It was Corrie Ten Boom, a Dutch christian who ended up in Ravensbrook Concentration camp during the Second World War for helping Jewish people, who said:

“There is no pit so deep that God’s love is not deeper still.”

On Good Friday this year, we’re going to follow two people who were there on Jesus’s walk to the cross and his death: Simon of Cyrene, who was forced to help carry Jesus’ cross, and Mary, Jesus’s mother, who stayed with him and watched him die. We will also explore two modern counterparts to Simon and Mary. These modern stories are fictional but they’re based on my own and friends’ experiences.

Modern Simon or Simone as I’ve called her is a carer having to look after a sick old man, Bill. About 12 years ago I knew a beautiful free-spirited elderly woman called Marian who succumbed to dementia and I cried when I had to drive her to the care home where she was to be locked in. The character of Bill is based on her.

Modern Mary is a woman who is told her baby will not survive after birth. Years ago I read a newspaper article where a couple in hospital, were given their newborn baby, told she would not survive more than an hour and left there. A good friend of mine who has suffered a great deal in the process of seeking to have children, helped in editing this piece. Another good friend who knows about suffering will play the part.

If you’re in Oxford please come along. There are four actors: 2 are professional, 1 is at drama college and 1 is simply the right person for the part. Our church music group will sing some gentle songs to accompany this.

The drama will take place from 1pm to 1.30pm at Holy Trinity Church, Headington Quarry, Oxford OX3 8LH

There will be a Good Friday service in the church from 2pm for those who wish to stay.

poster 2018 V of P pdf


For the first and probably last time in my life, I was invited to preach a sermon a few weeks ago and the subject was the ‘Wedding at Cana’, a story told by the gospel writer, John about a particular wedding where Jesus was said to turn 120-180 gallons of water into wine…. And I decided to speak on Wine and the Creative life.

For many people ‘miracles’ are problematic and turning water into wine raises some practical issues 😊. However, if you’re happy to view it as you might one of the great myths and enjoy the story and the meaning that John wants to convey then this is a wonderful story about looking to live life to the FULL. It’s also funny.

This story helped me to find my own sense of value as a creative person having constantly struggled with the feeling that ‘being creative’ is just a nice ‘extra’ and insignificant compared with really important things like ‘helping people’ and ‘saving lives.’ Yet what are we saving peoples’ lives for? Just to eat ‘bread and water’?

No matter how poor we are, whether financially, emotionally, physically, spiritually etc – we need joy, we need pleasure, we need to be creative, we need richness in our lives, we need hope. This is what makes life worth living.

The audio below comes to about 16 minutes and includes the reading of the gospel story. I hope you enjoy it and find encouragement here.

My beautiful virgin year – 2018

Here we are at the gate of the New Year. I wrote the poem below in response to the day ahead but at this moment it also resonates in me for the year.


A vast expanse of sandy beach
Scoured clean by the night tide.

I do not want to step on it.
My beautiful virgin day.

As a child, there’d be no pause.
Rolling, stamping, jumping,
I’d imprint myself, careless, free and thoughtless
Across that swathe of sand.

But I have spoilt too many days
To run at this one.

I take off my shoes. The beauty
burns my feet. I pause.

And bow to all that is to come.

‘EMMI’ Oxford Premier & the future

Having filmed “Emmi” in Oxford it was fabulous to show it at the Ultimate Picture Palace on Cowley Road on Saturday 1st July. It was a particular pleasure to see London-based Natalie Martins who played the teenage Emmi. Look out for her – great actress and lovely person to work with [nataliemartins.co.uk]

Around 50-60 people came to celebrate with us including the oldest and the youngest members of the cast. Barbara Deane turned 90 the week after we filmed Emmi and Isis was 3 months old.

THE FUTURE – As well as showing in festivals we’re also actively looking for ways it could be used with anyone working with teenage girls/families. Please see my film page for more details about the film and get in touch if you have ideas and would like to know more.
Some of the fab team 🙂

THANK YOU to everyone who supported the process of making the film and all those who could come to celebrate with us!

