Anne-Marie Ormsby

Behind the Book – ‘Oh! What A Pavlova’ by Isabella May

Published on October 13, 2017 by Anne-Marie OrmsbyLeave a comment

I recently had the good fortune to have a chat with author Isabella May about my book Purgatory Hotel. While we were talking I managed to ask a few questions of the lady herself as her new book held an interest for me.

Despite the light-hearted name and appearance of the book, its subject matter of domestic violence is a darker element that has been misrepresented so many times in the past. I was eager to see how she handles it. Plus there’s cake so, you know……

Tell us the basic premise of your novel

It’s a tricky one to condense down into an Elevator Pitch… but here goes:

One woman’s bid to flee her abusive relationship amidst the lure of cake, travel, many an unsuitable man, and the whispering of Glastonbury’s ley lines.

Did you take any inspiration for your story from real life?

I think it’s impossible for reality and fiction NOT to cross at some point. Whilst Kate’s story is fabricated, I have been through Domestic Violence myself, and I had a burning desire to dispel some of the myths that surround it. In particular, the misconception that only the uneducated and working class fall prey to abuse. DV does not discriminate! I also wanted to shine a light on the increasing phenomenon of the victim living two very different lives: one ‘for the cameras’ – ie. friends/family/the office… and the other, the very much darker existence that plays out when the curtains are drawn, the front door locked.

What do you think is the most accurate depiction of domestic violence on film or in a book?

I have yet to come across anything that accurately sums it up in its entirety, and I honestly think that’s because it is virtually impossible to do so. The one thing I have learned is that domestic violence doesn’t discriminate or pigeonhole. No two experiences are ever the same and the contrast from victim to victim is vast, all of which only highlights the need for open-mindedness. My own novel is in no way representative of the average domestic violence experience either. It’s just Kate’s story, but it does serve to life the lid on that all too common assumption: only the uneducated are abused.

What do you think the biggest, most represented myths around domestic violence are?

1: It can only happen to women. Many men are also affected.

2: That it is reserved for those who are poor, uneducated and working class. Anybody from any walk of life can find themselves in this situation.

3: That physical abuse happens on a daily basis. In Kate’s situation (in many situations) it doesn’t. The emotional abuse tends to play out as a daily ritual to grind the victim down. But the physical side of things can be sporadic, often with no ETA, taking the abused by complete surprise when they have let their guard down.
Onto a lighter subject…..Cake is a big theme in the book, what’s your favourite cake?

If I was really pushed to choose, then the classic Victoria Sponge. It’s so hard to beat, especially with fresh whipped cream and a cuppa to cut through it all. But I adore most cake (with the exception of anything from a Clean Eating recipe… or containing chunks of stem ginger!)

Why did you choose the setting you chose, and do the locations hold any real life significance to you?

I had long felt (and still do!) that Glastonbury is under-represented in mainstream fiction. It was high time it took centre stage. As for the other locations, many of them I have visited, and as I adore travel, it was a great way for me to pay homage to some fabulous international cities… and their cake!

Did it take a lot of research for your locations and story line?
I had to jog my memory as to some of the sights, sounds and smells. Pinterest made the perfect place to do that… as well as get sidetracked by its millions of hygge-esque pictures.

I’m intrigued by the mention of Glastonbury ley lines in the synopsis… can you tell me anything about the role they play?

The ley lines are a metaphor really for all of the spiritual signs that Kate collates throughout the story. They get louder and louder as the plot develops. But will she act on their advice? Or will fear and procrastination have its way?

What are you working on next?

My second novel is called The Cocktail Bar. Once again, it is set in Glastonbury and it will be published on 13th February 2018. Here’s a bit of blurb:

Rock star, River Jackson is back in his hometown of Glastonbury to open a cocktail bar… and the locals aren’t impressed.Seductress Georgina is proving too hot to handle, band mate Angelic Alice is messing with his heart and his head, his mum is a hippie-dippy liability, his school friends have resorted to violence – oh, and his band manager, Lennie AND the media are on his trail.But River is armed with a magical Mexican elixir which will change the lives of the Three Chosen Ones. Once the Mexican wave of joy takes a hold of the town, he’s glad he didn’t lose his proverbial bottle.

Pity he hasn’t taken better care of the real one…

download

You can get a copy of the book here; Oh! What A Pavlova – in paperback and on Kindle

You can follow Isabella May on her website and social media here:

www.isabellamayauthor.com

Twitter – Isabella May

Facebook

Instagram – @isabella_may_author

The Long Road : A Writers Journey.

Published on August 4, 2017 by Anne-Marie OrmsbyLeave a comment

Twelve years ago I was living in a different town, married to a different man and living a very different life.

Put simply I was a very unhappy person, afraid to try and get out of an abusive marriage.

