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

I Heart London but it's a little broken

I am a Londoner but I don't live there anymore. My family started with a kiss on Clapham Common, I shopped with my mother in Croydon, teenaged in Brixton, many of the people I love still live there. London will always be in my heart because it started beating there.

Seeing pictures of it burnt out, people frightened, ugly scenes of riot shields and crowds running amok took me right back. Right back to being a child when loud voices outside the house could be the riots spreading into our street and when a neighbour invited my mother out on a trip to join in the looting. Brixton was a few miles away but the fear spread across South London, I was the kind of child that worried and imagined the worst would erupt at any moment, I used to lay in bed worrying about German bombers FFS.

Brixton gradually got better, became buzzier in a good way, people started to see it as cool. But i'm not sure people's lives really changed or that the problem got sorted. deprivation and trouble moved elsewhere, further out to places that lacked vibrancy, facilities and access to the things that make living in London great. South London has always had a moody edge, i'm just surprised it has taken this long to finally erupt.

And so it erupts and I feel sad and anxious for many reasons. That life is only going to get tougher, people poorer and the streets more dangerous, that division and racism will rear their ugly heads. I'm still that worrier , on a bad day my visions resemble armaggedon. Now I worry for my children and what the future of Britain will hold for the young. Whatever happens our world is changing. Wether or not it descends into increased deprivation and violence depends on how we change with it. There are enough resources, knowledge, and love to go round and now is the time to share it.

I am a londoner and watching it burn was heartbreaking. I am English and I am terrified as I watch the flames spread. My family is made of different races, we share cultures and wisdoms and are richer for it. At the moment I feel pretty bleak but in these times we turn to family and I hope that as a society we defend and mend our communities together, wherever our hearts started beating.

On a lighter note, Lewes is quietly middle class as usual, but i'm now worrying about bonfire night....

Femme and Grist Gallery no 1: Brixton 1988

A Perfect Day (for muck spreading)

Status update No. 1: Our glorious summer trip begins with a drive to the Lavender Railway, for billowing steam and a vintage style picnic by the tracks. I'm having a good hair day, my coral clog sandals and 40's inspired dress add to the vintage feel of the adventure. We hop back into the car and our frolicsome four head off to find an archeological dig. They've unearthed a Roman bathhouse and we can't wait to see the golden mosaic tiles, They have activities for our little Ceaser too! And then to the river for a cooling glass of alcoholic ginger beer after posing by the Edsel for our friends on facebook to coo over upon our return. Much river rambling later and we return to Lewes for supper at the Grange. A leek and goats cheese frittata made with the leftovers from last weeks shop. As the heat of the sun fades we amble back to our bijou abode, holding hands as George skips ahead and Pearl sings in the pram, blackberry stains on her golden curls. As we lay in bed later that night with the smell of the countryside through the open window we cannot stop laughing...

Who the hell are we trying to kid. I laugh so hard I think I will stop breathing....Another day with the Porters and we are delirious. The smell through the window is manure, so pungent you can literally smell the shit.

I've been laying it on with a trowel here, did you notice?

Status update mark two: The day begins and the four of us squash into the Ford Fiesta. Ignoring the carpet of crisps underfoot I imagine the Lavender railway, sitting pretty on upholstered carriage seats as the Sussex countryside rolls by. The budget packed lunch of pickled gherkins and peanut butter sandwiches won't matter as a suited guard clips our tickets. Why oh why after 40 years of life do I still insist on imaging the world through rose tinted retro glasses. For a pessimist I have a fabulous imagination. The Orient express it is not. Not even a carriage awaits and we board what can only be described as a cattle truck that may have been used in a film about Nazi Germany. The seats are torn and people try to smile as they peer through the bars, sooty steam blowing back into their faces. The staff are lovely but it's all about the engines and I feel as though I have been invited into my grandad's shed. I try not to sulk but I can't help it. I am that teenager on a family trip, only this time it's my family and I am responsible for this error of judgement. I pull myself together and have to admit that the billow of the steam is impressive, I grit my teeth as we travel backwards and forwards along a short piece of track. We find a little bench and unpack our lunch. We try to be philosophical about the smell of the countryside until we realise that the stench is a leaking nappy and we head to the car for an emergency trip home. A change of outfit is paramount.

We will not be deterred. The Archeaolgical dig awaits. It boasts stalls, activities, a peep at the Roman remains and it's free! My obsessive use of Twitter is at last justified!

