Being a writer I like symmetry, of things finishing in the place they started but a little changed. I began writing this blog over three years ago when life had gone to hell in a handcart, I had two small children under five and didn't know what the devil had in store for us next. I started writing this as a way to get back out there, as a veichle for a little rant , to see wether or not I could make it as a writer.        How I now define 'making it' has changed. This blog enabled me to just get on and do it. This is the last post I am writing on this site before I archive the best bits and put it to bed. It's a thank you to everyone who read it and gave me the confidence to carry on. Corny perhaps, but credit where credits due.

"There are good artists that have children. Of course there are. They are called men." Tracey Emin apparently.

My first post was a rant about the difficulties of pushing a buggy in Lewes, a venting of the frustrations of being a pre - school parent. It seems fitting that my last post deals with the subject of being a mother and a writer and so here I am three years later discussing that old chestnut, the pram in the hall debate. The myth that all your creative juices leave your body with the placenta.

The early years of motherhood nearly break most women mentally and sometimes physically. You're exhausted and addled and have days when you eye up the front door and wonder if you have time to make a run for it. This sounds awful, really awful I know, but it is true. Your figure changes for the worse, you are so much poorer at a time you could do with some treats, and you spend days on end with mini versions of yourself but on a really bad day. Creativity doesn't die with the responsibility and Mr Tumble, you just don't have the time to do anything with it.

The thing I love most about writing is that nothing is wasted. Any experience is grist for the mill. Those hard times: not knowing if my Pearl had cystic fibrosis for several months, selling everything that wasn't nailed down, dealing with a boy whose tantrums were off the scale and lasted about five years, created pulses that enabled me to write. Hard times are not exclusive to mothers, we don't have the monopoly but by the same token we do not limp out the delivery suite creative dullards.

I had to stop writing my novel because I didn't have time to make it as good as it had the potential to be; but I had the energy to write this, to compose a tweet and FB link and send it to you. One thing that motherhood and being skint has taught me and that's resourcefulness. There is more than one way to skin a cat and if that means sitting on a library computer next to strange men who jiggle their knee because your laptop has died, so be it.

In 2011 I wrote this

I may be little. I may be a woman, but I never imagined I'd ever feel like the little woman, a homemaker with no income aside from £130 per month child benefit. It feels ridiculous buying your partner a Christmas present out of his own wages, but unless I entertain gentleman callers in a negligee , the options are sparce. How did it come to this? I'd always sworn I'd have an independent career and income for the sake of my sanity, for my dignity and self esteem. I may never have believed it would ever happen to me , but now my heel is stuck between the rails and a train destined for unemployable is heading full speed in my direction. I can see it coming, I know what it is, it's not creeping up on me, it's about to plough me down.

I still don't make a fortune but I earn more than £130 child benefit and I get to write.

I'm not self congratulatory as i'm a firm believer that no one escapes that train alone. This is why I'm saying thank you to every one who put me on the right track. And when you start quoting yourself it starts to become a little indulgent.

Enough of the corn, my electric cigarette is blinking,

Note: The ever suffering Mr Porter is not mentioned in this blog - he has a sensible aversion to airing his dirty laundry in public.

The festive season kicked in with Dim Sum in Berwick St. Soho. Champagne and crab salad followed at a friends in New Road, Lewes. Having dragged my seasonal hoard home from Aldi my feasting well and truly commenced. Bombay mix, chestnut stew, partridge & pears , roast potatoes, Harvey's christmas pudding, Delia's red cabbage and a cinnamon laced, red wine moussaka, bomber cheese & crackers in the flat with chocolates from Gloucester.....undo the buttons of my jeans...Baileys, gin, cava and lashings of red wine. My thighs have long since met in the middle as my midriff expands, chin becoming more generous. I look in the mirror and sigh a little. The Jadore woman in the perfume advert taunts me in shimmering gold.

And so the age old body image crisis kicks in. New year, new me. Slim back down to fit into clothes, the Fodmap diet, the 5:2 diet, running, punishing myself with the highly dubious weighing machine in the local boots. My automatic response is to find my new found curves and folds foul, something to be ashamed of but this year things are beginning to shift a little.

I spent years thin. Thinner than most, cold feet with no hip meat or thighs to mention. I looked good in  photos even though in reality I looked pasty and ill. The arse of a drug addict apparently and grey skin (sisters are great at telling you how it was). Being a size 6 did not lead to happiness although I could look good in a sack, and in all honesty I do miss that aspect of my starving younger self.  What I don't miss however is a crippling lack of appetite. I have very little willpower, my lithe looks were not a result of dieting, exercise or healthy eating but a feeling of general anxiety that made it impossible to eat very much at all.  Some days I could only eat a few grapes for lunch, eating out was a torture, food was a necessity and if I could simply have eaten a pill to sustain me I would have.

I no longer suffer from anxiety and with its demise came a hunger for food. A hunger that very much enjoys being satiated. I clear plates, savour tastes, I am now one of those women who likes her food!

And so in the New Year when I do my critical appraisal, I will be less harsh on myself. I will be honest. When I had gaps between my thighs and not much stomach, when my jeans hung off and my hip bones protruded I may have looked good in lycra but I was unhappy, my appetite and calories sapped by an internal raging of overthinking and unhelpful stress. And so although it is socially desirable to be thin , I'm happier and healthier in my skin.

And so what to do about not looking so good in clothes? Stop squeezing a round body into a square peg. I need to change my clothes, not my body. The High street make clothes for girls and this mother is about to call her tailor. But for now it's wine and cheese hour.

Happy New Year!

The Day I met a pin up Queen

 

I'm currently writing a series of short stories about people over seventy, Here are the notes on Diana, an incredible woman I met in Eastbourne who has since passed.

 

I find it hard to look at the pictures of my breasts. Too large for a child, too large for anyone.

 They had cruel smiles those men.   I just looked up at the sun and tried to block them out, let it bleach me out until I could feel nothing. She’d worn lipstick and wanted to go with them, she didn’t mind their rough way of kissing and the dirt under their nails. I’d never had the chance to find out whether or not I even liked boys. On that that day there were six of them.

When they finished with me they left me sitting on a bench looking at the ducks on the pond. I’d taken off my tights and hidden them in one of those bins the children put their ice cream wrappers in. One of them had told me that with tits like mine I could be a pin up queen.

They took  photographs of me in the altogether, I cooked eggs and bacon in my knickers and bra for a man who owned a revue bar, he promised I could dance in the theatre. I walked out onto that stage feeling like the goddess of love, only to realise that they were only there to have a wank. Every man I ever met had a twisted smile.

