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Larissa Reid's avatar

As a young child, I wished to be a borrower; a tiny, sentinel-like, brave presence that would pilfer small objects from our family and feast like a Queen on a single gold-wrapped chocolate caramel. I wanted to live with my parents but for them not to know I was still there; I felt that - at full child size - I was often a burden to them, rather than a source of interest and joy. If I were small, I could live cosily in the airing cupboard where I kept my flower press. I could keep a close eye on the big wide world and alert a grown up to trouble, if needs be. I had a route planned out through the house to the kitchen, with a mechanism of pulleys to snaffle food; a path through the rockery in the garden that would make for perfect borrower-sized adventures; a spot next to the robin hole (a hole in the hedge where our resident robin would nip in and out through the day) where I would set up a camp, complete with tiny campfire, where I would lie on my back and watch the stars come out. When I later learned of the hearth faeries - the broonies and ùruisgs of Scotland - I felt instantly drawn to them, as if a fragment of my soul were some kind of hearth spirit, a tiny protector of home and heart.

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Steve Harrison's avatar

Lasting Impressions

Steve Harrison.

It was a ritual that fired up my young, impressionable imagination. Five maternal aunties; a conspiracy of cardplayers were about to plunge into another table top drama. A memory etched in my mind.

Pennies, half pennies, thruppences and tanners were smashed down in the middle of the kitchen table so hard the Babysham bottles clinked and clanked, ringing out the start of the game. Voices cracked the air with expectation. I sucked hard on my sherbet lemon and focused on the players.

White sticks were passed round and set on fire, smoke blown across the table which grew into cumulus congestus cloud enveloping the entire table. I gazed across at them through a smoky haze; mystical figures, faces contorted with frowns, smirks and knowing nods. The local cigarette factory did well on Thursday nights. ( Pay day )

A second sherbet lemon was needed for the next part as cards sliced through the murky air like flying cleavers as shouts of ' bust!' 'twist!' 'deuce!' 'flush!' and 'diamond takes all!' punctured holes through the mist. Glasses were drained, voices clashed, air crackled as cheeks reddened. Cards were slammed down in frustration. Howls and curses marched around the room giving orders.

To a chorus of, ' I'm out! bugger!' Chairs were unceremoniously pushed back and toppled over and fingers jabbed into the air like red hot pokers. The winnings provocatively scraped into an eager pocket. The plunder would eventually end up back in the cigarette factory where my aunties earned it the week before.

Through the smoky haze, my crimson lipped aunties, shining like beacons of hope shuffled the cards to a shout of ' Your deal!' This was unforgettable theatre. They have all now been swallowed up by history, but wait for me in my dreamscapes.

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