Nov 13, 2025 | Author Blog
© Susan Browne 2019
Shortlisted for Words by Water short story competition in October 2019. The judge’s comment was: “A gripping read, the reader is taken on an undulating wave of emotions with the main character.”
Themes: neurodiversity, pet bereavement, single parenting
The cat is missing. It’s not here waiting for its breakfast. Bella does love that wretched cat. Just five minutes left until the school run. I step outside, and the frosty air hits me, and I squint in the sunlight. I rattle her bowl and call her name. Inspect the road both ways. No cat. I don’t mention it, and we walk out to the car.
When I get home, I find it curled up in a ball at the edge of the field. ‘Come on, you. Breakfast.’ She doesn’t budge so I take her in my arms to the front door where her food sits. She slumps down, ignoring it. She is listless. Floppy. ‘You can’t be sick, cat.’ I go inside and dial the vet, and the secretary asks if I’d like to bring her in right away. There goes my morning.
‘What’s the cat’s name?’ she asks in a green reception that smells of bleach and bones.
‘Sadness,’ I say.
Fingers hover over a keyboard.
The vet shows me Sadness’ ghostly eye rims and white gums.
‘Severely anaemic. She’s only hanging in there. The kindest thing is to put her down right now,’ she says, matter-of-factly. It’s just a cat, after all.
‘I can’t put her down.’ I feel my head filling up with water as I picture my little girl, getting home from school only to find out her best friend in the world is dead. No warning. No time to prepare.
‘It’s a hard decision. Take your time,’ the vet says. A large dog barks busily out in the waiting room, and Sadness looks at me.
‘I’m going to take her with me. She can die with us at home.’
‘Sure. That’s your choice.’
‘And there’s really nothing more to be done?’
‘We could try some iron and antibiotics, but there really is very little point.’
‘Well, we’ll try anyway. Please.’
I pay and walk out with my severely anaemic cat and useless tablets to my crookedly parked car and drive home.
I allow her into the house, and she heads right under the stairs. I tidy it for her and get out some spare bedding. She’s just a pair of green eyes in the darkness, watching me as I carefully move things around. I get her food and water — an old litter box. Stairs get brushed even though it is only Thursday. I wipe marks off the paintwork.
I collect Bella, feeling wretched.
‘I have some upsetting news for you.’
‘No go-go’s left again?’
‘No. We have go-go’s. It’s Sadness. She is very, very sick.’
I adjust my rear-view mirror. My little girls head has shrunken in like a turtle, back into her body. School uniform all crumpled up around her shoulders — a tense, straight line for a mouth.
When we arrive home, she’s immediately under the stairs. They share a silent commune.
The next thing Bella’s disappeared down to her bedroom and returns after ten minutes with a picture. It has Sadness, hearts, leaves, sunshine, clouds, grass and says in the sky on one of the clouds’ eid ot ecalp ecin a.’ A Nice Place to Die. She sticks the picture up over Sadness’ little sickbay.
‘That’s amazing. Sadness will love it.’ When I check again, some white plastic rosary beads have manifested and are dangling down the bannister over Sadness. Bella is sitting close to her, and they are both very still. My hand rests over my mouth. In that pocket of silence, across the airwaves flows the very purest of love, and I think it might break me open.
I wake myself up in the night, sneezing, and feel the vaporous presence of both a cat and my estranged husband. But in truth I am alone.
Still.
It is morning and Sadness lives. She even trots out to the kitchen after me, so I fix her some breakfast and tidy up. Brushing the little spills of cat litter away and giving her fresh water. I imagine that she might survive and something inside me dances.
Hugging a mug of tea, I think about Paudie.
‘Still pushing the important things away and clinging onto deadwood,’ said my father before he died of a massive heart attack on his favourite seat overlooking the marshes.
People say he’s gay, my deadwood-Paudie. I don’t think so. I didn’t hear it from him. Bella tells me that he lives with another man and that she’s met him a few times and that his name is Colm. She told me more things, but my brain removes them like there’s no space for that information.
I did all I could, in the beginning, to prevent the divorce from going through. I was sure he was making a mistake. It was for him, I told myself, not just Bella and me. In the end, even my solicitor seemed to give up on me.
‘You’re scaring him, Claire. I think you’re actually scaring him.’ I think I may have been scaring her too. If she was honest about it.