During the Blitz I used to sit under the table in the children’s home as the bombs fell across London. Most of the other children were deaf. Yes, I can still remember how to sign, some things never leave you. What did I do when I left the home? I went to prison. It wasn’t uncommon for girls like me in those days.

Why did she have to die on me like that, my mother? Why even now do they seek me out?

No, no one noticed that I came home without my tights, there were the little ones to look after.

I’ve been thinking i'd like someone to help me write my story, he told me no one would be interested in a tart.

I find it hard to look at the pictures of my breasts. Too large for a child, too large for anyone. Pin up queen, google it and you will find me. They find new ways but i'm sure the dirty laugh sounds the same. Still laughing with their cruel mouths.

Can you make them interested in me? Me. I did not go under. Despite everything I outlived them all. What shall we call it? ‘Hurdles and Girdles’.

The sun is so bright today. I stare into it hoping it will bleach me out. Out in the park children are laughing as they feed the ducks.

An Anxious Outing

The first thing we heard upon crossing the threshold of The University of Sussex was the sound of a  protest centred around Sussex House.  I smiled to myself  at the irony of it all as I held his hand tighter. We had come to take part in a study on childhood fear and anxiety and here I was confronted by something that would have brought me out in a cold sweat twenty years ago when I lived on this campus.

It has now been proven that Anxiety Disorders are genetic, inherited from those relatives that quite literally drove you round the bend. The awkward ones, those who lacked confidence or panicked at the slightest change in routine, the one you tried your damndest not to take after.  That grandmother that took a cocktail of pills to keep her together because she suffered with her ‘nerves’.  I swore I would never take after my grandmother and I fought the fight for 39 years, stomach churning, mind racing and blaming itself , the anxiety eating into my self confidence, a parasite that stopped me gaining weight and achieving my full potential. I never sought out a doctor because that would be to fail, to admit that I was like her. But then came my boy.

The thing about being a parent is that you are forced to face yourself head on.  I didn’t want him to be like me, but he was. If I couldn’t face up to and like the difficult parts of me how could I love him, help him through those daily struggles that had become part of my routine.  I sought help and vowed to help him too. Because like me he’s a strong little thing and despite the anxieties he gives life a good go.  And so together  we boarded a train, shared a packet of monster munch and strode forth onto campus to face our fears.

We spent the day answering questions on fear, I put my hand in a box that could potentially give me an electric shock and entered a room to meet a snake that turned out to be simply a shed skin. My boy had a ball but more importantly learned that it is ok to talk about the way he feels, to acknowledge anxiety.

It’s hard to write posts like this because despite modern advances in the understanding of mental health, the fear of being labelled a ‘nutter’ adds to the condition of anxiety. What people do not realise is that most sufferers of the condition do not huddle into a ball at the first sign of trouble but battle on day to day internalising their fears whilst maintaining a swanlike veneer. We are not unreliable, flaky or delicate, just hard on ourselves. Although a genetic condition, patterns can be broken and if my boy does develop an anxiety disorder I hope that he can challenge it in the way that I have.

Confidence may be genetic too apparently, which is why those with anxiety often box below their weight. Since confronting anxiety I have learned a new way to fight and my confidence has soared.  The best lesson I can teach my boy is that we are all in this mad soup together, that as complex emotional beings we all suffer in our own little way.  That worry and fear bear no fruit.

In my family we have acknowledged that we are like each other and we are standing together. Let’s hope that me and my boy's little adventure on campus add to the understanding of our particular malaise for generations to come.  Meanwhile he has already spent his Amazon voucher presented to him for his part in the study. Any clues on how to break the pattern on money burning a hole in your pocket gratefully received.

Little fishes are sweet- dish of the day no 1

Delia  lied to me and I am covering the abyss with sliced banana. It would have been far cheaper to buy a ready made cheesecake, but our hosts are new friends and I don't want to feed them ground hooves that have been squirrelled away into toffee sauce.

Time to nip downstairs and buy the wine, fold the emergency chairs and balance the grand Grand Canyon of culinary creations up the hill to Library Pigg's flat. Will he take his glass eye out this evening, will he show us the Olympic torch, will both of our children stay dry at this crucial stage of potty training.

There's something about sharing a Sunday dinner with friends that warms the cockles. Pretences dropped, wine quaffed and life filling you up despite the chasm that sits beneath the sliced banana.

Banofee Cheesecake: Page 184 'Delia's Winter Collection'

Nothing to say

Following the recent shootings in America, the author Lionel Shriver was approached by the media for her opinion on the tragedy. Having written the novel 'We need to talk about Kevin' the story of a juvenile serial killer, she was expected to provide some kind of explanation for events that have shocked the world. To her credit she declined, she had nothing to say. She is a novelist who uses a dramatic narrative to explore the darker aspects of the human experience, in her opinion the facts speak for themselves.

Sometimes there is nothing to say. Since the news broke we have not watched the conventional news. From experience I know that the media cover these incidents in such a distasteful way, that one can end up feeling like a voyeur of other people's grief. The bare facts spoken are enough, without the endless images, videos and exploitation of people's grief, the close ups of emotional agony that have no place being broadcast across the globe. It as though these people have stumbled unwittingly into a reality show at a time when they deserve privacy the most.

And then there is the coverage of the killer. A disturbed individual who was let down by their society, a society that made it possible for him to access lethal weaponry. I haven't been able to avoid all media , the front pages on display in the supermarket today illustrate the usual attempt to create a new story from one which needs no further dramatisation. Computer games, music, Gothic clothing are to blame not the gun or the mental illness that goes untreated. An isolated and evil individual remote from the society to which he belonged. I deplore this aspect of the media, the hunt for new stories, utilising the techniques of dramatic writing to wring the emotions. There are few people who will not be touched by the facts, the rest is cheap and fuels a macabre fascination that dehumanises us all.

My child is six. One night he walked into the front room and looked at the television. I wasn't watching it but I looked up to see a grainy black and white image of the Yorkshire Moors, a child's body was being lifted into an ambulance.  'He was sexually abused and killed' the voiceover said. My son looked at me but we said nothing. It was a moment we shared but there was nothing to say.

I haven't watched the news because I cannot bear to see. My sorrow changes nothing but a change in gun laws could have saved lives.

Standing by the flag

Proud :Feeling pleasurable satisfaction over an act, possession, quality, or relationship by which one measures one's stature or self-worth: proud of one's child; proud to serve one's country.

Fear not dear readers. I have not become a poster girl (sic) for British nationalism, a royalist or a patriot. I was asked to pose for a portrait at Vintage Nation before the bargain hunters piled in to paw the second hand wares. I was asked if I minded posing by a Union Jack, to be honest I was ambivalent. I was more concerned about my double chin and the prominence of my baby belly/wine waist. Post Jubilee I had become de sensitized; bunting with polka dots, retro 70s, retro 40s, in shop windows, even French fancies popped up in red, white and blue.I didn't give it much thought but on reflection it has forced me to examine why I feel no connection to the emblem of the nation, if

I am even proud to be British.

