She had the perfect life, and everyone knew it. She was happily married to a man who was rich, as well as tall, dark and handsome. Thanks to him, she lived in a beautiful house in one of the most famous and popular areas of London. She couldn't leave the house without bumping into this legendary actor, or that renowned poet. She had all she ever needed to fill the house...and more. The carpets were imported from all over the world, and she had a kitchen that any housewife would die for. And then there were her children; the treasures of her heart. Okay, so mothers always seem to be biased, but her children really were astounding. Blonde hair, big blue eyes, and dimples inherited from their father. Absolute angels. She had the perfect life and everyone knew it.
Everyone except her.
You see, some people perceive knowledge as fact, but that word itself is often used too loosely. As the great Albert Einstein once said; "Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods". I like to think there is always an element of mystery in such knowledge. You can drag yourself out of bed in the morning, scrunching your toes up at the touch of the cold floor, knowing it will just be another boring day of work, and yet you never know what is in store. Maybe an office scandal is to be revealed, or the bank is to be caught up in a heist.
She looked out of the window, surveying the professionally planned gardens below. She would have liked to do the garden herself, but Daniel wouldn't allow it. Apparently she was too forgetful, and would let their patch of nature go to waste. Apparently she had too much on her plate anyway, what with their two daughters to raise and her novel to write...not to mention their third child who was rapidly growing inside her tumefied belly. But still, she would have liked to do a bit of gardening.
She knew she could never be the next Alan Titchmarsh (not that she would ever want to be), all she wanted was a place to call her own. As a child, she would spend hours in the garden. She used to love helping her mother; learning how to weed and how to sow seeds. She would be given her own small square of soil each year to grow whatever she wanted. One year she chose tomatoes, and always felt a burst of pride when friends, family, and guests popped one of her home grown orbs of red sweetness into their mouths, and remarked on how it was the best they had tasted that year.
Another year she planted snapdragons and poppies, and another kind of flower she could never remember the name of. She would do and sit next to her realm of colour each day, taking either a book or a notepad and pen. She would write about the fairies that lived there, the bees that served them, and the wasps that were their greatest enemies.
In her minds eye, she could still see them dancing away at their Grand Ball, each and every one of them an image of beauty. The ladies would wear gowns fashioned out of soft velvet petals that fell to the ground when the wind blew them too fiercely. The colours defined their age; soft pastels for the youngsters, sewn together with silk from a spider to give them more strength. They would whiz around playing hide and seek and other such games, as the adults danced and sang. The more seasoned wore deep reds and purples, with the occasional blues and yellows. They wore minute beads of dew around their necks, and bracelets of woven grass around their wrists. The men would lead the delicate creatures through the dances, wearing their suits of dark, finely cut, emerald leaves.
As she watched them flow and frolic, shimmy and sway, she would begin to hear the music. The bees were there in the background, and the crickets set the tempo. Birds flew in from all over to provide a fusion or harmonious sonance for their dainty comrades. The night always ended with the Nightingale lifting its voice in a prayer of thanks to Mother Nature for all she provides.
It was the smell that stood out most in her mind though. The perfume provided by the flowers and the immaculate clothing. The honey provided by the bees for refreshment, which would be washed down with water as clear as a summer's sky. The air was beset with dulcet aromas, never failing to welcome sleep upon her. And when she slept, the magic would continue to work, filling her mind with such fantastical abstractions.
It was from that early age that she had known she wanted to be a writer. She wanted to posses the power to create images with her words. Images you could be drawn in to and live in. Images in which you could get lost if you chose the wrong pathway.
She'd had a brilliant life, she couldn't deny that. Daniel had married her when they were both still young, and so they had started a family early. she would do anything for her husband and daughters, and she knew Daniel felt the same. They were young and wealthy, and never went without. That was part of the problem though. None of the wealth was provided by her.