I am glad that Bella is at school when I try to give the cat those tablets. The whole ordeal almost kills her. She won’t swallow, and I let her go with the fright of those bared fangs. She darts behind the sofa. Writhing and making hideous sounds. I watch, frozen. A puddle of urine seeps out from under her.
‘Oh my God, Sadness. Please don’t die yet,’ I’m crying and sneezing.
Bella is home again, and she can’t find Sadness who was on the blanket under the stairs earlier. Where I lifted her flimsy frame with very little life force left in it. My daughter’s eyes are wild, her hands flapping. She covers her ears and hums, and I get up and hum too and wrap myself around her, making myself into a humming human blanket.
We find a rhythm and rock gently. I kiss her chamomile no-tears hair, and her taut body starts to relax a little.
‘It’s okay. We’ll find her.’
I am worse than worried, though. I switch the torch on my phone and shine it around. Eventually, I discover that Sadness has crawled right inside the bottom step. I gingerly stretch out my hand and make contact with fur. Her body feels quite still.
‘Sadness? Are you alive in there?’
‘Of course she is alive. I can feel her. Let me look.’
‘Wait. Sadness?’ My heart is stopped. Then suddenly a grey tail flicks at us, and I breathe again. ‘She’s alive.’
‘Told you,’ says Bella, her chest puffed out and arms long and skinny at her sides.
‘Come on, homework time. Let’s give her some space.’
Bella sulkily empties her schoolbag. Books, pencils flowing out of their case and some smelly lunch remnants.
Each night I can’t sleep. He is gone seven years now. It’s not as though it’s a new thing. But how can you leave just as your first baby is born? He never answered that for me. It remains one of those mind-benders that goes off like the eternal boomerang into space and never turns around.
I walk down at three to see those green eyes. She blinks. I curl up on the cold tiles and rest my head down on the blanket, exhausted. Sadness walks over to me and places her forehead against the crown of my head. I bathe in an unexpected rush of affection.
Upstairs again I’m on my phone looking up how to help a cat that is dying. I discover a world of things, such as music for cats. I download some and put it playing softly under the stairs. It is a haunting, whirling sound with background purring noises on it. I am very glad I can’t hear it from my bed.
Sunday morning, Bella asks me to go to Mass. She is as still and quiet as ever she has been in there. At the end, she asks to light three candles. I watch her praying. Father Matt comes over, and I find myself telling him about the cat. He is old and sympathetic, which makes me feel a mixture of sorrow and mortification.
‘Thank you. Thank you,’ I say.
We drive home, and she checks Sadness, who is asleep. She looks peaceful. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper again. To saints and angels. To the cat. Anyone at all.
After a snack, Bella runs outside. I see her spinning on the grass, arms outstretched, looking up at the vast white sky. A small, blonde sorceress whipping up a spell.
It’s just gone eleven at night when I hear strange yowling coming from below. I take myself down to the bottom of the stairs where a cat called Sadness is truly dying. I am terrified. She thrashes around, claws outstretched. Then stops breathing, and I think that’s it.
After some time, there is another gasp. Her tail stands on end. She hurtles blindly into the wall. Death ravages her.
‘Rest now. Easy girl,’ I tell her. She stills again. I hold my breath. After some minutes, I want to reach out and touch her. But I’m frightened she will suddenly lunge at me, thinking I am Death. My hand floats in mid-air, idiotically.
I consider the large shoebox and wonder how I might fit her in there if she is left lying long and straight as she is. I need to curl her up. After half an hour of pacing and checking, I get her in there. One step ahead of rigor mortis.
Dawn.
He hasn’t come this close for seven years. As far as his feet have gone are about five paces onto the driveway. In all that time. My mother’s people’s land. He answered the text in less than a minute: ‘I’ll be there soon.’
He’s in the garden, digging a grave for Sadness. It’s where I found her a few days ago, her sunspot. He makes easy work of it. He is powerful and muscular, and I resent that he looks better than ever before. Deadwood clinger.
Bella and I watch. She has the shoebox coffin in her hands, with pictures drawn onto it and Sadness in big ornate writing. She doesn’t want to put her cat down there into that damp, dark hole. He helps her to lower it into the earth.
I look from one to the other, voraciously finding him in her and her in him. We take turns throwing soil onto the box and then he fills it in using the shovel.
Then we stand, three of us beside Sadness’s resting place. From afar, you’d think we were all together — husband, wife, daughter. Six shoes in the morning dew, burying our beloved cat. I wish someone could take a photo or paint us this way. I want to keep it even if it’s just a lie.