In short, it's a pile of rubble. I kick myself for believing the hype as we walk back to the car. All that dust hasn't done my coral clogs any favours. The river is indeed beautiful, but there is only so much relaxation to be done with a kamikaze toddler in tow, I notice that romantic types are kissing behind the reeds and calculate that canoodling by the riverbed cannot be done without babysitters for about twelve years. To the trusty pub, an iced alcoholic ginger beer can never disappoint, not even the wasps put me off. They have stopped serving chips and dinner looms as a disorganised mess. It's ok I chirp, I have goats cheese, leeks and eggs at home, we can picnic at the Grange. A tantrum ensues , it is never wise to shortchange George on a promise of chips.

As I chop the leeks I feel bohemian and spontaneous on this summers evening. Until I open the fridge and realise we are out of milk. I carry the omelette mess in a tiffin tin with a bottle of wine and the rest of the gherkins to the Grange, in my quest for the perfect summer's day I will not be beaten. Halfway through our picnic we are advised that the grounds will be closing early due to an open air play. I am galled that I did not see this advertised, I bet it would have been fantastic . sitting on a travel rug, hamper full of..... Oh Michelle listen to yourself. You get cramp and eaten alive by midges.

Wake up and smell the muck speading. There is rarely such a thing as a perfect day however much we spin our status updates. But where there's muck there's a laugh and I haven't had such a hoot in ages.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being

We all have little scars on our heart. Pain that has healed over to help us love, laugh and live again. Every so often these hidden marks are lightly touched and although they no longer bleed they are still painful when unexpectedly prodded, the fingers of other people's news opens up old wounds.

Although I didn't know her or see her perform, she has often sung into my ear as I walked along the street, I have danced with her, she accompanied my sister as she walked towards her groom on her wedding day. Like millions of others I didn't know Amy, but when I heard of her death one of the scars of my heart was touched. Her life like many light and easily cut free, heavy in the burden of loss that is repeated so many times throughout the centuries and thousands of times a day. It may be fake to cry for a woman we did not know but we should always be touched lest we lose our humanity.

In Camden Town shrines are being built, sick jokes are told, her songs are being played, people jostle to tell their story of her. She was a celebrity and so she becomes public property, like a cartoon figure it can be easy to forget that she was real. The biggest trajedy of all is not that a genius has been lost prematurely but that the natural order of a family has been broken , a mother and father will have to bury their own child. This is what touched one of my scars. I have been witness to this trajedy a few times in my life so far and it is not a sight I ever wish to see again. When I listen to her music now I will think of the fact that however close you hold your children they will find their own way , lightly given, lightly taken. Sometimes this love is so heavy it is unbearable.

I didn't know her but her death touched me, reminded me that each person we love is only one and that eventually they will be blown away as a feather. This is the unbearable lightness of being. The heaviness is that which is left behind.

Music to wash cups by

Domesticity. Grist for the mill, but do we really want to hear about it. No, me neither. 'Write about what you know' they say. I am laying down my own personal creative gauntlet. You may not want to hear it, but i'm cranking up the sound anyway. This is high kitchen sink drama an ipod epic, a survival guide for behind closed doors.

Friday Night: Barefoot in the kitchen listening to Edif Piaf 'Ma Vie en Rose'. The air is humid and her sweet sorrow fills me. I am Juliette Bincohe from 'Chocolat' as I stir the Sag Panner. I am the little sparrow as I warble along, a five foot urchin in the back streets of Paris. I am not a fading star at forty, but a tragic Diva plunging the dishes into very hot water.

Friday Night: I want to go out dancing. Imelda May is singing of Handsome Devils and she gets my foot tapping. I dance through the daily grind. Knickers shaken and hung out with a burlesque flourish, I shimmy and lindy hop before I tackle the towels. Domesticity is no obstacle as I lasso a tea towel around my head, i'm getting a little over excited and I haven't even opened the wine. I strut down the short hallway running out of space, I shimmy my shoulders to the sound of dirty trumpets and enter am empty bathroom. Life's too short to clean the loo on a Friday night. A night that will end in broken glass and our four year old son buggering off out with his new friends as we settle down to a night by the disused gas fire.

Saturday Morning: Amy Winehouse 'Frank' as I wash the wine bottles from our night in. 'You should be stronger than me" I croak and wail. I wish i'd washed up the curry things from the night before. I go all South London and sassy, the aubergine cubes clogg the plughole adding a little urban grit as I unplug the sink. Pearl Rose crawls in and tugs at my leg. A bit of Led Zepplin methinks. She's that type of little lady. I hope the rain will stop soon as the accidentally broken window may let water in. No drunken dramas here. Just a heavy hand closing an old sash . Luckily the passing dog walker was not injured. George returned home at 10.30pm off his face on fudge cake, reporting that the neighbours have a boat in their lounge. They do.