We’ve now been selected by 11 film festivals on Film Freeway and had various reviews. Here are some clips from them:

“Emmi’s” strengths lie in its atmosphere — claustrophobic space in apartment corridors, a tense anxiousness relayed by sound design and wordless facial responses.”
Largo Film Festival Reviewer 1

‘Gritty British indie dramas are becoming rarer, having been popular in the early 2000’s and it’s wonderful to see another being produced for the short film circuit …. Stunning acting and writing throughout.’
Largo Film Festival Reviewer 3

Fantastic screenwriting – I love it when a scene tells the audience what they’ll need to know without them feeling like they’ve been hit over the head with the information.
Elliott Smith – Zen Shorts Review

“‘Emmi’ delivers a very simple yet thoroughly suggestive story.”
Film strip international film festival – Romania – review

‘Regardless of being feature length or short films, it’s a rare thing to truly challenge an audience. More so to lay down the gauntlet to its audience and not provide all the answers. ’
Dan Marshall, Cardiff Mini Film Festival

“Writer Susie Stead clearly has the social conscience of a Ken Loach, and her admirably spare screenplay leaves plenty of room for viewers to fill in the blanks…. Carslaw paints his film in muted palette of steely greys, and the overall tone combines social realism with hints of horror. The editing and music score, also by Carslaw, are very well done. Overall Emmi is a fine short and a great calling card.” Simon Dillon
Simon Dillon – https://simondillonbooks.wordpress.com/


On Saturday I went to Cardiff Mini Film Festival: my first experience of a film festival and my first experience of Cardiff. I had in mind big posters everywhere, people queuing up to watch the films, loud music, panache. Cardiff has a great buzz feeling on a summer Saturday afternoon. There was plenty going on – hen parties, homeless people, fun-lovers. There were however no festival posters up despite the fact that there was a lot on offer at 3 different central venues. The “Big Top” where “Emmi” was to be shown, turned out to be the upper room of a pub, beautifully laid out in ‘big top’ style with rows of gilt coloured chairs and a few funky sofas, to accommodate about 50 people. My first hit with reality came when no more than 10 people showed. That included volunteers and the projectionist!

The quality was there if not the audience. Andy (Director) and I spent a fascinating 2 hours watching a range of short films. The ones that remain with me are: a wistful young man disappearing into a childhood photo in order to see his mother one more time, a surreal one with a man swallowing rocks and jumping off cliffs, a carefully shot film with sharply distinguished shapes and colours about an OCD woman, and a ‘super power’ one with young man who discovers when he’s 18 that he’s one of a group who can go back in time – but only once in his lifetime and there are always consequences…

At the end a woman came and thanked me for my film and said it made her cry. Result!

We came back on Sunday for the Film Festival Awards Ceremony at the ‘Tramshed’. There was a decent turn out and a delightful presenter with downplayed humour. One of the people giving out the awards had been chosen to give the evening a ‘weirdness’ twist. Before opening an envelope he’d bellow out things like “Anyone here ever murdered anyone and got away with it?”

Sadly our film did not win. A romantic comedy beat us. However, while the judge was clearly biased and wrong …. We coped. I’m buoyed by an acutely observed wonderful review that Dan Marshall, one of the Cardiff team wrote for our film. I’ve copied it in full below:


There’s something deliberately unsettling about the first few moments of Emmi. Graceful piano notes chime as we look up into the sky. “Emmi” the short presents in its first titles, there’s even a little heart to adorn the “I”. While it may not be sudden there’s a gear shift in tone. The music gives way to the dull passing of cars on the duel carriageway. The camera pans to a high rise, the stark monolith towers into the grey sky. Then passed the hum-drum of traffic to the grimy underpass with it’s rusty railings and stained walls. Yet, in spite of it’s visual repugnance, a lone tenant decides to brave it. Just at the point of no return hoodies appear at the other end. It’s anxiety inducing in its familiarity, particularly when you’re already uneasy. However, Emmi plunges further into darkness during its short running time and does so unflinchingly.

Regardless of being feature length or short films, it’s a rare thing to truly challenge an audience. Moreso to lay down the gauntlet to its audience and not provide all the answers. Writer/Director team, Susie Stead and Andrew Carslaw, are careful not to tip their hand as the events unfold and are careful to still offer something of a reward come the credits.

Emmi herself is woefully familiar. A torrent of hostility that keeps those around her at a suitable distance. Then there’s teen-mum, Ally and the soft-hearted tenant from the underpass, Sarah. The archetypes may be something you’ve seen, but there’s something in the atmosphere that has you thinking any of them could 180 at any time. The intrigue filling the stairwells of the high rise they share is almost palpable. You just know that all is not as it seems, but the clever way in which Stead and Carslaw create a tone of unsettling anticipation is enthralling. Even when Emmi reaches its darkest depths, you’ll be hard pushed to avert your gaze.

There’s no denying that the conclusion is provocative and hard hitting, but there’s certainly no shock tactics involved. If the subject itself and final message weren’t challenging enough, how you digest it will be.