A little girl folds into my body, her back facing me. I lean forward over her, and we merge for a few moments. Like seven years ago, she is a part of me.
My gaze turns over the land and to the car parked on the road, and I see a bearded man’s profile in the passenger seat. I look at Paudie’s shoes and the way he carries himself. Then a boomerang in outer space crashes into something hard and breaks into tiny pieces.
Sun comes out from behind a cloud. It’s over.
‘Will ye have breakfast? Tea?’ I pause, my mouth opening and closing.
‘We’re good, thanks. Better be off. Bye so, Bella. Bye.’
I hoped he would refuse. I’m not ready yet.
‘Bye. Thanks.’
A pile of earth sits on top of the grave. Ready to sink down over time.
Nov 5, 2025 | Author Blog
Remembering Manchán Magan 1970-2025
There’s an upcoming item in my diary with lines through it for Thursday 27th November. It reads: 7.30 Siamsa Tíre, Arán & Im, Manchán. This was Manchán Magan’s show (Arán agus Im meaning Bread and Butter), celebrating the Irish language in an engaging, bilingual way as he prepared sourdough bread and home-churned butter. Manchán’s ideas continue to feed and nourish so many people, butter or no.
A quiet email came on September 2nd saying that, due to a setback with his health, he was cancelling his entire Irish tour. This didn’t sound good. There was nothing online about it. Perhaps it would go away, still. I liked to think so. He’s a very magical man, I thought to myself. Maybe even one with superpowers. Yet Manchán had said in his TV programme Listen to the Land Speak that medics told him the cancer would come back and spread and he was accepting this as his journey.
Portals
I first came across Manchán Magan in early 2022 when I opened his book Tree Dogs, Banshee Fingers and Other Irish Words for Nature. The cover drew me in, and on opening it I experienced a flash of inspiration for a novel. It began with just a picture: an older man in a souterrain seeing into another era. I bought the book there and then, opening it regularly as I wrote. It acted as a kind of inspiration portal to me. From there I began to read his other books, which had the same effect.
In November, 2024, Manchán came to Siamsa Tíre, Tralee to present Rewilding the Mind: Reconnecting to the Spirit of the Land. The audience were spellbound, and there was a standing ovation at the end. Then in July this year, I finally got to chat to him after his show Ireland in Iceland at the Sneem Festival. I had asked my husband to please get a photo, and then, feeling shy, reneged. Luckily, he ignored me and asked him for the photo. Manchán was so chatty and warm. And, Ireland being Ireland, his mother comes from just down the road in Ballylongford.
The Magic of Nature
When I was preparing the workshops for Voices of the Hedgerows, Manchán’s work was such a helping hand. He resonated with the participants, and we used quotes and images as springboards for inspiration.
On September 13th, Manchán came from hospital to chat with Brendan O’Connor on RTE Radio 1. At that time, he didn’t realise he had so little time left. A man with many plans and much to do. The prolific writer and broadcaster died on the 2nd of October.
Maidhm bháistí (cloudburst) at the Hill of Uisneach
Manchán’s wish was to have some of his ashes spread on the Hill of Uisneach, sacred centre of Ireland. So this is where his month’s mind was held. His wife and family and the generous community of Uisneach welcomed thousands. There was weather of every sort. It was as though so many things Manchán had written and talked about had to be demonstrated there on the sacred hill. The crowd roared with laughter in response to a driving shower of hailstones. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one thinking about his latest book, Ninety-Nine Words For Rain (And One For Sun). When his wife spoke about the signs people told her they’d been getting that they believed were from the man himself, a huge rainbow began to arc across the sky.
It is often said of Manchán, that he had one foot in this world and one foot in the other. Could it be that, wherever he is now, he still does?
Go raibh mile maith agat, Manchán.
Travel well, dear soul.
Manchán féasta
Here is a collection of all things Manchán to savour. If you have any more you think would go nicely in this collection, please let me know so I can add them.