I was born in London, hence I am British. This is a fact and standing by the flag illustrates this if shown overseas. In this country however it could be misconstrued, a symbol of my pride, of standing up for British values, institutions, history and foreign policy. Am I proud to be British. No. Am I ashamed of being British. No. Nationalism has no bearing on my feelings of self worth or identity.

Much British history involves the subjugation of other nations, a jingoism that taints much of what people feel being British is about. In this sense Britishness is measured on feelings of Superiority and racism.I spoke to a Brazilian friend of the family today who chose to leave England because of the racism and bigotry he faced teaching in British Schools. I felt sad that young people can still be so closed minded in this day and age, that their bigotry and agression limit their experiences and that their rejection of the 'foreign' is to embrace a monoculture that exists not as a celebration of its own culture but as a rejection of others.

I am not highly patriotic but I'm not ashamed to be British.I dont feel the need to apologise for actions that are out of my control. I don't perpetuate hatred in my daily life but by the same token I haven't personally faught against Fascism as my fellow Stallholder Cyril did in WW2. I have great respect for him as one of the last survivors of the Normandy Invasion. He defended his country and as an ex dairy farmer he provided milk for the other soldiers by miking cows that had been deserted. I have great regard for him but it's not pride.Im grateful that he gave a part of his life to protect us against a fascist invasion.He did that, not me.I can only be proud of my achievements, my children's and family's highpoints. I have a hand in this. If I am proud of my nation and stand in the golden glow of its achievements, I would also have to apologise and stand shame faced as drunk Britons invade Europe or attack international students on the streets.

I am ambivalent not reactionary. People often critise this country as a teenager would their parents. It can't do anything right. I am disgusted at the way politicians are dismantling many of loved institutions but there are worse places to live. Britain is culturally diverse, vibrant and eccentric in places. Like human nature it is good and bad simultaneously. It is what it is. And in the context of the above photograph the flag is a backdrop, a piece of cloth signifying the country the photograph of this short woman was taken in.

No, I dont find pride in a flag but in things and people I have a hand in making, achieving or developing. I has a surge of pride today in the corner shop. My tiny daughter elbowing her way into the crowd of kids huddled round the penny sweet shelf. She nearly sent a man flying as she returned with her bounty 'Nake' she hollered as she held a rubbery sweet snake aloft in her fist.That's my girl.

Copyright for the above photograph belongs Emma Duggan

Down From London

'Brighton: the capital for people who can't handle London. Unless they move to Lewes, which is for people who can't handle Brighton' Oliver Bennett -The Independent.

A year ago this week we moved out of my mother's spare room and into a two up two down in Lewes. We had sold our furniture and were waiting for the call to board a plane to Melbourne, we signed a six month contract not expecting to see out the full term of the tenancy. After six months of sleeping on a borrowed futon we bought a bed, then a fold up table,gradually we accepted that the job would never come up and that I secretly didn't want it to. I had fallen for Lewes a little and realised that emigration was a dramatic cry for help, an escape route from negative equity and my loathing of Suburban Eastbourne. It's not Brighton or London I couldn't handle, it's the burbs. The terraced house we bought was no longer a home but a pact with the devil. The property ladder had become a circus act without a safety net and I was tired of clinging on for dear life.

Despite its middle class credentials: a castle,  twittens, patisseries, journos  and DFLs (down from Londons) , I love the place. I've met more than my fair share of eccentrics and bankrupts, people who have been around the block and have nothing to prove. After years of living in a cultural desert I am chuffed that Lewesians  have warmed to my bright ideas and money making schemes. They have supported me with genuine enthusiasm, putting their money where their mouth is and attending my events.  I have experienced genuine kindness and generosity in what has been one of the toughest years of my life. I often question why at this junction in my life I didn't move back home. Back to London were there are jobs aplenty, my favourite city in the world.

Last week we took the train back to London for Mr Porter's 40th. As the train pulled in past Battersea Power station I felt that warm feeling of coming home. The brown slopping river, the new flats with the coppery facade, the old blocks of social housing to the left. Down into the tube station with our one day travel cards we forged, no longer needing to go southbound. A day out in London simply for the fun of it .Although  London is my favorite city, despite the fact that I want my ashes scattered on the little beach on the Thames, I cant imagine moving back .

I will always love London but living there could often make you feel like a child with her nose pressed up against a toy shop window. You cannot beat the looming stone buildings, those urban cliffs of the London skyline,the diversity of people, the fact that my own personal history is inextricably linked with its streets, that its perpetual movement soothes me in a way country lanes and quiet afternoons in the suburbs do not. But unless I can live in a flat overlooking the South Bank, a move back would be a step back. My London reality would be waiting at a bus stops  with shopping bags and a pram.

 In reality, many of London's poor are being pushed out to the margins of the city. Rough , ugly places, the overspill caused by gentrification, the rise in house prices causing a form of social cleansing. I made the choice not to return because I knew id never be able to live in a desirable location. I'm too long in the tooth to prove I can hack it in a rough area. There are no prizes awarded for being hard and I like the fact that my son can walk barefoot in his lobster pendant, hate football and shouts 'Nib!' as a form of abuse. Being a Londoner I am impressed by cows in fields, country beer gardens and tractors passing my front room window. I never tire of the novelty factor.

Once the kids leave school I'll be free to run away with Mr Porter and have a mid life crisis in Copacabana, In the meantime Lewes is a fine place,  'to park your arse'. I can walk everywhere (albeit up cobbled streets), swim at the Pells Lido, learn to love real ale, write my stories, visit London, bring up kids, walk the downs, visit the seaside, and generally mooch about. I am a DFL (down from Londoner) via Brighton, Lewes and Eastbourne. I am staying the course, I may even replace my makeshift bedside table, constructed with a hardback book of nudes and several shoe boxes . Australia. Can you seriously imagine me wearing thongs?

.


Michelle Porter is Looking for work in the writerly profession and donations of real furniture.

The other day someone I hadn't seen for a while asked what I'd been up to. I actually found myself responding 'this and that', my daily has no routine, im all over the place work wise.

I call myself a writer but I haven't written a word in over six weeks. I haven't blogged, scribbled or even picked up my ever evolving opus 'Not Moving to Eastbourne' . It is my passion but I simply could not find the time. If I loved it would I not live it? Write 500 words a day like Graham Greene did, follow the artists way and pen a few paragraphs each morning before breakfast? If writing is a discipline I'd be in line for the cane.