But I like to think that despite the dark days, a lot of good came from those very unhappy times, I learned a lot, I became a better person in the years that followed my eventual departure from the relationship and I also wrote a lot of fiction as a way of escaping from the trap I’d got myself into.

One story, which I named ‘Purgatory Hotel’ was a fixation of mine for a long time. It was inspired by a Nick Cave lyric – ‘In God’s hotel, everybody’s got a room.” While that lyric ran around my head I got to thinking about what if the afterlife was a hotel, specifically what if Purgatory – the waiting room – was a hotel? What if you did something really bad and you got sent there, with all the other bad people and you had to repent until you got to check out and go to Heaven?

And so my novel was born, a story about a girl who wakes up in Purgatory and can’t remember how she died or what crime she committed to get sent to the in between world.

I created a whole world, an afterlife of my own imagining, a decrepit old hotel, mouldering out on the edge of forever with a library full of books where everybody’s lives are being written in dusty old books as they happen. The writing stops when the breathing stops.

And my anti-hero, my victim/perpetrator has to read her whole life, each tragedy, each sordid detail, and each terrible decision as part of her punishment until she can remember her awful crime and why she ended up dead. After all you can’t ask for forgiveness when you don’t know what you did wrong.

The main characters, Dakota and Jackson became people to me, their dark hours became mine, and their brief happiness’s a source of joy to me. All this darkness born out of an unhappy life. And looking over my words now I can see the inspiration, the parallels I pulled from my own unhappy existence and placed in a fictional world. Part escapism, part exorcism.

Then twelve years after I first scribbled the ideas out on the back of my payslip envelope, a publisher said yes.

Crooked Cat Books are an indie publishers and they were just one of dozens I submitted my twisted little tale to. Lucky for me, they saw something worth printing.

So this November ‘Purgatory Hotel’ will be published and I feel like at last I can let go of my characters, stop trying to change them and leave them be, let them be who I made them to be.

Writing is hard, not because it’s a mammoth task. For me writing is hard because I don’t know when to stop, I can’t say how many edits I made to the book over the years, how many name changes, how many lines I’ve deleted. There were years when I just totally ignored it and left it behind as though I was over it and would never do anything with it.

I even self-published it under a different name but I knew I was not happy with it yet and pulled it back. All writers are different, all have their own process, my process is to sink deep into that world, write and write and not think too much about it until I go back to re-read it after I’m done. And then I find I need to add more, say more. A line of great significance in the story – “You should know by now, it’s never over.” Might as well have been me talking to myself.

The road from that day where I first scribbled the notes for the novel has been long, but it’s amazing how much life can change in 12 years, I have left the dark corridors of Purgatory behind.

I served my time.

I am glad to say the sun shines brighter these days, I am happily married and I can honestly say I am more grateful than ever for the good things in my life.

Purgatory Hotel will be released through Crooked Cat Books this November.

Behind the Book : The Watcher

Published on June 8, 2017 by Anne-Marie OrmsbyLeave a comment

Having at last found a publisher for one of my own books, I have had the good fortune to find myself in the company of a bunch of great writers lately. Its great to be part of a community of writers sharing ideas and general chat. Its also a great way of finding new books to read!

One of the novels coming out this year is right up my street ; a serial killer on the loose in London with a detective hot on his trail. The Watcher, the debut novel of Eli Carros is being released by Crooked Cat Publishing on 21^st June.

Being a bit of a true crime nut and crime fiction fan and always excited by any London based books, I thought I’d have chat with the author to find out more about what inspired him.

Tell us the basic premise of your novel?

The Watcher is about an obsessive serial killer who stalks his victims before violently attacking them. It takes readers into the mind of a true psychopath, exploring what makes him tick and learning how he became who he became. It’s a novel about alienation, prejudice, abuse, and shame and how formative life experience can tip the balance of an unstable mind. It also takes readers behind the eyes of DI Jack Grayson, who’s been tasked with the unenviable job of stopping a brutal killer who leaves no trace before he strikes again.

Did you take any inspiration for your serial killer from any real life crimes?

The lead antagonist in my novel is a composite character, incorporating traits from real life serial killers I studied and also some fictional and screen creations. Before writing, I made case studies of several serials, including Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer, and I did draw on certain commonalities that I found. Though the actual character I have created has his own, very distinct, and possibly fairly unique motivations for doing what he does.

I’m also an avid crime fiction reader, and a big fan of the novels of the late Ruth Rendell, as well as crime queen Patricia Cornwell, and the books of Mark Billingham, Val Mcdermid, and Leigh Russell, among others. No doubt I have been influenced to some degree by what I’ve read from those amazing authors.

Why did you choose London as a setting and do the locations hold any real life significance to you?