Manchán’s books
Radio & Podcasts
The Almanac of Ireland RTÉ podcast
With Brendan O’Connor on RTE Radio 1, 13th September, 2025
The Bog Shaman: Manchán on Moriarty (starts about 6 mins in)
Blindboy Podcast – Remembering Manchán Magan
Manchán Mangan’s month’s mind – “There’s hundreds gathered here already!” RTE Radio 1
TV & Video
Listen to the Land Speak RTÉ Player
Manchán’s Europe By Train
Crainn na hÉireann, very kindly shared by its director on Vimeo
No Béarla
Irish Roots and Radical Hope with Manchán Magan and Shirley Anne McMillan
Articles
At home with… Manchán Magan (2020) article
Oct 15, 2025 | Author Blog
Little Rituals That Keep My Writing Practice Alive
I’ve met so many would-be writers who would love to form a writing routine but either keep putting it off or start and then stop. No matter where you want it to go, if you enjoy writing… life is better when you write. Finding a routine looks different to each of us. In this blog I share some tips on how to craft a writing routine that works for you.
1. Decide What Time of Day and For How Long
Your writing routine needs to be sustainable, otherwise you won’t keep it up. I’m a morning writer. A 5amer, if sleep has gone well. But for some writers their best inspiration comes at night-time. Think of when you feel most inspired but also take into account what’s going on in your life at those times. 5 am works for me, because later in the morning there are other responsibilities I need to tend to. As well as noise and distractions.
Getting up earlier also allowed that time to write. And because I write early and for a short time, just 25 minutes a day, I can always fit it in, even if I’m away. That’s another thing, decide what days you’d like to write. Once a week? Every day? I love to write daily as it keeps a sense of momentum, and because my writing goals are better aligned with writing every day. For some writers, the idea of writing for twenty five minutes is unthinkable, and a much longer stint might be called for and on less days. What do you see working best for you?
2. Silence Your Phone and Don’t Check Emails or Messages
If you need to research something online, try, if you can to arrange this outside of your writing time. This is so you don’t fall down any rabbitholes and waste your valuable writing time. Sometimes it’s essential to look something up, I know. But if you can work without internet as much as possible, you’ll be more productive.
I love Mel Robbins’ idea of not checking her phone at all until her to-do’s are all complete. If you’re a morning writer, avoid checking social media and emails before you write. Your mind will be sharper and more focused on what you want to focus it on, instead of everyone else’s business, which is where social media often takes us. Having your phone on silent will avoid the temptation to check it, if that’s possible for you.
3. Use a Timer Rather Than Word Count to Work To
Word count goals can be great on a longer term basis rather than per session. For example, if you’re writing a novel you might like to set a word count goal for the month. This allows for days when your writing doesn’t flow as fast, and it keeps you in the game. Another day, you might be flowing very well and write more.
I use a twenty-five minute timer, and if I’m editing, I sometimes do a few sessions if I can fit them in. But once I’ve showed up to do one, I’m happy. This is inspired, but not the same as, the Pomodoro technique. Where you take a five minute break after the twenty five minutes and then do another session, and so on.
4. Know That There’s Good Days and Bad Days – Clouds
Once you’ve shown up, you’ve won. No matter how badly the session might have gone. If you feel bad about your writing all of a sudden, try not to worry or just stop. It’s likely it will pass. Look outside and see if you can see a cloud. If you were to look again in an hour, would the cloud be the same? How we feel about our writing is a bit like clouds.
I can swing from one day really enjoying my work, to the next thinking it’s awful and I’ll never succeed. I’ve learned to accept those discouraging feelings and not let them spoil everything or put me off. On those days, I might try something a little different. Like looking at plotting. Or brainstorming ideas. Don’t allow a bad day to sabotage your writing routine. It could be totally different tomorrow.
5. Set Goals, Short Term and Long Term, and Review Them Regularly
Goals help us to see what we’re working towards. Perhaps your aim is simply to write regularly for fun. In that case, your goal could be simply that: to write regularly. In that case, decide how regularly, and how you will know when you are doing this. Specifics will help you stick to it.
If your goals are more professionally geared, think of the different stages ahead. What would you like to have achieved in a week, a month, a year from now? Allow yourself to dream and then create goals from there. If your goals aren’t being achieved, you might have been reaching too high. Don’t give up, simply review your goals and be kinder. It’s a working progress and you won’t know until you try.
6. Read Lots. Replace Screen Time with Books
What we read is compost for the healthy growth of our writing. Read widely, making sure to include what you love. And if a book is dragging too much, stop reading it and choose another. Life is too short to get tied up trying to finish books you don’t love. When we’re on screens, we’re still getting compost of sorts. But it’s in a much more passive way.