Instead of writing I have been making money. Until something pays it is a luxury pastime, a hobby at best, the vicious circle being the fact that fiction needs a lot of work before it makes any money if ever at all. Re writing, drafting , chopping, editing down to the bone before fleshing it out again. In the meantime money must be made and the writing suffers. And so I had no option but to lay down my pen and pull my petticoat back on. I didn't get on my bike to seek work in a neighbouring town, I laced up my boots, hired a hall and resumed my classes in the art of the cancaneuse. High kicking (jippy hip doing well considering), making people whoop and smile and earning more than I would if I took a job offering minimum wage. And then there's the stall. If its not nailed down I sell it. Every Tuesday I drag my case and wicker busts up the hill to the market and create The Wild Pearl, a stall selling vintage inspired items. They all sound very glitzy my part time jobs, but all that glitters is not gold.

I miss the quiet part of me. The part that does not need to be performed, the part that lives in my heart and on the tip of my thoughts. The part I can express without making my body ache. This last few months has been an expression of me through the physical, needs be when the devil has raided your purse, but I need a little of the quiet me too, the Michelle who writes.

I have not written, but the writer in me has been listening and watching; getting out there and living. I have met people who are not literary, people of all ages and from all walks of life. If I was paid as a full time writer would I miss this, would I end writing about a writer, my stories would begin to eat themselves. I haven't written for six weeks but in a way I have been living as a writer, not by writing but by listening, by observation.

Last week I met a man of 82 who was selling at the same market as me. He had hands like shovels and a twinkle in his eye. Over five hours we bantered and discussed our takings. By the time we packed up I knew that his father had not survived the injuries he suffered during WW2, despite their moving to Lewes so that he could recuperate. His first wife had died of cancer at 52, he told me that he had broken down and didn't even care if his house burned down around him. A poignant moment was shared before we had a giggle at some saucy postcards.We concluded that life is as simple as pulling yourself back up or choosing to throw the towel in. I wouldn't have heard that story at home alone behind a desk. He wouldnt have short changed me either, but at 82 I'll give him that.

So yes, I still call myself a writer. In between showing my knickers and haggling over vintage brooches. To write about life is to live it first. This is living as a writer. That and justifying your procrastination in such an effective manner.

Michelle Porter is wondering wether or not to call her short story collection

A) Not Moving to Eastbourne

B) vintage Tales : because everything old has a story

All of the stories are Unexpected tales about people over 70

Unfunny Gag-the silence of the female comedian

Why aren't women funny? Are you joking! I'm not even going to answer that question, women are frigging hilarious. Women have always had me in stitches and I'm even funny apparently, unintentional on my part , a bit funny rather than ha ha. The question we need to ask is why people assume they are not.

People think women are unfunny because there are so few female stand up comedians. This is the logic of a sexist society, the same logic that concludes women are not top chefs because they can't cook, 'if you can't stand the heat don't come into the kitchen ladies'

'if you can't enter the pissing contest, don't come anywhere near the comedy panel show'

Funny women on T.V are being gagged and it's not a joke. There is a fear that women may crack jokes about periods, body issues, and god forbid CHILDREN! What, like Michael McIntyre? People love it he's hilarious. Mothers and fathers weep into their wine together. Even if they do joke about 'women's,' topics, women do make up half the population, there is a market for crying out loud. Silencing people's humour gives the message that we only want to laugh AT them not with them, that we do not want to hear about their experiences. Laughing together is based on empathy and it bonds people.

No, women are not underrepresented on panel shows and prime time stand up comedy because they are unfunny, but because the most interesting, prestigious, and well paid jobs in this country still go to men. Directors of films, companies and countries. Kerching. Cue cynical canned laughter.

Enough of our absence. I want to celebrate the moments women have made me wet myself, spit out drinks, made me hoot and laugh in the street when I remembered their jokes/comments. Women who make me feel a little happier. Here are some of my top comedy moments entitled laughing my tits off:

1. Margot in ' The Good Life' trying to play pass the balloon between the legs

2. Alison Steadman as Beverley in 'Abigal's Party'. I could watch that on a loop I never tire of it. The voice, the shoulders. the observation.

3. Not a fan of Corrie but Deidre Barlow and her mother!!!! When she died, Deidre pronounced in her camp manner ' she should never have gone to Portugal, it was madness!'

4. Lisa Lynn -Daugher of Evesham -(not famous) One fine sunny day in Eastbourne sipping cold lager in the Wish Tower Cafe, Lisa looked over and pronounced 'I can't wait to be old, you can throw your fashion sense to the wind' I looked round to see a couple of elderly women in bum bags, brightly coloured ankle swingers and huge sunglasses. I laughed so hard beer came down my nose.

5. Sue Perkins-I would marry her if I was a lesbian, not already married and famous. Too complicated, but the sentiment is there. Sharp, funny, and inoffensive-you don't have to bully people to make other people laugh. And she's posh! Having a GSOH is a turn on for both sexes.

6. Jennifer White (Little sister when 6) Opened the door to my husband wearing bike leathers and a helmet. She slammed the door drolly stating 'we didn't order a pizza.'

7.Jo Brand and all the women she enabled to drop those expected, feminine manners. Women can now be crass, rude and gross. Dull women at school gates take note, let's rant and moan it's a riot and it breaks down barriers.

8. Louise Almeida (The other sister) All round ginger loon. The only person who can make me belly laugh even when the chips are down. From humming the theme tune to 'Hawaii Five O' as the priest came into the church, to her impersonations of Beverly 'you have very beautiful lips'. It's true that those who grow up together laugh best together.

9. Caitlin Moran- When 'How to be a Woman' came out, Lewes was awash with women laying in the sunshine snorting, shoulders shaking as they read her book. I have a horrible habit of trying to stifle a laugh when walking along the street, it comes out as an unattractive demented cough. I still find her funny even though she wont RT me on Twitter. I should unfollow that would show her. Ok. Ok. That was cringey.

10. Me!! You have to laugh at yourself in this life or you'd go mad. I Once walked into a cinema and when asked 'How many tickets would you like?' I responded '50 Please' The man looked bemused, I thought I was on the bus. (That was a while back, 50p from Preston Park to Hove!) There is a fair chance I had a hangover.

So yes, women are a laugh a minute, a hoot, great comedy actors, social commentators, wry, witty loons. We are all becoming bored with the macho bullying style of humour. There is nothing entertaining in seeing the way some panel shows treat the token woman guest. In my mind humour should not be a contact sport, it shouldn't be sparring but a way of connecting and making us feel better when our spirits are low. Women, your country needs you, male dominance in comedy, it's time to stand down (ummm, not sure that works.)