She often felt she didn't belong. true, she'd had some of her work published and her name was recognised by a small group of people...that didn't mean she earned enough to make a living though. It had been two years since she last published a book; just before their youngest had been born. She and Daniel had argued a lot then; he had wanted to hire a nanny to look after the children - apparently she wasn't capable of looking after a newborn baby and a three year old, as well as keeping out of the way of the housekeeper and gardener. The argument had ended the way she wanted it to, although not in her favour. Daniel agreed not to hire a nanny, and then had dismissed the housekeeper. Her days now consisted of looking after Livy; cleaning the house; remembering to drop Sophia at school and then pick her up again; avoiding the temptation of gardening; cooking; and finding a spare minute to sit down and relax.
Today would be different though. Today was Saturday, and she had managed to convince her husband that he wanted some quality time with the children, so he had taken them to the zoo. She smiled to herself as she considered the numerous hours that stretched out before her; blank canvases waiting to be brought to life with exotic patterns and colours. The main question occupying her head was what on earth she would do with her day. The gardening tools had been locked away, and she had vowed not to do a single bit of cleaning. The dust could wait until tomorrow to meet its end.
She shuffled through to the kitchen, almost losing her slippers in her haste to make some hot chocolate. She decided on Sophia's special mug; pink and girly with a cute little fairy and silver glitter floating through the clear handle. When she wasn't with her children, she had an even stronger desire to be near them. She scooped three very heaped spoonfuls of the chocolatey powder into the mug, sneezing as it escaped and decided to holiday in her nose, and then added the milk. She stirred it as fast as she could, marvelling as always at the whirlpool she made in the centre of her mug. When she was a little girl, her grandpa had once told her that if she had put her finger into that whirlpool she would be sucked in and have to live the rest of her life as a chocolate mermaid until she came to her sorry end when the drink was drunk. He had been a madman, but a very loveable one. She smiled at the memory and slipped the mug into the microwave.
When at last the microwave told her it was finished, she stirred her hot sugary goodness and added some mini marshmallows. She carried her little girl's mug to her desk, blowing gently on the way, and sat down in her once familiar chair.
She tried to remember how to write, but it seemed so long ago, and it didn't want to come naturally to her. She picked up her favourite pen, black and simple but perfect to write with, and tried to find that particularly comfortable way to hold it. She opened a new notebook, and stroked the first page; marvelled once more at the smooth texture. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She took in the words that the page pined for, and let out her feelings of doubt and frustration.
And so it began.
Everyone except her.
You see, some people perceive knowledge as fact, but that word itself is often used too loosely. As the great Albert Einstein once said; "Whoever undertakes to set himself up as a judge of Truth and Knowledge is shipwrecked by the laughter of the gods". I like to think there is always an element of mystery in such knowledge. You can drag yourself out of bed in the morning, scrunching your toes up at the touch of the cold floor, knowing it will just be another boring day of work, and yet you never know what is in store. Maybe an office scandal is to be revealed, or the bank is to be caught up in a heist.
She looked out of the window, surveying the professionally planned gardens below. She would have liked to do the garden herself, but Daniel wouldn't allow it. Apparently she was too forgetful, and would let their patch of nature go to waste. Apparently she had too much on her plate anyway, what with their two daughters to raise and her novel to write...not to mention their third child who was rapidly growing inside her tumefied belly. But still, she would have liked to do a bit of gardening.
She knew she could never be the next Alan Titchmarsh (not that she would ever want to be), all she wanted was a place to call her own. As a child, she would spend hours in the garden. She used to love helping her mother; learning how to weed and how to sow seeds. She would be given her own small square of soil each year to grow whatever she wanted. One year she chose tomatoes, and always felt a burst of pride when friends, family, and guests popped one of her home grown orbs of red sweetness into their mouths, and remarked on how it was the best they had tasted that year.
Another year she planted snapdragons and poppies, and another kind of flower she could never remember the name of. She would do and sit next to her realm of colour each day, taking either a book or a notepad and pen. She would write about the fairies that lived there, the bees that served them, and the wasps that were their greatest enemies.