When you watch a movie, for example, you are provided with the images, whereas when you read (unless it’s graphic) you have to make your own. It also helps you to find out what style of writing you love. Not so you’ll copy it, but you’ll be inspired by it.
7. If You’re Sending Out Work and It’s Not Getting Accepted, You’re doing great. Keep Going
You’ve heard it before, but I’ll say it again, the best writers have been knocked down many times and they succeeded because they keep getting up. We’re often sold the idea of these overnight successes, but I don’t buy them. Most successful writers have gotten thick skinned and used to hearing no a thousand times.
There are a zillion reasons why your work could get rejected:
- You lack experience and need to practice your writing more – keep going. Attend writing classes, read more, seek helpful feedback.
- Your work is brilliant but the judges/publisher/agent has different taste to you or doesn’t ‘get’ your writing.
- Your work simply wasn’t what they’re looking for or might not be what’s currently in vogue – it’s really hard to follow trends and because everything is so slow in the publishing world it’s barely worth following them, in my opinion. Write what you love.
I’ll not mention them here, but if you want to make yourself feel better by hearing about how very famous authors suffered from rejection, look up Herman Melville, Beatrix Potter, Stephen King, George Orwell, Agatha Christie and, of course, J K Rowling. As my fab Aussie writing teacher, Diana Connell says, ‘writing’s not for sissies!
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Feb 1, 2025 | Author Blog
Tobar a leighis (Healing Well)
by Susan Browne
Here’s a little piece that flowed out one day in the midst of becoming slightly obsessed with a) Brigid and b) holy wells.
Beside the well stood a woman. It was a cool winter’s morning and the mist hung in skirts over the ripples of the hills that rose above. She stayed facing the well, it was as though she knew of no one else in the world. She wore a green dress that could have come from a costume box as it was like none I’d ever seen. Her hair was long and luscious darkness, wavy, down her back.
I was coming to say prayers. To tie a ribbon. To go through many requests and novenas. To get it all off my chest and to safeguard them all. I cleared my throat deliberately as I descended the stone steps, shivering a little. The mist was denser beside the well, as though it would try to swallow it.
A chipped cup with faded roses on it rested in the stone enclave, where many people had dipped and drank or poured. Eventually I gathered the courage to draw closer, still, she stood unmoving. Even when I crouched down and went for dipping a hand in the cold, earthen water. I blessed myself and then I dared a look up at her. On her milky décolleté she wore a round pendant and within it clasped a circular amber or citrine crystal. Her eyes seemed to hold a red orange fire and when we made eye contact it was all I could do not to bow my head low as though she was some deity.
I wanted to ask her something, but I didn’t know what. I wanted her to share in my prayers or for her to take them from me, one by one, like strips of ribbon that she could deliver to God since they very surely knew one another. She focused on me now and I felt seen in a way I wasn’t accustomed to.
‘Who are you?’ I wanted to say. But the answer beat me to it.
‘Breeeeeeeej,’ it came like a whisper, not quite human. As though the wind had delivered it, brushed it through the spindly wintered fingers of the White Thorn. Exhaled it from the rabbit holes in the ground and just as I heard it she began to fade and disappear. I could swear I felt a hand on my shoulder for a few moments after. It was neither warm nor cold but the weight of it brought tears to my eyes for it was a blessing and my prayers all dried up inside my mouth, so I took the cup and dipped it over and over and drank and drank. Till it ran down my chin and travelled up my nose.
To my left a spray of dandelion, like the first spring sunshine. Clattering rooks above told the story. I know they saw her too. I looked down at my reflection, but it wasn’t me looking back. For a second, it was her. I blessed myself thinking I must be in a dream. Yet later in the day I saw my shoes covered in grass and dew, the ribbon that I never ended up tying to the thorn and a dandelion I had plucked on the way home. I took it and put it in water in a tiny glass, and it lasted in my kitchen for an unnatural amount of time.
Feb 19, 2024 | Author Blog
Saying Farewell to The Body Shop: Emotional Scents and Sensibilities
and some inspired writing prompts
I’ve never been as sad to hear of the closing of a shop as I was to hear of the Body Shop closing in ten days time. The private equity firm, Aurelius, took over the firm in November last year, and are cutting their losses after a downturn. I was away in Cork for the weekend and visited the lovely branch in Oliver Plunkett Street and the staff told me that across Ireland and much of Europe all the branches are closing. I visited the Galway branch just in December – William Street won’t be the same. I had heard a rumour a day or two before and dismissed it. How could such a thing be true?