Growing up with Kate Moss

As the nations favourite waif turns 38, I'm taking a pause to think about my body. Whatever I think of the most succesful model of all time, she's always been there for me to compare to. I can barely remember a time she wasn't around.

I first saw Kate Moss on the front cover of The Face magazine. I was about sixteen and unimpressed, she was young and skinny, so what. I was 6.5 stone wet through and was fed up with being mistaken for a child, being ID'd for cigarettes, being overlooked and patronised in adult conversation. I was 4ft 11 and I hated it, I wanted to look like a 'real' woman, tattoed with boobs and long legs, one that couldn't be mistaken for a child. In those days they didn't sell size 8 let alone a 6, fortunately for me grunge was all the rage, ill fitting was par for the course. No I didn't want to be Kate Moss, I wanted to be like the goths I saw at The Harp club New Cross (Now the Venue) the immaculately groomed uber Goths who worked in Kensington Market (No longer trading.) This story is dating me by the sentence.

So my first body issue was not about weight, it was height. I hated being short, Petite, even my clothes size is patronising. Acceptence of my height eventally came via an unlikely source, the polar opposite to teenage angst and goth, Kylie Minogue. Here was someone of 5ft that would become one of the world's sexiest women. She is the poster girl for short women and she is my guiltiest musical pleasure. At forty I would even go as far as to say that I like being short, you've got more room in the bath and you can sqeeze into vintage shoes.

Since our early teenage years most women over 35 have grown up with Kate Moss. We have been bombarded with images of her skinny jeans and chiselled features for so long we've forgotten there's an alternative. Until recently, until the campaign for the appreciation of 'real' women. Burlesque buxom beauties took to the stage, the retro curves of Christina Hendricks hit the newstands, bigger women now had positive representation, curves were back in Vogue. Christina looks fanbloodytastic, but I have a problem with the notion of 'real' women. For one, curves look incredible but when most people put on a few pounds the only curves in evidence are convex they grow a gut not an hourglass shape to die for. And what is a 'real' woman. Cut me at 7.11 stone and I still bleed, I squeezed two kids past these 31inch hips. I am all woman believe me. The problem is not unreal women but the persistant representation of beauty coming in tall, thin and young packages. We don't need to pit curves against cheekbones, we just need a bit of variety.

Most women have body issues and i've had my fair share, I have bored my husband and family rigid with my obsessive moaning about my stomach. I've started to wonder how I stop my daughter inheriting this body obsession that has plagued the last few generations of British women. I can't think of anyone I know who is confident in the body they have been given to wear and i'm seriously at a loss as to how to stop her falling for the same vanity trap. I can tell her she is beautiful and that this is irrelevant because she is capable and intellegent, but this doesn't cut much ice when it comes from your mother.

At forty I follow the progress of Kate Moss as you would a girl you went to school with. I no longer think 'she's skinny, so what?' I wonder how the hell they airbrush the fag and booze damage from the corners of her eyes and mouth, how she kept that stomach so flat after having a child. By the time my baby Pearl is sixteen, there will be some other model setting the body beautiful trend. Whether she considers herself beautiful may depend on whether she matches this girls colour, height, look or shape. I hope however that we have moved on by then, that our daughters have learned from our pathetic navel gazing. Alternatively Kate Moss may still doing the rounds, radicalising how we see the older woman, fag hanging out of her mouth on the front cover of Vogue.

Happy Birthday Kate Moss, you're persistant I'll give you that!

Relative Poverty

It is estimated that 2.5 million British children are currently living in poverty. This week channel four 4thought TV are running a serious of short films looking at children's experiences of poverty. As I listened to the first child I thought of my own childhood and what I would have considered poverty to be in 1978.

My first home was a rented flat with no bathroom or inside toilet. No phone, washing machine or central heating, This was the seventies and despite pampas grass and leopard print bedspreads, mod cons were still not accessible to all. Unscrupulous landlords peddled shoddy accommodation, splitting houses without proper conversion and renting them as flats. When the front ceiling fell in we waited weeks for it to be repaired, watching television together in my parents bedroom. If you had asked us if we were living in poverty we would have been shocked, my parents would have been offended.

We ate good homemade food , chicken cobbler, whitebait, stuffed marrows, fish and chips from Andy's, the occasional giant Chinese spring roll. As a child I was well turned out, to be honest I knocked spots off even the most wealthy judge's daughter in Dulwich Village. I went to to the pictures, on holidays , received treats, toys and pocket money. No, poverty was other people, people who were starving, Sometimes we would take an evening walk into Dulwich Village and look at all the big houses as a form of after dinner entertainment. Window shopping, we didn't expect to live like that, in the seventies you knew your place. I am possibly one of the last generation to remember a time before general home ownership and mass consumerism. Posh people lived differently, it was accepted.

No, we felt sorry for people who were uncared for, the scruffy girl whose mother walked about done up to the nines, kids who looked like they hadn't had a wash for a while. I learned to fear emotional poverty from an early age and it still knots my stomach to hear of children with no human kindness in their lives. I have met people who have risen from poverty to wealth who are still searching for that lost experience of early family life. Family is still vital in determining a child's experience of poverty on both emotional and material levels. A child living with a single parent on benefits without family will suffer far more than a mother who is helped financially by their extended family.This by no means suggests that single parents cannot provide a loving and secure home, its just tougher for them, especially for those without a supportive network. Help with clothes and extras make a big difference when money is tight. When the state is failing to provide, those without extended families suffer the most.

My parents were determined people. My mother walked to the phone box and hassled the housing until we were rehoused. We eventually ended up living in one of the more salubrious parts of West Dulwich until I left home for university. In 2012 most families will not have this option. Social housing is thin on the ground and high rents and rising fuel costs are driving people to cut back on social activities, clothes and food. Further Education will be out of my son's reach. We may have phones, washing machines and computers coming out of our ears, but once these goods are worn out we are left with less than the the children of the seventies. For all of our progress we are relatively poorer today, if hope is gold we are reduced to counting coppers.

The question of poverty and how it is defined still remains a hot potato. Does it matter how we lived in the past, that we don't know we are born today. Relative poverty is not about who has the latest Wii or comparing ourselves to Victorian England. It's about deciding how we want our children to live today. Properly fed, warm, clothed, educated to the best of their ability, socially engaged, treated and loved.

http://www.channel4.com/programmes/4thoughttv

Photo of me enjoying a 1970s holiday

Would you employ this old mother?