Saturday Morning Second Sink Load: My hands are submerged in the boiling water. I can never get the mixer tap thing right. The rain is pummelling the poppy heads in the garden and the trees quiver in the short bursts of breeze. The steam from the water creates mist on the kitchen window. My view of the garden is temporarily blurred. I am listening to Goldfrapp's 'Felt Mountain' her voice mainlines into the quietest part of my soul , the beautiful bit that i'm proud of , the bit that makes me strong. I remember I have to wash my hair before Pearl wakes up and run a bath to the ethereal strains of Goldfrapp's 'Horses Head'. I feel decadent as i wipe the sink with a make up wipe.

Saturday Lunch: Man and boy are back from a Claws and Jaws petting party. Man's eyes are glazed but George got to hold a coackroach. We're all getting on top of each other this wet weekend and the ipod dock has run out of juice. Houmous and pitta prepared to the music of the house. The moan of the washing machine, muffled television , the singing of toys. I am granted a pass out of here and walk to the Union music store. They have free American folk music on a saturday.

Saturday Night Dinner-it's a wrap: Twenty four hours later and Juliette Binoche has left the building. The sky outside is grey and threatens more rain. Morrissey sings of there being a place in the sun for everyone as George saturates the kitchen window with his water pistol. As I slam the onion onto the chopping board there is nothing else for it, its time to get in touch with my masculine side. Cue Led Zepplin and a 'Whole Lotta love' . Nothing beats rockin out when the mood strikes, nothing beats Led Zepplin full stop. A brief respite in the sublime before it's back to the grind. All this excitement has worn me out. I decide to have a quiet night in.

Dance as though no is watching. Don't you dare! Dance as though you have an audience of thousands and a backing band to boot. That way you'll give the performance of a lifetime every time. Women of the nation, shake a tail feather as you unload the dishwasher, samba with the mop , shimmy for England as you stir the pot, inject some drama into the domestic.

I notice that the ipod dock is often in the kitchen when I return from my daily jaunts. The hoovering and washing up done, his large marigolds hanging over the tap.

Because we are all 'worth it'

As she shakes her silky hair she tells us we are 'worth it'. When we buy our children the latest treat it is because we love them. When we are bought frivolous gifts it is because we are special. In an age of austerity is it about time we stopped attaching such emotional importance to the things we can no longer afford to buy?

As I approach 40 I have to admit that I am not a naturally thrifty woman by nature. I love beautiful things and have spent many a pound on decadent shoes and wallpaper that was so fine I wanted to peel it from the walls when I moved house.I am cursed with the affliction of having a good eye for detail in these matters and it has cost me dearly. I admired and wanted not only their beauty but the warm feeling of treating myself , to reward myself , to cheer myself up. Sometimes I even shopped in anger. After a bad morning in the office I charged into town and bought some hot, red ankle boots. Don't get me wrong I flaming enjoyed those boots, but it is only in retrospect that I understand my erratic purchasing treats and i'm not alone. Many of us buy things as a way of self medication as a way of telling ourselves we are worth it. The fact is, we are all worth it, the question should be, can we still afford it? There is no shame in being down at heel if you are going through tough times. Pulling your belt in should not be seen as an indicator of low self esteem but a good measure of common sense.

It is not only the things we buy ourselves that demonstrate our love. We are under increasing pressure to treat our children on a daily basis, as though a well turned out child is more loved than the next. It is as though buying that cheaper alternative for our cherished offspring is telling them that they are not worth it. It is a nonsense that has to stop. You cannot gild a lily , nothing that money can buy competes with that winning smile. Parents are encouraged to use sweet treats and gifts to reward good behaviour. They can have it when they have deserved it, when they have earned it. At some point wether they deserve it or not becomes immaterial . Many people simply cannot afford it despite working hard , despite being worth it. When we put so much store in the material, it is no wonder that purchasing power and self esteem are so inextricably linked.

So yes, at almost forty i'm still not a naturally thrifty woman, but old dogs can certainly learn new tricks. I put that critical eye to great effect in charity shops and sales, I am the bionic woman with my eagle eye. Beautiful presents will still be gratefully accepted on the big day but if times are tough let's just clink glasses. We are all in it together, not seperated by love tokens that don't tell us how much we are worth, but how much our family and friends currently have in the bank.

Buying a new pair of shoes today was about a hole in a sole not a hole in my soul and yes they were red. Old habits die hard and at half their original price they were most definitely worth it.