In this blog I’m sharing some insights and memories of The Body Shop and I’ve added some writing prompts inspired by my memories for the writers or writing-curious.
Big Bottles in London Bathrooms
My first memory of The Body Shop was at my mum’s friend’s house in Heathrow. We could hear the sounds of planes from her house, a startling novelty. But in her bathroom was Body Shop bottles, overwhelmingly tall and curious, with the words: Against Animal Testing on them. I always loved animals, and I had no idea at that time that products were tested on them so I was full of questions after that. In my ten year old mind, it was unthinkable that people would be so cruel.
Not long after, the name was on our lips at school. Ethical, making a stand against animal testing, delicious smelling and, unfortunately, overbudget for me, a serial peruser of Boots and Superdrug. I would covet those products and dream of buying them.
Our local Body Shop was near the top of The Parade in Leamington Spa. Walking in there was like stepping through a portal. You were greeted with a feast for the senses; a rainbow of colours and heady scents; lotions, balms and perfumes you could sample so long as you had another patch of wrist, arm or neck left. You could sniff those tester lip balms; green kiwi and pink morello cherry, try out the hand creams and admire the silken bath pearls to your hearts’ content. As a teenage girl, I could disappear into that shop and not emerge for a long time. The staff seemed to simply accept it; this emporium was a place of welcome and solace.
White Musk Girl on the School Tour
The next memory was the school tour. An outdoor adventure centre in Wales with orienteering, rock climbing, potholing and abseiling, to name but a few. One of the girls had a crush on Steve, the gorgeous tall, brown haired, blue eyed youth worker with the denim jacket and lovely grin. She wore Body Shop White Musk. It was sweet and intoxicating, and I was full sure that Steve would have to fall in love with her, eleven or not. How could he not when she smelled so good?
“Be courageous. It’s one of the only places left uncrowded”
― Anita Roddick
Me Vs. Ants – A Greek Island Adventure
As an adolescent, on the island of Kalymnos I experienced a rude encounter with the local ants. I had saved up and bought myself the Body Shop cocoa butter after sun. It was gooey and delightful, and brownish to help add to the idea of having a tan rather than being pasty white or lobster red. The trouble was, the ants thought it was great too. The top mustn’t have been screwed on tight enough and it oozed at the neck, but the ants covered every part of it. I couldn’t use it after, as I was sure there were ants lurking around inside. It taught me that useful lesson for the youth, that there is good sense to wiping up spills and sweeping up crumbs.
The Body Shop, Oliver Plunkett St Cork, ten days before closure in February, 2024
Lessons in Abundance Consciousness
As a mother of three children, I used to love the Coconut Body Butter, but the idea of buying it for myself more than once in a blue moon was over the top and self indulgent. I would have some and use a little on my hands, or a bit here and there. That smell. So delicious. Until one day, I realised that thinking this way was blocking my own abundance, and a pity. I vowed to myself to always have some Coconut Body Butter in the house and never to scrimp and scrape with it again. It became my signature fragrance, since, after my third son I mysteriously went off all perfumes. Coconut Body Butter was my perfume. And that has been the case ever since. It has moisturised my skin and given me and my clothes that smell that I love so much for years now.
Their Story
The Body Shop was the vision of Anita Roddick (1942-2007), who opened the first branch in Brighton, England, in 1976. Anita believed something revolutionary – that business could be a force for good. She was a vocal advocate for human rights and social issues, using her company’s global presence to campaign for change. Roddick’s approach to business has inspired countless entrepreneurs and companies to adopt more ethical and sustainable practices.
Anita worked with Greenpeace on the Save the Whale campaign to fight the cruel practise of whaling, promoting jojoba oil as a substitute for sperm whale oil, which was commonly used in cosmetics then. She did a lot, and she brought us the delight of The Body Shop.
“If you think you’re too small to make a difference, you’ve never been to bed with a mosquito.”
― Anita Roddick
Disenfranchised Grief
Disenfranchised grief is where we grieve something or someone that society doesn’t acknowledge or validate. For me and others I’m sure, The Body Shop is intertwined with personal milestones or memories – adolescence, self-discovery, and moments of joy or comfort. The grief over its loss links to a sense of nostalgia and a longing for a past self or time period that felt simpler or more meaningful. I am sure many would tell me that it’s first world problems and, in Ireland at least, to “cop on.”
