I freely admit that today I am suffering the after effects of too much fun. Last night Mark and I helped celebrate the half century achievement of a lovely woman and friend whose selflessness makes anyone she comes across an instant friend. Put simply, if you don’t like her, your friend radar has gone extremely wonky!

Anyway, as is common for all similar celebrations, the passing years attract people of all ages and from all walks of life, from her lovely, accomplished and attractive daughters and their friends to us, of the, um, ever so slightly older generation, and beyond. If the numbers of people who attend your birthday celebrations is a measure of your value to others, she is highly valued indeed.

But this is not a commentary on our friend’s social acceptance, but instead the form of the party itself. It is normal at these events for people to gather in their usual peer groups, facing inwards, backs to the rest of the world as a protective barrier, passing between them the hot potatoes of shared stories that guarantee that no stranger can force their way in. But not at this one.

Our friend’s master stroke was to introduce a theme, a small and, in some cases, exceedingly hairy device that effectively disguised all partygoers: wigs. Long, short, curly, straight, or, in my Mark’s case, mohawked and multi-coloured! The result was hilarious confusion as longstanding friends struggled to locate each other and were forced to introduce themselves to complete strangers in a wig-infested elimination round.

Men of all ages returned to the dark days of the 80s rock gods, but although some of the younger ones seemed to enjoy this renaissance of hair, and quite suited it, it has to be said that the effect of combining shimmering locks with middle-aged spread was not always as positive.

Of course, the girls didn’t take it too seriously, just bit of fun really. No, not really, in some quarters it was all out war to try and out glamorise the competition! Greying, short, sensible haircuts disappeared under flowing tresses in all hues, matched to outfits that certainly hadn’t been just hanging around in the closet!

Basically, we all ‘went to town’, and had a great time for the first part of the evening re-introducing ourselves to the new personalities our friends had become, and introducing ourselves to the people we thought could be our friends and soon would be! 

As the evening wore on, and the bar staff fought to keep up, we moved in to a new stage, as the carefully staged wig and outfit combinations were stripped apart and wig-swapping became the latest craze. At last count, in the wee hours, one friend had managed to beg, borrow and barter, at least a dozen wigs, each of which became a new Facebook identity. There must be many of her friends unconnected with the party completely baffled by the quick fire transformations!

My point in all of this hairy mayhem is that the wigs acted as a social leveller. We were suddenly all the same; confused, self-conscious and ever so slightly itchy. We moved through the party in disguise, free to talk to whomever we wanted, without the social barriers that usually apply. In short, it was great fun and I highly recommend it.

Oops, I’m supposed to have an educational theme in here somewhere. Let’s see. Don’t judge a book by its cover?  Treat others as you wish to be treated? Actually, there may be something in that; so many of ‘our’ kids arrive with labels and histories, carried before them almost as a pre-judgement. But we refuse to let history colour our present with them. Our centre is a new start for many of them, and I honestly believe that this more than anything else has helped many of them to succeed. Sermon over, I’m off for yet another Sunday recovery cup of tea!

When I was a young girl, way back before iPads, smartphones and laptops, thanking someone for a present, or asking Santa Claus for something special, meant writing a letter. I’ll let that sink in for a moment for those born after the dawn of the keyboard.

Have you recovered? Yes, I really did say the words ‘writing’ and ‘letter’, ancient terms that bring to mind the horse and carriage, knights in shining armour and the invention of the wheel. But that’s not all. I am going to shock you even more: I still hand write letters! And thank you cards, and post cards, and invitations.

Why do I do this in an age when messages can be sent with a few button presses or key strokes and people no longer expect whole sentences in communications? Well, partly it is precisely for that reason, because it is unexpected, outside the norm, and I do like to be a little bit different. 

It also makes me feel good using all of those words that I have stored in my brain over the years and rarely get a chance to use. There is an undeniable pleasure in grouping together just the right words, in just the right order, and creating something that is far more than simply a combination of letters and spaces. Words can evoke emotion, describe a landscape unseen, put substance to an idea and take the reader back to a shared memory.

Can we do the same in a conversation? In part, but conversation throws words away, writing saves them. Also, when we speak we are hampered by other factors; time, convention, the natural reserve of sharing too much in public, the need to be liked and take other people’s opinions into account. When we are writing we can stretch out in our own space, take as much time as we need, be selfish, get all the emotional stuff out in the open, use those big words that would make us sound la de da in public, because we can.

There is a freedom to express in writing that is difficult to find in conversation. No matter how many times I speak by phone with my Aunt back in the UK, who I have always had a close bond with, I can somehow never get her past the discomfort of speaking on the phone with someone thousands of kilometres away. It is like talking with someone I barely know. So, in between phone calls, I write, and in those letters I can share all of the things I can’t by phone. And it works; we connect far better by writing than long distance talking.