I lived and worked in London for seven years, and also studied journalism there. I love the hum and throb of the place, as well as the tolerance and culture, and it definitely feels like my spiritual home. I don’t live there currently but I want to, and, as soon as I can afford to, I’m moving back there for sure.

Are you a Londoner or did it take a lot of research for your locations?

As I was a Londoner for seven years, while I was there I was able to go to some amazing and very atmospheric locations. The Watcher was actually written while I still lived in London, in fact, one scene of the book in actually set in a café in Old Compton Street that I was writing the book in at the time, though I don’t name the place in my novel. I can tell you now though, it’s Patisserie Valerie, a lovely place where I’ve spend many a wonderful afternoon, people watching.

Crooked Cat are an independent publisher, what can you say about your experience with them so far?

I admire independent publishers like Crooked Cat for the high standards and professionalism in a market that is orientated towards big business. I also think the authors they have in their stable are absolutely amazing, I’ve read some of their talented writers already and am steadily working my way through the rest.

Can we expect more from Chief Inspector Jack Grayson?

I think Grayson will be making a comeback soon, as I’m in the planning stages for my second crime thriller at the moment. This one’s about a very different killer than the one featured in The Watcher, because this one actually wants to stop. The second novel will cover themes of virtual reality and autism, and will contain lots of surprises and twists because I do think those are the some of the best things about reading crime fiction.

The Watcher’s officially released on June 21^st by Crooked Cat Books and is available in e-book and paperback from getbook.at/thewatcher. Readers can stay updated on The Watcher and receive news of bonus content, exclusive competitions, and the online launch party by visiting the facebook page at https://facebook.com/elicarros or Eli’s website at http://www.elicarros.com

To Share, or Not to Share: A Year Late.

Published on December 14, 2015December 14, 2015 by Anne-Marie OrmsbyLeave a comment

I recently posed the question on Facebook : does it help to read about people’s negative experiences or is it just more shit to be miserable about in these already gloomy times. The response was that sharing is important and that if your words can help one other person then it’s worth it.

As a person who shares a lot on social media as a way of staying in touch with distant friends and family, I always try to keep the sharing positive, I enjoy social media as a place to read funnies, read about what my friends are up to or what music they are listening to, see photos of their lives wherever they are in the world. It makes me happy . So when something bad happens, I’m not comfortable sharing it because I don’t want to be the unhappy story spoiling anyone’s news feed.

A year ago this week I discovered I was pregnant. My response was to drink a bottle of red wine.

I was terrified. And I didn’t want to share the news.

If I did people would be excited and expect me to be too. But the truth was, I wasn’t happy, I couldn’t allow myself to be happy.

You see almost 3 months to the day previously, I’d had a miscarriage . And when I found out I was pregnant again, all I could think of was that I was going to have another miscarriage. And that feeling, that fear, stayed with me through the following 41 weeks. I had weekly scans for the first 3 months, and every time I waited for them to say it was over again. Every single day of my pregnancy I expected the sight of blood, or a sudden stillness inside. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful, but I couldn’t allow myself to feel any kind of joy about being pregnant, it was self preservation.

Anyone who has had a miscarriage will know the damage it does to you, for people who have had several I salute their bravery, and faith to keep trying. And if you are blessed enough not to have had such an experience, take it from me: those who continually miscarry are possibly the strongest people you will ever meet. Because to experience that loss even once and try again, takes guts. The memories of the morning I lost my first baby are as fresh today as they were the day after it happened, and I even though I now have a baby, I know I will never get over that experience.

Just one day shy of being 12 weeks pregnant I woke up at 4am and I was bleeding heavily. I began to cry, I didn’t know what to do. So I called an ambulance that took an hour to get to me, and they took me and my husband, Neil to Kings Hospital. I arrived at 6am. By 11am I was being taken into surgery because my blood pressure was dangerously low. But by then it was all over anyway, the Doctor had confirmed that the baby was definitely gone, even though I’d spent 7 hours bleeding so much I was sure I’d die, there was still that question from both me and Neil : ‘Is there no hope?’ Seems ridiculous, but even at that point you still can’t believe your baby is really gone. So they took me to surgery and cleared away what was left while I slept. When I woke up I felt empty.

I realised very quickly afterwards that I didn’t want to talk about it, I didn’t want to share the news on social media, I didn’t want to share my experience with anyone, it was as though there was no actual way to talk about it without it feeling like an overshare. As though it was unacceptable to share my grief. I endlessly shared my grief when my beloved cat died, but this was not suitable for sharing somehow. The only person who I felt could understand was my husband, I knew he felt the loss as strongly as I did.

