I used to run a small writing group in a rather rundown estate in Northern Ireland, known colloquially as BallyBosnia. The name BallyBosnia was due to an unusual number of burnout houses and cars that seemed to dominate the landscape.
My group consisted of vulnerable, sensitive, often traumatised individuals and the writing was therapeutic for us all, not high literature. One lady had lost her son the year previous to cancer and subsequently her left leg to diabetes. Another had her children taken into care, one had PTSD from being close to several bombings. Another was a paranoid schizophrenic one a young Goth, a single parent and the retired or just bored. All lovely enthusiastic writers. They seemed to speak and write with no filter. It was heart-breaking and breath-taking in equal measure.
The local council had agreed that we could only use a small room (practically a cupboard) in the community centre. There, we all squeezed in and with so many, our 87-year-old, Joyce, complained of constant claustrophobia. It was unusual, she rarely complained. A delightful 87-year-old lady who could still touch her toes and produced a memorable poem on fish. We were all delighted and proud of her when the local newspaper published her epic poem. This wasn’t the first time she had been in print. Her previous poem was about how she kept warm in the winter by staying in bed because she couldn’t afford the oil for heating every day. This poem she had posted to Downing Street and had received a rather sympathetic but hand-wringing letter from the Prime Minister. She responded by publishing both her poem and the Prime Minister’s letter in the local press. This turned into a rather hard-hitting account of what it means to be old and poor in present society. Made all the more atrocious by her sweet kindly open-hearted disposition. Some people just melt the heart with their sweetness, here she is in full fettle, with her fish poem.
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