Hong Kong – Part 4 – Views from the Peak

Panoramic view from the Peak

Chris and I get off the no 15 bus at the Peak Tower and walk into soggy, heavy fog. So much for the panoramic views; we buy postcards instead.

The fog refuses to clear and it’s drizzling so we take a taxi to my primary school, a mile up the hill and imaginatively named “The Peak School”. It started life in 1911 and moved to this spot in 1954. When I attended it from 1967 to 1973 it was English speaking and private, filled with white privileged ex-pat children of which I was one.

The Peak school sits on a sharp hillside bend and on the corner, in front of some flaky old garages, Pinky, the shoe shiner used to lay out his wares. I have a warm but faded memory of this man and his rippled kind face. My mother and I must have stood there watching as Pinky attended to the shoes, while Ah Fan, our chauffeur, waited in the car. I have no idea why he was called Pinky – he was Chinese, he was old and he certainly didn’t wear pink.

A Hong Kong Shoe Shiner

I’m staring at the school gates and Chris tells me to go in – I squirm but she sensibly remarks “what’s the worst they can do? Say they’re busy?” It’s 4pm, the children are gone and the staff are welcoming. As a staff member takes me round the school she asks me who the head teacher was when I was there. I have no idea. Instead I blurt out “I remember that staircase!” A 9 year old ghost runs past.

We walk around the classrooms, gym and hall but although this is the original building nothing prompts a memory except the staircase. I cannot remember a single teacher’s name or any lesson they taught me.

The fog refuses to clear.

Peak School entrance in the fog

Outside, I borrow an umbrella and climb alone up the steps to the big playground. I can see almost nothing but that strange sensation returns, my body remembers. I ‘know’ there are steps on the far side of the playground, steps we used to run up for sports, dressed in little white shorts and T shirts with coloured squares pinned on to them to show which ‘house’ we belonged to.

On one side of the fog is a 9 year old racing around in PE, break or lunch, looking for tadpoles in the ditches or playing kiss chase. On the other side is a 53 year old holding an umbrella in the rain. The 53 year old walks slowly round the perimeter of the playing field, in the footsteps of the 9 year old. Her skin and her heart tingle.

However hard we try, we cannot have a different past. I have been ashamed of mine. As I walk around, like a mother gathering her children into her arms, I gather in that 9 year old that was me – and the 8 year old, the 7 year old, all of them – and I hold them tight.

Together, we walk out of the school gates collecting Chris up as we go. Before we leave, I turn to face those old garages and I bow to the ghost of Pinky.

Real Stories at Lo-No Pop-Up Cinema — Ferny films

See below post from Ferny Films about Andy and my recent trip to Lo-No Pop-Up cinema, London

We experienced some success last weekend when Emmi was selected by two film festivals (one in Belgium, one in London). Whilst browsing festivals over Easter, I spotted something called ‘Lo-No Pop-Up Cinema’ in London looking for ‘real stories’ to shown. Being as Emmi is inspired by a real story we decided we should give it […]

via Real Stories at Lo-No Pop-Up Cinema — Ferny films

Hong Kong – Part 3 – Doors to the Past

I was brought up, the daughter of a banker, in British run Hong Kong. In 2014, aged 52, a feminist socialist, I went back to recover memories and to make peace. This is a diary of that trip.

The Park at Middle Gap Hong Kong

Today I’m going up ‘The Peak’ to visit a child… the one I used to live inside.

The morning before leaving, I look out from the 17th floor of our hotel. Below is a roof garden on a nearby aging block of flats. It’s a concrete tiled square framed with potted plants. A grey metal door stands open and a slim Chinese woman is hanging up a single sheet on the clothes line. In the cool silence of my hotel room I watch it flap in the strong wind. I’m intrigued because she has the sheet pegged up but she keeps moving and re-pegging it, grasping it in the high wind. Then I see the metal door slam and finally the woman leaves her sheet pegging. The door won’t open. She returns to the sheet, shifts a peg. She then repeats this door pulling/sheet pegging routine several times. Finally she bangs her fists on the door. I assume she’s shouting. Nobody comes. I can do nothing but watch through the glass.

Chris, my friend and fellow traveller, calls me and we leave.

[I take this photo a day later, relieved to see ‘my’ Chinese lady safe]

We travel up the Peak with the bemused taxi driver (see post “Going Home”) and get dropped off half way up by the park I used to play in. It’s still there. And the old bus stop where I used to catch the No 15 to primary school on The Peak.
As we walk along a residential road, on our right thick jungle foliage falls away steeply into mist. The cicadas crackle. Through fog and rain we pass the ghost of my 8 year old self lagging behind her mother and cowardly corgi, Jemima , her attention caught by an amah squatting across some drains to relieve herself. Today a Chinese man is walking 2 enormous Alsatian guard dogs. One calmly places his jaw around Chris’s leg until his owner intones a command and they leave. She only has a bruise but it feels shocking and anti-climactic.