I cried all the time, I couldn’t bear to look at babies, at work I’d hide if a colleague brought in their baby, I spent my time on Facebook scrolling past my friends happy photos of their babies wondering why the hell people had to share so many bloody photos of their children. I had dreams every night that my baby had lived and I was heavily pregnant, or actually holding my child, and I’d wake up crying. In the end after 3 months after talking to my husband and my best friends I agreed to seek help, find a support group and find a way to move on and stop crying. I never did, because the week I agreed to do it, I found out I was pregnant.

The truth is I understand why so many women don’t talk about their experience of miscarriage. It’s because it’s just too painful, like bringing it up is the same as reopening a wound, feeling that loss, the dreadful emptiness inside where something else once was. Even now, a year and 3 months after, I still cry if I think about it.

And it’s not just women, the loss of a child is terrible for fathers too. It may not be physical, but the emotional damage is just as difficult.

But now I have a child and I am the annoying Facebook friend who shares too many photos of her baby, and I do it because I’m so grateful she is here; that the pregnancy is over and I didn’t have another miscarriage. That she lived.

So I wonder how many othe parents overshare for that same reason, almost as daily proof, a reminder that it worked out this time. In the same way selfie’s are said to be the result some deeply psychological need to prove we are here that we exist, could the baby spam be the need to show that we succeeded in creating a life?

It also makes me aware that there will be some people who will scroll past or even unfollow me for that same reason that I swore under my breath at all the baby photos after my miscarriage. That they too are struggling to get over a loss and my constant barrage of baby photos is just too much.

There’s no way of knowing who we hurt or help with our actions; by sharing baby photos, or by asking the the question ‘do you think you will have children?’in innocent conversation, are we accidentally reopening a wound for someone else? Or even when a person is pregnant, how hard it can be to answer the question ‘ are you excited?’ and all you want to say is : ‘ No I’m miserable and terrified.’

Either way, I’m finally sharing my loss, saying what I should have done back then, releasing my demons. It might be a year late, but I got there, after a dozen deleted attempts at this blog, I’ve done it. It shouldn’t be so hard to share, but it is. I know I felt unable to, that it was just too much information, but I’ve read a few blogs of people who have and it made me feel less alone.

It’s ok to grieve that loss, to struggle with any pregnancy that follows, to lie and say you are happy when really you wake up scared every day of that pregnancy. What matters is that you were brave and strong and you had faith that it might work out one day. It’s also ok to say no more. To not want to try again. We all have limits, and we decide how much we can take of loss. Whatever you decide, be honest and talk about it, you never know who you might help.

The Miscarriage Association
NHS

‘Men need more support to deal with the tragedy of miscarriage’ – Article
Men and Miscarriage

A Last Goodbye – on the loss of a feline friend.

Published on December 29, 2014December 29, 2014 by Anne-Marie Ormsby2 Comments

For anyone who doesn’t have pets, I can imagine that pet bereavement might sound a bit silly. A bit crazy cat lady.
The only way I can describe it is to imagine that you have lived with someone for nearly 15 years; you have seen that person pretty much every day for those years, barring holidays. That person doesn’t talk much but relies on you for basic needs- food, water, and affection. When one of you is ill you look after eachother, even if that just means laying next to you in your sick bed while you feel sorry for yourself.
You might get on each others nerves sometimes but always forgive eachother. And no matter what kind of day you have had, when you get in the front door that person is there to greet you – happy even excited to see you. Desperate to give you a hug. And the truth of it all is that you love eachother and just being together is enough to make up for any of the crap life throws at you.
In the evenings you always settle close together to watch movies, even sharing your snacks. They are the last thing you see at night and the first thing you see every morning.
And then one day that person is gone. And all those things you didn’t realise you relied on have been taken away. You may have thought all along that person needed you more than you needed them but the crushing realisation comes in that you needed them just as much.
Drusilla was my best friend, the one companion who has been with me solidly for the last 14 and a half years, at night I always fell asleep with her beside me and I always woke to the sound of her or the gentle tap of her paw on my mouth. She made me laugh and she made me feel loved.
And that is why I grieve for her as I would a person, no matter how hard that might be for non pet owners to understand, that is the way it is.
She made me happy every day and for that I am grateful, and for all my tears and sadness I am happy that I ever had her in my life, honoured even that such a creature would befriend and trust me.
The last two years of her life involved daily medication and careful monitoring, Mr O and I did all that we could for her, never sure how long she had left. From diagnosis (Renal Disease) she was given 3 months, but she stayed with us for two years which makes me feel lucky. She was in good fettle right up until a few days before she passed away.
She had the soul of an adventurer, never afraid of the next destination, always ready to get on and explore her new world. She made me a better, less selfish person and for that I will always be grateful. She has been a constant light through some dark times, weathering all storms beside me. I hope that one day our adventures will bring us back together

Drusilla Ormsby

26th May 2000 – 20th December 2014

Smells Like Teen Spirit – Being a Teenager in the 90’s

Published on April 19, 2014 by Anne-Marie OrmsbyLeave a comment

So many 90’s anniversaries going on, it felt right to re blog this 🙂

Anne-Marie Ormsby

I’m pretty sure that every decade has its own guidelines to growing up. Being a teenager in the 80’s must have been very different to being a teenager in the 90’s. But what about it was different, was it just the clothes and music? Or is every teen the same no matter what the decade.