In her minds eye, she could still see them dancing away at their Grand Ball, each and every one of them an image of beauty. The ladies would wear gowns fashioned out of soft velvet petals that fell to the ground when the wind blew them too fiercely. The colours defined their age; soft pastels for the youngsters, sewn together with silk from a spider to give them more strength. They would whiz around playing hide and seek and other such games, as the adults danced and sang. The more seasoned wore deep reds and purples, with the occasional blues and yellows. They wore minute beads of dew around their necks, and bracelets of woven grass around their wrists. The men would lead the delicate creatures through the dances, wearing their suits of dark, finely cut, emerald leaves.
As she watched them flow and frolic, shimmy and sway, she would begin to hear the music. The bees were there in the background, and the crickets set the tempo. Birds flew in from all over to provide a fusion or harmonious sonance for their dainty comrades. The night always ended with the Nightingale lifting its voice in a prayer of thanks to Mother Nature for all she provides.
It was the smell that stood out most in her mind though. The perfume provided by the flowers and the immaculate clothing. The honey provided by the bees for refreshment, which would be washed down with water as clear as a summer's sky. The air was beset with dulcet aromas, never failing to welcome sleep upon her. And when she slept, the magic would continue to work, filling her mind with such fantastical abstractions.
It was from that early age that she had known she wanted to be a writer. She wanted to posses the power to create images with her words. Images you could be drawn in to and live in. Images in which you could get lost if you chose the wrong pathway.
She'd had a brilliant life, she couldn't deny that. Daniel had married her when they were both still young, and so they had started a family early. she would do anything for her husband and daughters, and she knew Daniel felt the same. They were young and wealthy, and never went without. That was part of the problem though. None of the wealth was provided by her.
She often felt she didn't belong. true, she'd had some of her work published and her name was recognised by a small group of people...that didn't mean she earned enough to make a living though. It had been two years since she last published a book; just before their youngest had been born. She and Daniel had argued a lot then; he had wanted to hire a nanny to look after the children - apparently she wasn't capable of looking after a newborn baby and a three year old, as well as keeping out of the way of the housekeeper and gardener. The argument had ended the way she wanted it to, although not in her favour. Daniel agreed not to hire a nanny, and then had dismissed the housekeeper. Her days now consisted of looking after Livy; cleaning the house; remembering to drop Sophia at school and then pick her up again; avoiding the temptation of gardening; cooking; and finding a spare minute to sit down and relax.
Today would be different though. Today was Saturday, and she had managed to convince her husband that he wanted some quality time with the children, so he had taken them to the zoo. She smiled to herself as she considered the numerous hours that stretched out before her; blank canvases waiting to be brought to life with exotic patterns and colours. The main question occupying her head was what on earth she would do with her day. The gardening tools had been locked away, and she had vowed not to do a single bit of cleaning. The dust could wait until tomorrow to meet its end.
She shuffled through to the kitchen, almost losing her slippers in her haste to make some hot chocolate. She decided on Sophia's special mug; pink and girly with a cute little fairy and silver glitter floating through the clear handle. When she wasn't with her children, she had an even stronger desire to be near them. She scooped three very heaped spoonfuls of the chocolatey powder into the mug, sneezing as it escaped and decided to holiday in her nose, and then added the milk. She stirred it as fast as she could, marvelling as always at the whirlpool she made in the centre of her mug. When she was a little girl, her grandpa had once told her that if she had put her finger into that whirlpool she would be sucked in and have to live the rest of her life as a chocolate mermaid until she came to her sorry end when the drink was drunk. He had been a madman, but a very loveable one. She smiled at the memory and slipped the mug into the microwave.
When at last the microwave told her it was finished, she stirred her hot sugary goodness and added some mini marshmallows. She carried her little girl's mug to her desk, blowing gently on the way, and sat down in her once familiar chair.
She tried to remember how to write, but it seemed so long ago, and it didn't want to come naturally to her. She picked up her favourite pen, black and simple but perfect to write with, and tried to find that particularly comfortable way to hold it. She opened a new notebook, and stroked the first page; marvelled once more at the smooth texture. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She took in the words that the page pined for, and let out her feelings of doubt and frustration.
And so it began.