I may be little. I may be a woman, but I never imagined I'd ever feel like the little woman, a homemaker with no income aside from £130 per month child benefit. It feels ridiculous buying your partner a Christmas present out of his own wages, but unless I entertain gentleman callers in a negligee , the options are sparce. How did it come to this? I'd always sworn I'd have an independent career and income for the sake of my sanity, for my dignity and self esteem. I may never have believed it would ever happen to me , but now my heel is stuck between the rails and a train destined for unemployable is heading full speed in my direction. I can see it coming, I know what it is, it's not creeping up on me, it's about to plough me down.

I stopped working after my second child. You cannot fit a conventional job around a shift worker who never works the same days each week. Wages minus tax, child care and travel = not enough to do an admin job that pays below average wage. After a few years of trudging to work with toddlers for a pittance , I decided to jack it in and stay at home and write. Despite some published non fiction, I am becoming less and less productive. For a completer finisher, working from home is a challenge. I can't even write a Trip Advisor review without being interrupted by a shitty nappy or the tragedy of a broken toy, expressed by a five year old melting down in operatic style. I crave deep thought, being lost in a task, being paid for doing something because someone values my contribution. I want to feel like an adult again, and not some aimless soul hanging around the school gates, praying that someone might just invite me out for a coffee. Five years of 'the wheels on the bus' and I'm about to swear in public in front of infants. Baby groups are great for babies but I'm a woman with needs, and I need a job.

So 2012 will see me dusting off the old C.V. I've lost a heel pulling it free from that rail, my confidence is bruised, my self esteem workwise is at an all time low. There's a recession on, who wants to employ this old mother. How can two years at home teach you any skills anyone paying money could use in an employee? Here are a few of the skills developed out on the floor of domesticity.

Ability to focus on budgets and decision making whilst being interrogated and abused - shopping with son who can pester every three seconds until your head explodes.

Jobbing Head Chef. Master chef has nothing on me. I can cook with a toddler clinging to my leg as another child uses the mini parsnips as Minotaur horns to headbutt mŷ arse.

Tardiness is not an option. Can rise early after little sleep.

Can work without a lunch break and view toilet visits as a luxury.

Can tolerate physical and mental abuse as part of the daily routine.

Despite being 5ft I can restrain the violent and carry heavy loads. Need a packhorse or punchbag, I'm your woman. Ummm, time to think again.

Too much time at home and you forget what you can do and what you have achieved. So here goes, a potted history of my money making exploits so far. Supervisor in a private bank, compliance bod, cancan dancer, cancan teacher, Office manager , PA, library mistress, author, blogger. Most bizarre acts performed for money include scouring the North Laines for a diamanté necklace for a chocolate dog and showing my frilly knickers on a windy pier . I have written a book in two months whilst breast feeding a newborn baby, written a collection of short stories after hours when the kids are asleep upstairs, sold burlesque vintage on a stall in the middle of winter, six months pregnant, jolly in red lipstick and an ill fitting coat. After the sale of some hot pink nipple tassels I wondered why I was making life so hard for myself for such little return. I bet Jordan doesn't have to do this I sighed, too busy in the warm writing or dictating atrocious books.

So why am I not earning a living writing? Why do I continue to fanny about with random jobs and money making schemes. Because unless there is money on the table you cannot justify a baby sitter, you may as well ask people to cover whilst you take a daytime jaunt to the pub. I want to write for my supper , pen prose for a bigger house, buy my husband a Christmas present that has not been paid for from the proceeds of refuelling an aircraft or changing its tyres in a gale force wind.

Caring for kids is the toughest job I have ever done, and however rewarding it simply doesn't pay. I asked my son what my role was and he answered cooking and washing up. He doesn't remember me doing anything else. I want to inspire my children , lead by example , let Pearl see that women can earn a living as well as breed and nurture. I am an educated, flexible, resilient and creative woman looking for some work. Until that money is slapped onto the table ill keep on penning of an evening, my short story collection WILL be ready to download by the spring. In the meantime I am not averse to selling the odd nipple tassel in the snow. You never know, I may meet a literary agent, failing that my next lead character , no encounter is a wasted experience in the life of a writer.

So I may be little and I'm definitely a woman. The train destined for unemployable my be hurtling towards me but I am slipping off my heels and letting it pass. I'm not the little woman but a fighter , a writer refusing to drop the dream. Because upon closer inspection that train's destination is not unemployable but zero self confidence. Only I can stop that train flattening me in my tracks. I'm getting in the driver seat and beeping my horn. This mother is ready for action next stop literary acclaim, get your tickets ready this will no longer be a free ride. Toot, toot!

The imagery for the heel stuck in the rails was inspired by an afternoon trip to the post office as part of my office duties. I got a heel stuck in a pavement grill and had to be rescued by a woman who hands were clad in gold sovereigns. I later realised that I only had to slip off my shoe to escape. Nothing is wasted if you file it away.

Michelle Porter is looking for work....

Let the 99% wear Westwood.

Photo captures authors best bits from Bexhill Charity shops collection 2010

"Of course, they will say, 'What is she doing, she's selling a designer collection, how can she be against consumption?' Well, you have to consume things, of course, you have to live, you have to eat. And I'm not saying don't go to the discotheque, they can do that. I'm just saying go less, do other things." She sighs. "It's so much to tackle."

Vivianne Westwood

I love Vivianne Westwood. For her tangerine tresses, her gentle Derbyshire accent and my corset collection,all inspired by her cleavage uplifting designs. She is majestic, ethereal , putting two fingers up to a society that worships at the altar of youth, at seventy she is still radical, still cool. She creates fantasy and beauty, garments and looks that I have copied but never owned. She was still creative after conception and I doff my feathered cap to her simply for that. But when she talks politics I am bemused, either she doesn't explain herself very well or she is as confused as I am.

Politically , I can't relate to a lot of what's going on around me at the moment. It is as though words and deeds are strangers to each other. Questions and answers are no longer bedfellows. The world is full of soundbites statements and blame. Celebrities preaching to the masses from their podiums of hypocrisy like latter day Marie Antionettes. I cant even bear listening to politicians. Everyone is pointing the finger at someone else.

Take fashion for example. The root of global warming and human expolitation is often attributed to a consumer demand for fashion novelty and cheap clothes. Blame the poor for shopping at Primark they cry from their window seat in first class as they looki down on their third home twinkling down below. Vivianne Westwood believes that we should buy less but better, choose well and save up for quality garments . So do I , but when a designer skirt costs my wardrobe budget for the year , we are living on different planets. I need boots, socks, knickers , jumpers... you get the yarn i'm spinning.

We are led to believe that buying quality is buying ethically, the research I have done says otherwise. The high street stores are cut from the same cloth , price buys brand not ethical guarantees. Designers are no better and some sources rate famous politically outspoken designers as shamefully poorly on ethical and environmental standards. Agencies that support and champion textiles workers suggest that the answer is not to boycott large companies but to lobby them for better working conditions and environmental practices. Setting up small independent outlets does nothing to address the welfare of thousands of textile workers around the world. I'm confused, Vivienne is right ,it's so much to tackle.