I don’t know but i was a teenager in the 90’s. In 1990 I turned 12 and developed an obsession with Twin Peaks. It was a weird start to my teen life but it shaped me in ways I couldn’t see at the time. I was able to embrace my love of the weird. David Lynch and his strange camera angles and beautiful 50’s femme fatales were pure poetry to me and still are to this day. However its fair to say that accepting the weirdness of yourself does not signal an easy start to…

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One Weekend in London

Published on October 12, 2012October 12, 2012 by Anne-Marie Ormsby2 Comments

There is never any shortage of things to do in London, hundreds of art galleries and museums all over town showing their collections 7 days a week all year round.

There are also events that visit London for a short time, a brief fling with the city that exists for only a few months. Last weekend I managed to fit in three such events.

Late morning on Saturday saw me and Mr O take the northern line up to Kings Cross where I was happy to see the old world of seedy grimness gone and replaced with new shops and trendy bars and restaurants. Only 3 years ago I passed through there every day and knew the area like the back of my hand, but like the rest of the city, it is forever changing and improving, leading me to realise if you take a long enough break from any part of London, by the time you go back it will feel like a different place. I also managed to get a picture of Harry Potter’s Platform 9 ¾ and have a look at the new St Pancras Hotel which looks amazing albeit well out of my price range.

Anyway I hadn’t gone up there to see the train station, I was up there to visit the British Library, and see something that has never been in London before. I am a huge fan of American writer Jack Kerouac; a school friend bought me ‘On The Road’ for my 15^th birthday and that was the beginning of a love affair with a form of literature I had been unaware of up to that point. I had read the classics, fallen in love with Heathcliff a dozen times over reading Wuthering Heights, read random books of Russian literature after discovering Vladimir Nabokov, delved into the darkness of Thomas Mann and Franz Kafka and had touched the edges of Americana by reading ‘The Catcher in The Rye’ too many times. Kerouac was a whole new world for me, open roads, open lives and the style of his writing was so free and clear that I got sucked into it, reading as many of his books as I could lay my hands on, depending entirely on my local library and second hand bookshops. Ahh…memories of days before Amazon when it was all about actually leaving the house to hunt down books.

‘On The Road’ is not my favourite novel by Kerouac, but it was my first so when I saw that the British Library was going to be home to the original scroll of the novel I knew I would have to go and see it. As you may already know, Kerouac wrote the book in 3 weeks typed on one 120 foot scroll of paper made of rolls of tracing paper that he had sellotaped together so he wouldn’t have to interrupt his creative flow by stopping and putting in new sheets of paper. The book that was published is an edited version of this original scroll, but the entire text is now available in book form.

I can’t explain, nor will I try to justify why this was a magical experience for me. It was my equivalent of going to a concert or festival; this was as close as I will ever get to my literary idol, as though he was there in the distance on a stage, an indistinct form but him all the same, his presence in the room as real as it could be. I said to Mr O afterwards that I was grateful that he had come along, as he doesn’t have the same passion for Kerouac as I do, I had basically dragged him from one end of London to the other to look at an old yellow roll of paper.

After this we made our way south again to central London and the National Portrait Gallery where a free exhibition of photo’s and magazines of Marilyn Monroe are on show. ‘Marilyn Monroe; A British Love Affair’ is a nod towards the time she spent in the UK filming ‘The Prince and The Showgirl’ with Laurence Olivier. This era of her life having renewed interest following the movie ‘My Week With Marilyn’ which covers the same period of her life. A small but beautiful collection of photo’s by some of Britain’s greatest photographers of the time including some of my favourites by Cecil Beaton. They also have a lovely collection of rare British magazines with Miss Monroe on the cover.

Sunday night covered another of my favourite things; burlesque. And in particular what I have always considered the best burlesque, the Crazy Horse. The famous Parisian revue has had shows all over the world, I first saw them when I was in Las Vegas in 2006, but was very glad to discover they were coming to London with the new Forever Crazy, a collection of the most popular acts from the last 60 years. What sets them apart from other revues is that the individual acts themselves are very simple – it is the lighting effects that make them so spectacular. If you want to see what it’s all about before forking out for the live show, check out the documentary movie ‘Crazy Horse’ made last year to show what goes on backstage and onstage at the famous original Paris venue just off the Champs Elysees.