We approach one of my childhood homes. The loop of the drive is warmly familiar but the house has been replaced by 3 flats and a guard house. This guard is friendly.

The previous one was not. Our taxi had parked by the huge metal gates and he appeared instantly, insisting we leave.

19 Middle Gap Road. I look over his shoulder to the grand exterior. That house had 5 bedrooms, an attic playroom and a raised garden with swimming pool. We never had a guard.

Which made it easy, 40 years ago when I was 15 years old, for a gang of Chinese men to burgle our house in the early hours of the morning. My father, my teenage self and my 9 year old brother were asleep. They drugged the dogs, tied us up and walked away with cash and easy valuables.

We never talked about it. I got blind drunk, my brother got mumps and my father had a solid grey metal door built half way up the stairs.

This morning I watched, soundless, behind glass as that Chinese lady banged on her grey metal door. This afternoon as I look over the guard’s shoulder, I wonder if that door is still half way up the stairs. The memories slip out. I watch them, soundless behind time’s glass.

We walk back and catch the no 15 bus.

Nature and Nurture

The poem below lays itself out slowly and carefully and turns on the very last line.

Community Garden by Laure-Anne Bosselaar

I watch the man bend over his patch,
a fat gunny sack at his feet. He combs the earth

with his fingers, picks up pebbles around
tiny heads of sorrel. Clouds bruise in, clog the sky,

the first fat drops pock-mark the dust.
The man wipes his hands on his chest,

opens the sack, pulls out top halves
of broken bottles, and plants them, firmly,

over each head of sorrel — tilting the necks
toward the rain. His back is drenched, so am I,

his careful gestures clench my throat,
wrench a hunger out of me I don’t understand,

can’t turn away from. The last plant
sheltered, the man straightens his back,

swings the sack over his shoulder, looks
at the sky, then at me and — as if to end

a conversation — says: I know they’d survive
without the bottles, I know. He leaves the garden,

plods downhill, blurs away. I hear myself
say it to no one: I never had a father.


I’ve been out all day. I walk in the door and see my teenage son reclined on the sofa with his laptop in front of him and the TV on. He’s also texting. He looks up and says “make us a cup of tea will you?”

It’s all very well being asked to love and communicate with teenagers but they’re so bloody irritating sometimes! Remembering what I was like helps sometimes. The short film “Emmi” which Andy and myself have just finished (www.fernyfilms.co.uk/emmi) explores the tensions. It’s a dark drama, based on a newspaper story I read over 20 years ago, flavoured by experiences since and spiked by my own past teenage struggles..

Neuroscience tells us that teenage brains are different to adult brains. They’re not good at being able to look ahead, see the consequences of their actions and choose NOT to do the stupid thing. Emotion triumphs over reason and late-developing frontal lobes lead to the mood swings, impulsiveness and lack of judgement. The very last thing teenager develop is ‘empathy.’ Telling a teenager to ‘stop being selfish’ is like telling a lion to go vegetarian…

One way we can help our teenagers is learn more. You might enjoy this short Ted Talk: https://www.ted.com/talks/sarah_jayne_blakemore_the_mysterious_workings_of_the_adolescent_brain#t-56269

Me – I like stories – Once, long ago the Sun and the Wind were arguing about who was the most powerful. As they were arguing the Wind saw someone walking along a deserted strip of beach with a coat on and said “I bet you I can get that person to take their coat off quicker than you can”. The Sun accepted the challenge. The Wind had the first turn and began to blow and blow. The harder the Wind blew the tighter the person clutched their coat around them. Finally the Sun asked for a turn. The Sun chose to glow very gently. The person visibly relaxed. After only a few paces they began to undo the buttons on the coat. Within 5 minutes the coat was off.

One summers day, one of my teenage offspring came downstairs after a party, hoodie covering his face and slouched into the kitchen. He didn’t talk, didn’t eat, just sat. It felt like the room had filled with 100 invisible pissed off versions of him. I wanted to ‘blow’ hard – nag, cajole, complain. That was my habit. Instead I carried on clearing and let him sit there. I’d been growing a sunflower seed and I asked him where I should plant it out. There was a short silence and then he came over to me and let me hug him. After that a whole story unravelled.