you? You’ve been listening for the past.”
 She doesn’t reply. Just looks ahead again; back at the place that was once her home. But I don’t need to hear an answer. I know. Of course I do.
 “Do you remember when I was little, I always used to be obsessed with the idea of time travel?” Alice says. “I thought it would be so cool to walk the old streets, see how people used to look and act. But actually, I always thought the concept of it was stupid. I mean, surely if people arrived from the future, we’d be able to see them, right?”
 “How do you know you haven’t?” I ask, half-jokingly. “Maybe they’re just in disguise.”
 “Yeah, but…” She gives a dry laugh. “To be honest, even as a kid, I didn’t believe in the concept of time. It just doesn’t work like that. We’ve got this world, that’s all. We build on it, people change and grow. But you can’t reverse that. It just happens. And the old things – they don’t just disappear. They don’t just stay in their own separate time frames; they stick around. Like my old house. It’s still there, just like it always was. Only now… it’s not mine anymore.”
 I get it. I do. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say.
 “Look, Alice,” I tell her in the end. “You’ve said it like it is. You can’t turn back time. Things do change – and all you can do is move on. You keep talking about taking control of things, not just complaining and doing nothing. But here you are sitting on a wall, wishing for something impossible. All you’ve got is now. So wouldn’t you want to do something real with it, rather than just living in the past?”
 “What’s the point?” Alice asks. “Everything gets washed away in the end. Things just… don’t last. That’s life.”
 “No, it’s not. Things don’t go away – not everything. They just change. Like your mother, your house – and that old woman. They might be gone, but you’re still there. You remember. And, okay, most things don’t last forever… but shouldn’t we make the most of the new things, and everything that’s still there, rather than wasting the time we have on wishing back what’s gone? And right here, right now, you’re still there. You’re one of the lucky ones.” I think about Alice, the story that didn’t end, the way she listens instead of living. And of all those people, the nothing people, who walk by without noticing us. Until, one day, they stop walking.
 “Isn’t that what you wanted?” I ask her. “If everything just stayed the same, there’d be nothing to life – just like you said.”
 She pauses, thinking about it. It can’t be easy, letting go. It’s not easy for me, either.
And then, slowly, she nods. Looks ahead again, one last time – at the house, red cobbled bricks, same as ever. Only this time, she squints, peers further, through the windows. She can’t see much, not from here. There’s some green curtains in one of the upstairs windows, a pattern of teddy-bears all over them. She supposes there must be another kid living there, again. Another window, a big piano visible through it. A study with a computer. She can’t see much else. But it’s something. It’s a new home.
 All the while, someone, somewhere, was getting on with their life, doing something. Which is more than she was.
 So she jumps off the wall, puts on her backpack and begins to walk home. She doesn’t look back. Just turns the corner, up the next street, back towards her school. She knows the way by heart. And from then, it’s an easy walk home.
Just before she gets to her new house, there’s an empty street. So she stops for a moment. Allows herself one blissful moment in the past, before it’s time to move on. She supposes she can’t blame her father for moving away, now she really thinks about it. After all, that’s all he was doing – moving on.
 But still, just for a moment, she closes her eyes, blocks out the faint sounds of traffic around her. And with her eyes shut and her ears tuned out, just for a second, nothing exists to tell her she couldn’t be anywhere, any time in the world. She could be back in her old house, nine years old and searching for the whispers of the past. She could be that old woman, standing in the place she’s been rooted to for years, trying in vain to cling on to this world. She could be the farmer as he built the house, long ago, thinking thoughts she could never even dream of, making plans no-one ever made again in all the time from then until now. The silence is still the same. And with her eyes closed, her ears wide open to nothing, it is impossible to tell the difference.
 And then, finally, she opens her eyes wide, and walks forward. And as she turns the corner into her street, she laughs. Wonders if anyone did notice her; and wondered what on earth she was doing up on that wall, talking to herself.