When it comes down to it ,we are all hypocrites. Most people do not purposely or directly harm those less fortunate, but we are all mixed up together,in a system that does. Westwood flies to China, but she doesn't use a washing machine. I have shopped in Primark but have never driven a car and haven't done a long haul flight for years. We all do our bit to save and destroy our planet and society. Very few of us are innocent , so perhaps its time to stop pointing the finger at' each other and towards workable solutions. Preaching doesn't win many converts these days. I love drama, fine speeches and spectacle as a form of protest, but I also like realism, I also want to listen to the unsung heros who understand the system and work to change it from within. People who do not tar the general population as television drugged zombies too stupid to see the truth. The truth is in their pay packets or lack of it. I think we understand what's going on, we just don't know what to do about it.

I'm not a Marxist or an ist of any kind, but we can still learn a lot from good old Karl. In my opinion the solutions to the material ills of the world lie in the simple slogan 'From each according to his ability, to each according to his need (or needs)' That we should contribute what we are physically and materially able to, that we should not take more than we need. Vivianne uses her celebrity and artistry to highlight the cause, this is her ability. What the hell am I going to do? If I was Viv i'd set up a company that is ethical from root to tip. That supplies the goods people need and can afford . I can get my fashion fix from charity shops and car boot sales but when the children desperately need a vital item in a specific size at the right price, the high street meets the demand. Unfortunately I don't have the money or expertise to set this up but in the meantime I can clean up my own act a little by doing the following.

1. Use a cobbler . It may cost £7 but it's still cheaper than new shoes.

2. Research the ethical practices of companies I use and let them know if I think they stink. I can send letters and emails from my humble abode.

3. Fly the charity shop flag-(unless they are 5ft and live in Lewes-keep away from my patch!)

4. Save up my £4 a week smoking money and save up for some shoes by Melissa. This may be regularly plundered to pay the gas.

5. Get a milkman. Those plastic bottles mounting up are my biggest shame.This may be more expensive. I may have to plunder the shoe fund yet again.

"I think all we can hope for is public opinion, that's the only thing that will save us.' Vivienne Westwood at OLSE.

If the occupy protests, green movements and anti capitalists want public opinion on their side they need to credit the working class with some intellegence. Need to respect their experiences and why they make the choices they make. A lot of people are new to political thought and protest and the occupations are radical, they take a while to get your head around. Just because many people can't see how it will work does not mean that they are bigots. I desperatley hope that the message will not be lost by medium of expression. 99% of us are angry at the same people about the same thing. I might nip over to Brighton and talk to people occupying there, change is afoot and we all need our voices in the mix.

If Vivianne turns up I shall tell her about my idea you never know, anything is possible in these times. I could be dressing my children in Red capes made from recycled sacks embossed with the golden orb of the queen of fashion. Now wouldn't that be fabulous!

http://www.labourbehindthelabel.org/campaigns/item/980

http://www.melissaaustralia.com.au/

For ethical shoes -Vegan, ethical and sexy-Yes Please Father Christmas

For great small businesses who exploit only themselves take a peek at

http://www.sweetheartknits.co.uk/ Employing women in the comfort of their own homes

THE END OF THE AFFAIR

My heart knows it is wrong, but I cannot bear to lose you. Knowing that you will no longer touch my lips, darkens me. You have always been there. Watching the waves crash from Ocean to shore, dancing under the giddy lights with me. I breathed life with you but you made me suffer. I shivered in the cold for you, sought your company even when I was sick , fouled myself with your poison. You took advantage of me when I was drunk, I even lied to my loved ones for you. You threatened to kill me but wouldn't tell me when. Luring me day after day into an uncertain future Despite all this I miss you every moment,minute and hour. You caught me young and now there is nothing to compare to you. Our dirty little affair has come to an end.

I've given up smoking. Again. When a four year old berates you in the street, when you are shamed as a smoker at the school gates by your son's friends, it's time to face facts. It's not just about me anymore. I never smoked during pregnancy , it seems that giving up for me is linked to someone else. I could never give up for myself, my pop psychology puts the blame at the door of catholism. Oh who am I kidding, I just love a good old fag.

Sad perhaps, but I simply loved smoking. It gave me time out, helped me breath, relieved the loneliness of an evening. It's not true love however, it's an addiction. I will never fully relax around smoke, my brain is different to those who have never puffed a cancer stick It always will be. My first post natal cigarette in the front garden was bliss. I slipped back in an instant, the surrender was divine.Without the cigarettes there will always be something missing. Russell Brand hit the nail on the head when he described addiction as punctuation mark. Without a cigarette , i need to learn to pause differently.

So yes, I will miss you, there will always be something missing. But hopefully not one of my limbs, a lung or me altogether. It's an unattractive smelly, business. Not glamourous, big or clever. But in memory of the good times I dedicate this picture to smoking. When I was young enough to think that wrinkles and cancer were elsewhere and that a fag in hand could still look hot.

In the meantime I will be punctuating my evening with a bag of Twiglets.

My past in boxes

Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.
William Morris

Somewhere near Bexhill on Sea my past sits in boxes. The garage of mum and dad being far cheaper than the a local firm wanted to charge for the safekeeping of my shabby chic and boho tat. I could rent a bigger house for that! The owner looked shocked at my reaction, (yes I did say it out loud!). Storage is a growing industry apparently and in these times of austerity people are still emotionally attached to collections of things they can longer afford to house. People feel they need bigger houses beacause they simply own too much stuff. In this scenario we are not slaves to our mortgages but slaves to piles of junk. And when our lives are over it will be somebody else sorting through it and piling it into binbags, facing the agonising choice of what you would have wanted them to keep.

Preempting the need to downsize, I began to cull my collections, binbag my belongings. If it was neither use nor ornament it was out on its ear. I began to distill my object d'art, to cut the wheat from the chaff, everything left would please my eye or my mind. I began to curate the exhibition of my life so far. The final sort and cuts come this weekend. The last boot fair of the season, the charity shop runs will re commence and I will be left with the things I value, those items I can afford to house. In this retrospective, cabinet space has so far been reserved for the following items, things that I cannot part with, things that have no or little monetary value. The less we have the more we value and these are a few of my favourite things. If I were to give an exhibition of myself these items would have to be included. There will be no back room with a warning to parents and the elderly, my parents read this blog...

Exhibit One: A quiet child Large home developed, dogged eared, black and white photos C 1974. Taken by art students in a garden in West Dulwich. I pose with my young parents in a mini tartan dress and white pigtails. It was summer, it was always sunny in the 70's.