I went into the Oliver Plunkett Street Branch in Cork City this morning and bought all the Coconut Body Butter I could, and wept on my way out of the shop. Sad for all those employees who’ve suddenly lost their jobs. And a world without The Body Shop just isn’t the same.
NB) After writing this blog I discovered The Body Shop is remaining open in the UK. I will need to drive over and take the ferry! Read more about branches closing in Ireland here.
Enjoyed reading this? Have a look at the other blog posts here.
Writing Prompts
Set a timer for however long works for you and let your pen or your typing hands go, go, go without stopping until the time is done. Don’t stop and re-read/edit as you go. You could write memoir (about yourself and your life) or choose one of these prompts and apply it to a character you are currently working with, to get to know them better.
1) Write about a place that fascinated you as a child. It could be something that now seems mundane… like a mom’s friends’ bathroom!
2) Explore something that everyone was talking about when you were in primary school – like a fashion or trend.
3) Recall a shop that intrigued you, exploring the senses it evoked.
4) Write about a childhood crush – or someone else’s – and the excitement of it.
5) Describe something precious getting spoiled.
6) Have fun recalling a luxurious indulgence.
I’d love to hear your thoughts, memories, or if a writing prompt was helpful; comment on Twitter, Facebook or Instagram.
May 16, 2018 | Author Blog
A Woman Much Like Me
By Susan Browne © Susan Browne 2005 and 2026
About this story: This was published by Woman’s Way Magazine, Ireland October 26, 2005. Set in Goa, India, which is one of my favourite places.
Una could feel the heat immediately as she stepped off the plane and made her way down the steep metal stairs. A sense of euphoria bubbled up inside her. The sun embraced her body, warming her bones and lifting her spirits. She thought of Garrett and said under her breath, ‘can you feel that, Garrett? Isn’t it marvellous?’
‘Look, Mum, there’s the terminal over there. Will we have to walk?’ a little boy said to his mother who was trying to carry about five pieces of luggage and not really listening.
‘I think we will have to walk. You’d better help your mam with all that stuff,’ said Una. He looked up at her in surprise, but her warm smile reassured him.
Una started walking. She couldn’t stop smiling. ‘We’re here. In Goan paradise at last,’ she whispered, looking down at her two swollen feet bulging out of her beige sandals.
The airport had been modernised since she and Garrett had come, and things were very efficient this time. The taxi ride took half an hour. She just stared out of the open window at the strangely familiar sun-scorched scenery. The palms clung together in forests, and then they straggled out across fields, some with crops and some barren and daunting.
‘Are you travelling alone?’ the taxi driver asked her after a while.
‘Well, I lost my husband last year. But we planned to retire out here. And I think he’s sitting right here beside me if you know what I mean,’ Una grinned as she was sure she was right. She stroked the crucifix pendant that she wore for reassurance. She was sure this was all quite plausible. She did not notice the frown on the driver’s forehead. Or his inability to reply. It wasn’t her problem. She had arrived.
All the arrangements had been made with Mr Atal whilst Garrett was still alive. And she had been in regular contact since. The girls thought she had gone mad. They even tried to talk her out of it. But she was so sure. So determined. One day they spoke harsh words to her: ‘Mum, you’ve gone crazy. It’s a normal grief reaction, but you have to see it for what it is. You’re an old woman; you won’t survive in India on your own.’ She had lain awake that night fighting off the terror they and other well-meaning friends had instilled in her. Una had wept until they took pity on her and tried to approve and be happy for her. ‘I know the place like the back of my hand; it’s like a second home,’ she had insisted.
She sensed she might be an embarrassment to them. But Una didn’t feel old. And now she was here, out of the grey, drizzly November of Ireland, she felt even less so. Mrs Atal was there to greet her. She had flowers for her on a string, like a Hawaiian necklace. She hugged her and told her she was ever so sorry about Garrett. ‘You’ll be okay. We are nearby. I will send friends to help you settle in,’ she looked the old Irish woman up and down. Her grey hair was still the same length, in big awkward curls, and her face was red and shiny in the heat. She had lost a little weight, but her face was still plump and pleasant. She wore a coloured silk blouse that had been purchased there and was showing its age.
