Jeni Barnett

Last Saturday I hobbled up the path to St.Mary’s Church in Glyned. Six stunning stained glass windows, old pews full of young people and their children, and a bride and groom dressed in white. I’ve known them since they were kids. I balanced on me walking stick as the hip vicar juggled their rings and … Read more

I haven’t said thank you to the kindness of my neighbours. I haven’t said thanks to the kindness of the young ones in my life. I haven’t said thank you to my own flesh and blood. I didn’t say thank you to the old git. I get consumed with guilt at not being kind enough … Read more

The sun hangs low in September. The Michaelmas Daisies have bloomed. Mushrooms have sprouted on the lawn and the conkers are forming. I live in-between two other cottages. Mr. Fenner, the blacksmith, resided in all three, over the centuries it morphed onto 1, The Forge, 2 the middle cottage and number 3 a modern development … Read more

Pathetic Fallacy is when a writer gives human feelings or characteristics to things that aren’t human – usually the weather, or parts of nature like trees or the wind. Think of it as nature sharing the feelings of the characters, or reflecting what’s happening inside them. It’s NOT simply describing the weather; it’s about the … Read more

Season of mists and mellow white socks. Autumn, as a child, spoke of shiny shoes and possibilities. Walking to school, kicking shiny brown conkers and sucking blackberries off the bushes. The smell of soft leather and the excitement of a new beginning. Today I had a sense of autumn, when the rain came there was … Read more

When I was on the radio I didn’t know how I felt until I heard my voice. Any opening salvo required me to listen to myself. I often surprised myself. Even if I felt sludgy my voice revealed something different. There was a lightness of touch. I would breathe. There was some humour I breathed … Read more

Worra palava. When somebody dies that’s the end of it. Except it isn’t. The will, death certificates, unpaid monies from our ISA , which I think is about tuppence halfpenny. It doesn’t phase me, it just makes me fidgety and irritable. Endless bits pf paper through the post asking for signatures and fuck knows what … Read more

The old git wanted an Eastern European song, at his funeral, sung by his three dawters. Close harmony with discordant intervals. I drove my kid down to Brighton and dropped her off. It was hot and sunny. Very hot and very sunny. Brighton was scorching. I drove left at the Pier, towards the Marina. Squillions … Read more

It’s been a month since the old git flew the nest. A little robin visited perching on the back of the garden bench and hopping around on the garden table. Sid decided to satisfy his cravings and kill it. We couldn’t be angry with the cat, he’s missing the ‘oosbind too. So now we await … Read more

32 days since the old git passed. People ask me how I am. ‘Fine.’ I say mechanically ‘Really I am. Fine.’ I put the telly on to watch Wimbledon. Endless commentators talking about Serena Williams, and her age and her career and her comeback. John McEnroe said something and I caved. I broke, after 32 … Read more