Exhibit Two First Loss: A 34 year old walnut uncracked. Presented to my grandfather when he was dying from a stroke. My nan kept it until she died and I have kept it ever since.

Exhibit three: Pages that will turn forever 'Works of Dylan Thomas' a gift from my dad bought from the Cut market. 'The unbearable Lightness of being' Milun Kundera from the WHsmith Oxford st when I worked as a bored shop assistant. My Angela Carters! 'The Passion by Jeanette Winterson. 'If nobody speaks of remarkable things' Jon Mcgregor and many other yellowing editions that have moved from bookcase to shelf over the years.

Exhibit four : Dreams and fates Russian wooden egg painted as a Gypsy fortune teller. Brought by my sister from Moscow where she trained with the Kirov as a child.

Exhibit Five: Letters home Box of letters from my teenage husband written whilst he served in the airforce. From my sisters and a now notorious comedian written to me at uni. An ode to a time when we took the trouble to take pen to paper and in such a formal way. These documents literally read like antiques. A rare find.

Exhibit Six: The Theatrical Years Red petticoat and black velvet frilled knickers. A red felt heart is stitched onto the back (made by Butress and Snatch) they were worn for numerous can can performances. The tiniest ever chartreuse green bustier, customised with green glass beads and metallic green slingbacks (worn for a green fairy routine). A powdered wig adorned with birds, pearls and roses sits on a white china bust (wig for a high kicking Marie Antionette routine ) A collection of corsets from Magick, Velda lauder, Vollers, and Glitzy Tarts.

Exhibit Seven: My eyes never tire of beholding you A collection of artworks. Small painting of Sappho in gold Frame by Menguin (repro). Picture of demure woman undressing in her boudoir in black ink by Dorian Drake (original). The girl with a plastic bag on her head Hendrick Kerstens. Some beautiful prints that still have no frames. A task for the curator.

Exhibit Eight Gothic Tendencies: Vintage, velvet, black cape with tattered lining and metallic clasp. Bought Kensinton Gardens, Brighton. Worn in the woods and out to dinner. A gothic comfort blanket. Robert smith of the Cure's red lipstick print on a Selfridges compliment slip (original)

Exhibit Nine Simple Jewels: Amythyst and silver ring from The Great Frog, Carnaby St. 18th Birthday gift from husband. Moonstone wedding ring Curioser & Curioser, Brighton. Granfather's Gold and Pearl tie pin from Newmarket, a prize won when he raced as a jockey. Child's pearl necklace bought for daughters first christmas.

Exhibit Ten: Micellaneous writings. Beatrix Potter pastiche 'The little Grey Mouse" written in red felt tip with illustrations. 'Spirit Bottle" Original script of the play performed at the Marlborough theatre Brighton, includes the programme. Short film script and play script written for PG Dip, various short stories ,essays and drafts. Published copy of 'The Beginners guide to Capoeira'.

I will not pay to store things that I do not use, but I am human and a sentimental one at that. Be it photos, quirky clothing or letters ,their value lies in the memories and history they help me share. I am choosing wisely so that the things I own do not dictate where I live. I can be ruthless but not too harsh, because I am looking forward to the day when the kids squeal 'You wore that!" Some of the things I own have been beautifully made by somebody and they deserved to be kept. A homage to the unknown artists and people who enriched my emotional, cultural and visual life. The tat can go but history will be preserved for posterity.

So yes, on Saturday tat be gone, you can't take it with you! I only wish i'd hung on to that crushed velvet fanny pelmet from Thunderspussy.....

http://www.dasmanifesto.com/doriandrake.html

Land ahoy! I have made it to forty...

This time forty years ago I was about to make my debut south of the river. Kings College Hospital Lambeth, just up from the arches where my great grandfather stabled the horse that pulled his rag and bone cart in Camberwell Green. Somewhere in the the building a Beatles daughter had been born. My mother was served her tea on a silver tray, rock royalty and commoners were treated alike in the NHS. She never did get to spy Paul Mcartney from her hospital bed, but I lucked out that day. My dad was not a Beatle but a striking postman, my mother a professional in the business of common sense and selfless love. I'd hit the jackpot, this pair would always be there for me.

It's just another year but there's something about knocking on that paint chipped door of forty that makes you question what you have built for yourself inside, what you have achieved as a woman. Unfortunately personal success and achievement in our society are marked by a glittering career and money in the bank. As I opened the door to forty I expected to find a little more, I expected to at least own my home.That elusive career never did show itself and this dogged my thirties as I lurched from redundancy to cunning plans and artistic endeavours. I found my niche in literary fiction only to realise that it is of the hardest markets to crack, I have never made life easy for myself.

I spent a large part of my thirties beating myself up, I didn't need criticism I was too busy annihilating myself. I went to university full of passion, I would not just be a housewife, I would be a career woman. At forty I am a housewife, not because I'm a woman. but because I couldn't play the corporate game, say the right words at interviews and this is a revelation even to me, because deep down I didn't really want it . I'm not a suited go getter in Prada heels ,I am a thinker and an artist and my place is at home. Not behind a hoover but a keypad, being literary ,creating fiction. For my fortieth birthday I'm giving myself a break. I may be no Kate Moss but I've seen worse. Like Minnie the moocher, I may be small but my heart can be the size of a whale and i am often overwhelmed by the love that surrounds me.

Like my Romany ancestors I don't believe that a house is a home. It's the people that breathe life into a place , into your life. Sometimes when things are bad the Porter family cuddle up on the double bed. We tell each other we are on a ship and that the only thing that matters is what's on board. We could go anywhere. Tomorrow is not only my 40th but speak like a pirate day. The good ship Porter is ready to sail forward into the unknown. Its captains have weathered many a storm together, king George and Pearl are ready for action as we face the perilous ocean ahead. As I take to the high seas of my forties I am confident in my crew.

Tomorrow as I hit forty I finally realise that life is simply an accumulation of moments, not a constant stock take or judgement day. Be you the daughter of a postman or a Beatle you get the life you get, by giving myself a break I am loving life in all its complexity and simplicity. Giving myself a break feels bloody marvellous, who cares if I'm a financial ruin, I once wore a powdered wig to the Cafe Royal, have spent twenty three years bathed in the most beautiful blue light of my lover's eyes. These are a few of my humble achievements and all those colourful mistakes and follies are all fodder for my fiction. I may have to wield my cutlass for writing time on this crowded ship ,but I'm taking it one day at a time. Here's to all those who have sat through the performance so far! This is no curtain call by a long shot.


Michelle porter 1971 to ....... Whenever fate fancies