Massachusetts

I fumbled amongst all the assorted drawings and stories my daughter had brought home at the end of term from the Ted Hughes School for Girls that she and her sister attend. I was looking for the DVD of the nativity play; my daughter was a crow, I was so proud of her, when I came across a poem she had written. I always worried she might have heard her father and I discussing moving house again. Now I could see that my fears had been realised.

She has done it again
One year in every otto, neun or zehn she manages it
To pack up the lampshade and paperweight
Cancel the german class
Dream of book launches
Downshifting is an art
She does it exceptionally well
Whenever her agent makes the call
She says it makes her feel real
But to me it feels like hell
She is always the same identical woman
I don’t know why she doesn’t stay put
But that lacks the theatrical
And doesn’t explore the feminist dialectic
Thank goodness the aga’s not gas, just electric
Unwrapping herself hand and foot
For the peanut munching crowd
These are her thoughts, her soul, and my childhood
Muttered into her dictafone head set
buried in The North and she’s not even dead yet
But further north still might she go for inspirational air?
Up to where everybody has red hair
The locals had better beware, beware

Tilly super, aged seven and three quarters

I looked at the teacher's comments in red pen underneath. 'A little derivative Tilly', said the note, 'see me after school' . That seemed a little harsh for a seven year old, I thought. I put down the crumpled paper. I could see my daughter was starting to think about the important things in life but at her young impressionable age there was still something she hadn’t grasped: There’s no money in poetry you silly girl; tales of downshifting woe are where the cash is at. I looked up and as down in the valley the rain swollen waters washed over the bared roots of river bank trees under the dark northern sky I thought of home and turned on the radio