I’d recommend the real thing though, as the London purpose built venue is quite amazing; a voluptuous velvet lined theatre with a bar area I wish was permanent – glittering chandeliers, kitsch fluorescent lights and a dressing room mirror themed bar. They also have a fabulous act (inbetween naked lady acts) called Up and Over it who literally and wordlessly tap, drum and slap their way through a re-enactment of a lovers quarrel. Entertainment all round and a damn good giggle, go get some.

Forever Crazy is at the Southbank Centre until December 2012

On The Road; Jack Kerouac’s Manuscript Scroll is at the British Library until 27^th December 2012

Marilyn Monroe; A British Love Affair is on at the national Portrait Gallery until 24^th March 2013

About London

Published on August 29, 2012August 29, 2012 by Anne-Marie Ormsby2 Comments

There’s this idea that people should know the very moment when they fall in love, that for some reason there would be a moment, ‘stars would explode in the sky’ as Nick Cave put it. But they don’t, there is no epic firework display, the earth continues to turn and nobody else on earth knows it has happened. That’s why you forget the precise moment.

I don’t recall the moment I knew I was in love with London; I think it had built slowly over the years. But I feel it more clearly now, every morning when my bus turns out onto London bridge and suddenly the sides fall away, I am over the river and I can see the city laid out before me, Tower Bridge to my right, St Pauls to my left, and everything in-between and I catch a breath, my heart swells and I feel it. Love.

I grew up out on the coast in south east Essex, an idyllic childhood of parks and playgrounds and trips to the beach after school. I used to walk home from school sometimes along the seafront, even in winter just to feel the biting air and feel alive again after a day of dusty brained learning and stuffy classrooms. I knew I was lucky to grow up there, 45 minutes train ride from London and blessed with fresh air and man-made beaches.

When I was younger, my parents used to take me to London once a year during the October half term holidays. It was so busy and lively and the shops sold things I didn’t see back home, bookshops there were palaces of literature laid out on several floors where I would lose whole afternoons in the poetry section.

I always longed to visit Whitechapel due to my interest in creepy tales of Jack the Ripper but it remained a mysterious tube station that we never got off at. As far as I was concerned it was all still dark alleys and Victorian street urchins up there. As an older teenager I visited Camden with friends and felt at home in all the alternative shops and market stalls, although always slightly nervous of the enormity of it, days out would end with a tired scuttle back to Fenchurch Street and what felt like the longest train journey ever.

In my 20’s I visited a few more times, going to gigs mainly, staying over in hotels occasionally, but I still felt so removed from it all, like it was all behind glass and I was just there as visitor in a giant museum.

When I was 29 I went to Brick Lane for the first time and I loved it, shortly after some of my friends moved to Whitechapel so I started going up more regularly, finally getting off the tube at that mysterious station. The first time I went up on my own felt weird, I was going to places I had never been before and instead of that feeling of distance, I was starting to feel at home.

The day after my 30^th birthday I went on a date with the man I eventually married. We met up at Fenchurch Street and spent the whole day walking around, along the Southbank and back into the city where we wandered down alleyways and found hidden churches, gargoyles and streets empty of life. He showed me a part of London I had never seen before. The City of London is a different place on a Sunday compared to the weekdays when people pour in and out of the skyscrapers and fill in all the gaps between the buildings. At the weekend all that remains is quiet corners, old buildings and new building living side by side quite peacefully, endless amounts of closed branches of Starbucks and Eat that have no purpose without the city workers that fill them during the week days.

I think maybe I fell in love twice that day. With the man I had just met and with the city I had just been shown.

I left my life by the coast and got a job in North London, soon after I moved to South London. I had never lived anywhere other than where I grew up but it felt right, like it was time for me to move on.

I have lived in London for 4 years now, and I never ever get tired of it; my journey to work takes me from the foot of the Shard, past Southwark Cathedral, past Monument, up Bishopsgate, past the Gherkin and the Heron, through Shoreditch and to Hackney. Every morning I look out from the bus as though it’s all still new to me, it’s all still so beautiful to me.

At weekends we take long walks, to Brick Lane and Spitalfields, along the Southbank to Westminster or over to the back streets of Covent Garden and Soho. The difference for me now is that I don’t feel distant anymore, that I belong and I am part of it. Even though my awe still allows that feeling of visiting a giant museum, I feel now that instead of being behind glass I can touch the exhibits and even wander around back rooms not open to the public.

I take photographs incessantly like a day-tripper, I go to an endless supply of art and photography exhibitions, I wander back streets looking for street art and I say a prayer every time I have to brave Oxford Street. I know I won’t live here forever, for one reason or another I will end up by the coast again one day, so while I am here and its all on my doorstep I want to see as much as I can.

