Nearly fifty years later and I am playing again.

‘Tick one, two, three, I see Rebecca’, my younger sister Ruth yells.

Betrayed by my own blood.

Of course she could see me. After hiding behind a bush in ‘old Derek’s’ front garden for eternity, Ruth could obviously see me as I strode down the middle of the cul de sac, ready to give up on the most boring game of hide and seek ever and return to the comfort of home. With my mum. And tea. And Coronation Street. Nothing much has changed since I was 8 years old.

Rare picture of me outside the house.

I didn’t play out with my sisters much. Emily was two years older than me; Ruth was two years younger. They played out all the time. Practically feral as most kids on housing estates in the early 80s were.

That day they had persuaded me to join in a game of street hide and seek. Either I was a highly competent hider or no-one cared to seek for me as I remained ‘unfound’, crouched uncomfortably in ‘old Derek’s’ front garden (looking back the man was about 50, but that was old to us then).

I snuck back into the house and snuggled up with mum. ‘Playing out’ was obviously not my thing but the next day, rain stopped play and I was afforded an opportunity. This time to ‘play in’. Caged animals, my sisters looked for an alternative and found it within the alcove under the stairs.

My dad was storing some boxes there. Strong enough for little bottoms to rest on but light enough to move around.

‘Let’s make an office’, Emily announced.

‘And become reporters’.

This was not unusual for my precocious sister Emily. A sister who could read and write before she attended school. Ruth too was a creative. Both went on to gain degrees in English. The writing was on the wall, well in the alcove since childhood for them both.

‘We can make a newspaper! We will call it ‘The Mack Times’’ announced Emily as Ruth scampered upstairs to retrieve her coloured pencils and writing pad whilst I moved the boxes into a chair/desk formation. Emily’s of course at the front.

‘I am going to write about a murder at school’, Emily smiled mischievously.

‘But there hasn’t been a murder at school’, I objected.

‘I know’, she replied, as quick as a flash.

‘I am going to make one up’. That’s editor material, right there.

‘I am going to write a ghost story’, called Ruth as she flew down the stairs barely visible for the number of pencils, pads and all things stationary balancing precariously in her tiny arms.

‘I am going to write about babies’, I chimed. The midwife in me was strong from an early age.

Emily tutted. She didn’t like babies. She never understood my preoccupation with them.

‘I’ll never have kids’, she would say ‘I prefer cats’. True to her word, she never did have kids and would home a litter of kittens every year if she could.

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We began scribbling away but not before Emily had carefully written ‘The Mack Times’ on the front of her box. You could feel the sigh of relief from my mum as her ‘three under ten’ got on quietly with ace reporting and story making. A tedious day inside avoided.

‘We have got a deadline so write quickly’, Emily urged us.

Her imagination now running wild and flourishing in her role as mini editor.

‘What’s a deadline?’, asked a puzzled Ruth.

‘We have to finish by three o’clock’, Emily barked.

‘Ok’, replied Ruth, having absolutely no concept of when three o’clock was.

Ruth was the first to finish her submission. As expected, it was barely legible and more drawing than copy but sometimes you have to go with what your reporters send you so Emily thanked her and asked her to draw some more pictures and then tell everyone (my mum) that if they wanted a copy of ‘The Mack Times’ they would have to cough up 10p. Always send the cute one to do the dirty work.

Infinitely the cutest - Ruth always did the dirty work!

Ruth went to the kitchen to tell mum but came back with crushing news.

‘Mum is making sandwiches, and we have to eat quickly cos we are going to see Brenda and Eddie this afternoon’.

‘NO’. Emily and I cried in unison.

Not Brenda and blooming Eddie! Mum’s friends that lived hours away, well one hour but it felt like more. Brenda and mum trained together as nurses. Brenda and Eddie were nice enough, but their house was soooo boring.

I was having fun. At home. Not just looking after my dolls or following my mum around as she did the chores. This wasn’t crouching behind prickly bushes or arguing with the big boys who wanted to play ‘knock and run’. I had never felt this before. I was playing and I was loving it. But it had to stop.

I sulked all the way to Brenda and Eddies. ‘Fun’ to Brenda and Eddie was a long walk down a drizzly pier whilst mum and Brenda nattered on about the state of the NHS and Eddie pointed out yet another boring landmark. I sulked all the way home too.

We arrived home late and mum made a quick tea of ham, chips and beans. Emily and Ruth were too tired to continue with ‘The Mack Times’. We had missed our deadline. Blue Peter was on the TV. The Mack Times closed it offices and its unfinished copy was left scattered as we dragged ourselves up for bath and bed.

The sun came out the next day. School holidays are like that. Once again, my feral siblings went AWOL. No suncream, no water bottles, no iPhone or itags. They came back when they were hungry and never went beyond the boundaries set by mum. Well at least they never told her they did.

A few days later my mum was getting fed up with ‘that mess under the stairs’.

‘Do you want this, Rebecca?’ she asked waving the bits of paper that could have been the start of an empire to rival the Murdochs (obviously without all the corruption).

‘No’, its fine,’ I sighed as I settled down to watch the next gripping instalment of the Deidre Barlow/Mike Baldwin Coronation Street saga with my mum.

My sisters got to write again. As English graduates. For me, following a circuitous route of medical school dropout and mental health patient, I finally qualified as a midwife. No longer writing about babies but this time looking after them, and their mothers. I loved it but midwifery is not a playful career choice.

‘You never had enough experience of play’, my first therapist told me. She was right. No-one’s fault. Just the way it was. I made sure my two daughters played at every opportunity. It helped me, healed me even but with a busy job in the NHS and still lingering mental health issues to deal with, I still felt my ‘play’ quota, my ‘creative’ quota was left unfulfilled.

My youngest daughter playing (and looking adorable😍)

Until, aged 50, I underwent a midlife rebirth, the midlife crisis seemingly the only crisis I have managed to avoid. In many ways I returned to so many parts of me that I left behind in childhood. Both terrifying and exhilarating, I embraced them all. I began to play. I began to create. I began to write.

I started tentively on Substack. Still working in the NHS, I would carve out time after my teenage daughters were in bed and post from the safety of my sofa. Posts about my life, as a mum, a wife, a former midwife, mental health worker and mental health sufferer. My personal, professional and political life pouring out onto the page.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t really know what Substack was all about (seems Substack doesn’t know either sometimes). I just knew I loved it and within a year I had given up work to be a full-time writer.

No longer perched on my dad’s old work boxes with a pencil in hand, I now find myself sat at my desk, in my office typing out articles about tyranny and tyrants, crumbling health systems, ‘randy’ Princes, insights into midwifery and mental health and the beauty and challenges of mothering and midlife. I was recreating ‘The Mack Times’ and I didn’t even realise it.

Me recently at my daughter’s graduation. Embracing midlife and all its opportunities.

The Mack Times is now ‘This Woman’s Work’. A place of work and of play and everything in between. I have come back to myself and I couldn’t be happier. It’s never too late, even if the path is long and mine filled, don’t give up.

I still watch Coronation Street, drink endless cups of teas and am fortunate enough to have my old mum to share those special times with. I’m still not a big fan of going out to play. Pyjamas by seven suits me. But now I get to share my words with you. Not The Mack Times. My time. I would love it if you would join me.

If you could go back and play again (or even for the first time), what games would you play? Let me know in the comments and lets start playing again! Please comment, like or restack to reach more midlifers that need more play and creativity in their lives and remember paid subscription is only £3.50/$4.80 a month (cheaper annually). Upgrade today to receive all my posts, full access to this amazing community plus my weekly newsletter ‘The Weekly Witness’.

With love and gratitude, Rebecca X