‘You’re so kind,’ Una squeezed her face and gave her a kiss. Mrs Atal looked a little embarrassed but remained warm. She showed her around the house that Una remembered so well. It had been changed a little. Celtified. Garrett had stated what decor and facilities they would need and it had all been arranged for them. It was still very India though. Kashmir rugs that they had bought three years ago had been aired and thrown across the tile floors. The bed had a good mosquito net around it. The bathroom was now wheelchair friendly; this had been the most expensive job of all. You just never know, Garrett had said as she had sighed about all the money it was costing.
‘You just never know indeed, Garrett,’ she said quietly.
‘Pardon,’ said Mrs Atal.
‘Oh nothing, Pet, I’m just mumbling on to myself.’
‘You must miss him, Una. I think you are a very brave woman,’ Mrs Atal turned to face her.
‘Thanks, Love, I don’t know if I’m really all that brave at all.’
‘You are, you are wonderful,’ she smiled, and then looked away quickly in case Una should squeeze her face again. That minute her mobile phone rang.
‘Oooooh things change don’t they? Everywhere you go… There was none of them the last time we were here,’ said Una.
Mrs Atal smiled politely and answered the call. She spoke quickly in her own language. Una had seen this before. It looked as though she might be having an argument and then suddenly the tone would change and it would all seem friendly again. She would try to guess at what the words meant. Mrs Atal was not long on the phone. ‘My husband wants you to join us for dinner. Would you like this?’
‘Of course I will. I’d be delighted,’ Una laughed.
‘That’s good. I’ll pick you up at five. Is that okay?’
‘That’ll be just grand,’ said Una.
‘Do you need anything before I go? I bought you some bottled water for drinking.’
‘You’re as good as gold, Mina, as good as gold.’
After Mrs Atal had gone, Una realised that she was here for the first time without Garrett. Even though she felt he was here in spirit she missed his physical presence, and someone to talk to. She looked down at her flowers, which were already starting to wilt with the heat of the day and the warmth of her body. ‘I’ll go and have a shower before I unpack, Garrett,’ she said, and carefully peeled off the necklace.
You do that, love, she imagined him saying.
‘It’ll be too late to go to the beach now; I’ll wait until morning, shall I?’
Yeah, better off. It’ll be dark by the time you leave the Atal’s house.
Unpacking was strange. None of his socks and shorts to sort through. She wished she had brought them along anyway. She put her hand into the empty suitcase and smelled. Trying to get a smell of him. Sun cream that had spilt years ago filled her with memories.
Oh, feck that bloody suncream! Look at that, Una! My best feckin’ shirt!
‘Don’t worry love. I’ll sort it when we get home,’ she said to the case. ‘Home… but now this is home. This is our home now, Garrett. I’ll have to see if I can sort it here,’ and she laughed to herself. She laughed until she curled up into a little ball on the floor and began to cry.
Dinner at the Atal’s was lovely. Their son was back from the States on holidays and his wife had a strong American accent. Una enjoyed knowing more than she about the place. Her parents were from Delhi and she had never been here before. She was beautiful and elegant. But not as elegant as Mrs Atal, even though she was twenty years younger. Mr Atal kept looking at Una, as though he was afraid she might burst into tears at any moment. But Una felt happy here. She loved the company and the local food. She just wondered how she would face her lovely house all alone tonight. And tomorrow, and the next day.
On the beach the next day Una remembered she must phone the girls. It was too early now. They were five hours behind. There were more bars and restaurants on the beach this time. Lots of bodies, young and old, were sauntering by. She shook her head firmly at the beach sellers who offered their produce, then kicked off her sandals and walked into the sea. The Indian women kept covered up, even in the water. Yet the Westerners bared all, ignoring the stares. ‘Nobody would stare at me,’ Una said to the sea, and laughed at the idea of stripping down to her swimsuit. ‘Not today thanks, I’ll take this sun one step at a time.’ Just then she noticed another Caucasian woman that looked her own age. She had seen her and was wading towards her.
‘Good morning,’ she said in a European accent.
‘Morning. Lovely isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it’s very beautiful. Have you been here long?’ she asked kindly, for Una was snow white in colour and had obviously just arrived.
‘No, only got here yesterday. How about you?’
‘I am here for one month. I am thinking of living here for the rest of my life.’
‘Me too. I have a house just a minute inland.’
‘I am renting but wish to buy too. I was supposed to be coming with my husband, but he died a few years ago. So now its just me’ the lady smiled bashfully.
‘Really? You are brave. But then I guess that makes me brave too.’
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