This summer in London has been wonderful, the energy and excitement around the Olympics was inspiring; for all our pre-Olympic moaning about stupid mascots, transport and other problems we all got swept away by the ridiculously happy vibe that was created once we started winning gold medals. The transport system ran fine, people talked to each other, we hugged ugly Wenlock and Mandeville statues around town.

London fell in love with itself.

I have so much to say about London, but the rest can wait.

(All Photo’s Copyright of the author)

Anarchy in the UK

Published on August 10, 2011 by Anne-Marie OrmsbyLeave a comment

It has been a weird experience living in London during the riots. Whilst the scenes form Tottenham were shocking they felt somewhat remote for anyone outside that area. The day after I was barely aware of it but horrified to find out that it had all kicked off over a shooting.

It all became very real on the Monday when I was at home on a days holiday and found I was watching the street where I work awash with riot police and gangs of angry missile throwing youths. As in any time of disaster, my eyes were then glued to the TV. So glued in fact that I couldn’t see the fire billowing out on my own high street. The anger was spreading like a virus from a disaster movie.

I’ve lived in Peckham for 3 years now, and despite popular opinion, it’s not a massively dangerous place to live. You become desensitised to gang violence living in London, and 6 months ago when a kid got stabbed down the road from me it was awful, but somehow not a shock.

On the 8^th of August I watched live coverage of a road that is 3 minutes from my house being charged by riot police, kids smashing up shops and stealing clothes. They even robbed a pound shop. I had friends updating me from Clapham saying the shop they lived above was being smashed up, while I watched the action on the TV. I saw the whole thing as it was being reported and even though by the time I went to bed at 1.30am, I was numb, I still had this feeling of unreality. Like it was all a movie and that at end the troops would sweep in and clear away the troublemakers. Roll credits.

The next day when I went to work and my high street was smashed up and burnt out it was all real.

What had happened? What had gone on in the collective consciousness for those three nights of London riot ? It was like a disease had spread somehow, zombies roaming streets where cars and bin were ablaze and frightened residents ran away with packed bags, as though the virus might get them too. These hooded zombie monsters were roaming in packs, tearing through windows and pulling out the guts of shops, sloping off with trainers and mobile phones, breaking up anything they couldn’t carry.

But those zombies are the youth of London. The Kaiser Chief’s predicted a riot. And they were right. The signs were there all along, we just didn’t believe it could happen here. On a daily basis in London, thuggish teenagers cause trouble. It’s not an unusual sight to see a smashed shop front in Peckham or Hackney; it’s just the sign of a lively weekend. This is why most shops on Rye Lane have metal shutters, prevention is better than a cure.

But it is the cure that eludes us. The kids are not all right, the kids are angry, the kids feel let down. What happened? What did the adults do to create these monsters? Or what was it that they didn’t do? The rioters were not only teenagers, I did see adult men and women looting too, but were they just joining in with what the youth had started? Taking advantage of the fact that the doors to Debenhams had been left open? There is something wrong when grown women are casually trying on sneakers and then just walking out with them. There is a culture of ‘Take Take’ out there, take from the government, take whatever benefits you can get, take whatever you can from a smashed up shop. Everybody else is doing it why shouldn’t I?

The riots were supposed to have started over the police shooting of one man. But three nights later, teenagers were telling reporters they were rioting because of their taxes. It was not political, it meant nothing. The kids were bored and saw an opportunity to have some fun. Adults were out stealing designer clothes.

If the adults say it’s ok, then what chance do the children have?

I had to come home from work early on Tuesday because Hackney was evacuating and boarding up its remaining windows. It was all across London, police standing guard, shop owners boarding up and getting home before the zombies woke up again, and there was a real sense of fear in the air, like you needed to get home before dark or the vampires would be out. I won’t lie, I was afraid. All I could think about was that I needed to get on a bus and get out of Hackney before anything happened. I was haunted by scenes from the news the night before, thugs forcing people to strip so they could steal their clothes, beaten youths being robbed by passers-by, commuter packed buses being stormed and set alight by angry mobs.

But instead of violence there were brooms. In the most amazing show of community spirit, people were leaving their homes to meet in groups just so they could tidy up what the yobs had broken. 9th of August was about London reclaiming itself, an army of ordinary people armed with brooms and bin bags working together to clear away the burnt out bins and smashed glass. I felt a huge swell of pride for the people of London. Out of the ashes of three nights of chaos, the other face of London rose up and brandished cups of tea and cleaning equipment. That’s why London rocks.

Because even though there is the side of London that does not care, that wants to burn it all down, there is a also the side of London that wants to fix it all, make it clean and make it safe. The very British need to Keep Calm and Carry on, or as some Facebooker’s decided to do with their Tuesday night; Keep Calm and Drink Tea. London has been destroyed so many many times, by mistake, on purpose, by fire, by bombs and by riots. But London has always stood up and dusted itself off afterwards. London has many scars from the riots, many buildings will have to be torn down, shop fronts will have to be replaced, people who were on buses when they were torched will have nightmares and shop owners who were attacked will live in fear for some time.

