Fae 2

Fae graduated from Kent University with a 2:1 in Politics where she learnt that a life at Westminster was too slippery a career for her. Since then, she’s become a magazine journalist with eight years’ experience, writing about everything from food to pop music. She specialises in interviews, and prides herself on her friendly interview style and warm writing tone. In her spare time, Fae enjoys reading Zadie Smith and Bill Bryson novels, renovating her dust-covered home and cooking.

As a Story Terrace writer, Fae interviews customers and turns their life stories into books. Get to know her better: you can read an autobiographical story of her own below. Get in touch today to work with her!

It’s Really Quite Clear

“I need complete and utter silence to concentrate on this!” hissed my normally very cool-headed father. He was sat at the kitchen table under a low-hanging pendant light that was increasingly looking like an interrogation lamp.

“But you’ve been at this for well over an hour now,” pleaded my exasperated mother. “Maybe it’s time to call it a day. You can sleep with them in for one night.”

My father sighed and my siblings and I – who had set an unbelievable new record in not squabbling and keeping quiet for the longest time – looked at each other uneasily. Dad had been trying to remove his new contact lenses for some time now and was making a meal of it. With the bathroom mirror propped up on the table, and his new lens paraphernalia all around him, we had been watching him struggle nearly all Friday night.

“Fine, I’ll head to Specsavers tomorrow,” he said. “But after this, I’m going back to glasses.”

The following day, after sloppy bowls of cereal in front of Saturday morning cartoons, my red-eyed dad came downstairs ready to leave for the opticians. I raced to grab my coat and accompany him. There was a new magazine out that I was hoping he might buy for me. And together, we left the house.

“Good morning Mr Gilfillan,” smiled the lady on reception. “Back so soon!”

“Well, err, yes,” stuttered Dad. “Last night I couldn’t seem to remove my lenses, so I’m afraid I had to sleep with them in. Can you help?”

“Oh yes, I’m sure we can get them out,” the green uniformed lady said. “Right this way, if you please.”

She led us down to a darkened room at the back of the shop, where after shining a light in his eyes, and umming and ahhing like a lab scientist, came to her conclusion. “Oh yes, I can see why you were having so many problems,” she said. “Yes, it’s really quite clear.”

“Can you get them out?” pleaded Dad.

“Not exactly, no,” she said. “You see, you’re not wearing your contact lenses. You’ve just been poking yourself in the eye repeatedly.”

We grabbed our things and left, both wearing our spectacles.

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