Some time ago I began writing to my goddaughters. I have a few, seven in fact, all fast-growing girls and young ladies towards whom I feel a moral responsibility. The letter-writing with them is a little hit and miss, but I am pleased that my eldest goddaughter (17) and I now regularly write back and forth, and this has added a new level to our relationship. We share things that I am sure we would not do when speaking; writing somehow creates this lovely intimate and trusting environment, separate to the ‘real’ world.

We recently ran a contest at the centre, asking the kids to write persuasive letters to Kip McGrath, convincing him that their families were deserving of an all-costs family ticket to the Royal Adelaide Show. I was surprised by the number of entries, and more so by the obvious care taken in writing them. The winner was written by one of our younger students, who has struggled with the early stages of reading and writing, and spent three days writing his letter. He included a bribe in the form of a ‘bucket of fairy floss’ for Kip, but the main reason for his win, apart from the quality and honesty of his letter, was the use of an envelope, properly addressed to Mr Kip McGrath. I was genuinely moved by his efforts and, obviously, so was Kip.

All of which, dear reader, brings me round to you. I want you to try, writing that is. A little thank you note, or a letter to your Mum, or your children; something that forces you to stop, pick up a pen and focus on the act of writing, just for a few minutes. Then, let that letter float away from you, straight in to the nearest post box. You may be pleasantly surprised by the reaction you get, first to the use of ‘snail mail’, but then, just perhaps, to the time and care you have invested in sending them a special message.

I firmly believe that the ability to express oneself in writing is a key skill that everyone should possess. Whether it is writing (emailing) a new idea to the boss, recording a daily diary, or crafting a carefully worded dissertation, there really is no excuse for not being able to tell your own story. This is after all a key part of our development as human beings.
All of which gives me an excuse to be fascinated by blogs. I can’t help myself; I love those little glimpses in to people’s lives, their inner workings. It’s addictive being able to step in to someone else’s shoes from the comfort of your own sofa with a cup of tea in hand, and so much better when the author is able to tell a story.  For example, here’s an excerpt from a blog that I read every day http://thestoryoftelling.com/the-elephant-in-the-marketing-room/

“I was raised in Dublin, the storytelling capital of the world. There is no place on earth that is more hardwired for story than Ireland, home of Guinness and oversize teapots.  Wikipedia will tell you that the Irish are some of the biggest consumers of tea. What Wikipedia won’t tell you is that in Ireland, tea (like Guinness), isn’t just a drink—it’s a lubricator of story.”

What a great start to a blog! How could you not read more? In one paragraph I am immersed in the descriptive language, mentally adding Dublin back on my list of places to see and looking forward to yet another cup of tea! Many Hollywood productions do far less with far more!
So, as I sit once again with the kettle gently bubbling away behind me, I want to tell you a story about my experience in Ireland, and how it changed my life. Way back in the dark ages of1990 I was a corporate cog in the wheel of the busy press office of Guinness, home of that famous inky pint. Ironically though, at the tender age of 24 I preferred sweet white wine to a pint of the black stuff, so the staff perk of a case (slab) once a quarter was a bit wasted on me.

And so it remained until, many twists of fate and 8 years later, I found myself on a literal and figurative pilgrimage to Ireland. Armed with the guilty cash of a soon to be dissolved marriage, I hired a car, determined to complete a circuit of the emerald isle’s coast.
It was a lonely, somewhat tragic and cathartic experience, but let’s quickly gloss over that and get to the twist. My consolations along the way were a temporary fascination with whisky and a belated conversion to the joys of Guinness. If only I had known what wonderful stuff Guinness was, I would have made far better use of my employee bonus!

As I travelled, petrol fuelled my car and Guinness fuelled my soul, or at least the wounded part of me that craved artistic output. Yes, you guessed it; I wrote a sweeping memoir of my trip, destined to gather dust in a drawer somewhere. But not only that, I also penned a number of songs of equally dark content, which, in a moment of sympathy, a friend helped me to record back in London.  The songs were depressing a full of woe, and I have not been able to listen to them since, but they served as an odd kind of closure, and I was able to move on thanks to the healing powers of Guinness.

So there you go, one interesting blog leads to an odd little story about change, which I would not have been able to share if I was not confident in being able to put myself down on paper.

The point is that the spoken word is wonderful, but can be limited, by context, social convention, by our own inhibitions. But the written word; no such limitations apply, we can write to a blank page, overlooked by no one and judged only by our own thoughts. What wonderful escapism, which is why as tutors we encourage every child to have a go, put pencil t paper and see what happens. The results are funny, challenging, confusing, but never, ever boring.

So get your pens or keyboards out and have a go. In this age of bite-sized information, where texts are the language of choice, we need to rediscover the joys of slow communication. We will be the better for it.