But this is London and it has recovered from much worse. I have every faith in its ability to carry on just as it has done before. But what do we do to cure the disease that is sweeping through the boroughs? How do we cure the youth of their malaise?

Or is it too late?

Smells Like Teen Spirit – Being a Teenager in the 90’s

Published on June 6, 2011April 19, 2014 by Anne-Marie Ormsby2 Comments

The 90’s was all about good music to me, the early 90’s was the birth of grunge and suddenly there was something in between death metal and bon jovi. I loved Pearl jam, Alice in Chains, Screaming Trees and all those other amazing bands that burst out of Seattle. I can recall coming home from school, shutting my bedroom door and playing Smells like Teen Spirit very loud whilst jumping up and down around my bedroom. It was the biggest release of tension I got all day.

Some other great bands came into the limelight in the 90’s also, the Britpop explosion happened and dark but lovely alternative bands like Echobelly, Garbage, Smashing Pumpkins, The Cranberries, Manic Street Preachers,Grant Lee Buffalo, Belly, 10,000 Maniacs, Pixies and so many more filled the airwaves with lively but sad songs. REM had a resurgence with the release of ‘Out of Time’ and suddenly all the people who hadn’t ever heard of them were out at HMV buying their back catalogue.

The 90’s grunge era that i fell into was kind to my parents pockets aswell because i only ever wanted clothes from charity shops and dressed mostly like a boy. Needless to say i didn’t actually draw much male attention until i was 16. My wardrobe consisted of one knee length tie died tassle skirt, jeans with turn ups, camouflage trousers, a pair of cherry red DM’s, a pair of Purple converse my sister gave me and an array of band t-shirts for pearl jam, the Doors, The Smiths the Velvet underground and Neil Young. I also owned a levi’s lumberjack shirt and several pairs of stripey tights. I wore clothes so baggy that I was able to share most of my wardrobe with my big brother. Seems like these days its more about how tight your jeans can be.

There was a group of girls at school who liked the same stuff as me and we all ended up at the same pubs and bars, totally underage but so excited that we could dance to Primal Scream and The Stone Roses instead of the latest pop chart music that was on offer at the other mainstream clubs. Most of the people who went to the pubs and clubs we went to were much older but we all co-existed somehow. It was funny how by the time I was 20 I was shocked to see 15 year old’s drinking at the same pub i had been drinking at since I was that age. I always had a word with myself to remind me they were no different to me. But I understood how adults must have viewed us gangs of teenage girls in DM boots wearing black cherry lipstick and counting out pennies for our pints of cider clutching fake ID’s.

I recently watched the pilot episode of 1994 TV series ‘My So Called Life’ which at the time was my favourite show, and even now i can see why i liked it so much. The lead character Angela Chase is in pursuit of something, fun, love, freedom, she is envious of the freedom Ann Frank found through her incarceration and she longs for the day she no longer has to conform and go to school. To express herself she ends up alienating her oldest friends and family. The whole angst revolving around how people just don’t understand.

I think alot of us teenage girls were like her, some of us did dye our hair mahogany red while others chose to stifle their real urges and conform to the norm by wearing trainers and belcher chains.

But it doesn’t matter if its belcher chains or blackberry’s, today’s teenagers must face the same horrors we did. The agony of whether to give in and like Justin Beiber, or whether to say no and go buy the new Foo Fighters CD. What a difference it will make to their lives to decide not to choose to just fit in.

There has been an ‘alternative’ since the 60’s, every era had its dark side of music, what was once protest songs by intelligent hippies, is now something else entirely.

I guess the 90’s indie/grunge thing made me feel like I fit somewhere, there we were, all us teenagers full of questions unanswered and wanting to express ourselves but no knowing how. And along came people like Frank Black and Kurt Cobain and reminded us it was ok not to fit.

The 90’s playlist is endless and so may bands being listened to came from other era’s but here is a mixtape of some of what I was listening to.

Alive – Pearl Jam

Heaven Beside You– Alice in Chains

Dark Therapy – Echobelly

Motorcycle Emptiness – Manic Street Preachers

Stupid Girl – Garbage

Feed the Tree – Belly

Campfire Song – 10,000 Maniacs

Fuzzy – Grant Lee Buffalo

Monkey Gone to Heaven-The Pixies

Disarm – Smashing Pumpkins

Black Hole Sun – Soundgarden

Linger – The Cranberries

To The End – Blur

Nearly Lost You – Screaming Trees

Plush – Stone Temple Pilots

Heart Shaped Box – Nirvana

Crown of Thorns – Mother Love Bone

Hunger Strike – Temple of The Dog

Live Forever – Oasis