Kathryn's Take on Things

The Gift Shop

2011-07-07T04:52:00.001+01:00

When the rain suddenly came down, I was laden down with bursting flimsy supermarket bags, one in either hand. My elderly neighbour's shopping list had been ridiculously long for one person. So it wasn't really my fault when I swept a jar of happiness off the second shelf up from the bottom of the shop I'd dashed into.

The clattering of the rain on the pavement outside together with the bell and the brushing of the shop door against the mat as others too, took shelter, did nothing to muffle the shattering of the jar on the floor. Those already inside, browsing gingerly amongst the trinkets and keepsakes took in a collective sharp breath.

The rectangular shop seemed to become an arena, with me standing in the centre of onlookers who were now taller, enabling them to see beyond the cluttered shelves. I was sure that the raindrops on my cheeks would now be steaming away into a cloud above me and mixing with the evaporated happiness. In no time, the shopkeeper would be over and that cloud would yield a bolt of lightning.

I couldn't bolt. It was there for all to see and I was surrounded. All I could do was to scrabble around on the floor, pick up the sharp fragments and lay them in a pile next to the perpetrators, my bags.

'I'm very sorry madam but we have a policy. Breakages must be paid for.'

This was what the mealy-mouthed shoppers wanted. Their smug smiles sent a silent ripple of applause around the shop.

I handed over the money. There was no receipt. The storm outside had stopped and as I made my way to the door, the browsers' futile sifting through the displays for pricey bargains resumed pointedly. But I had broken the one thing they'd been looking for.

2011-05-16T03:02:00.001+01:00

Primary Care

You don't expect that when you're paying. I can live with it, though. Receptionists are the same wherever you go. They used to be OK. That was when I came in with George. All over me, in fact. Smiles, couldn't do enough. Yes, I know it was George they were really interested in. Still, the treatment he was getting impressed me and well, here I am. I wanted a bit of it for myself. Regular check-ups, nice nurses, a spotless surgery, appointments whenever you need them and medications handed out over the desk without having to go the chemist. Never got any of that from my GP.

See that one over there? The one looking out of the window? I saw him last time I came in. He's had a leg off. Was in the army. Not working any more, of course. Still gets around though. Testament to how good this place is. And that female over there? She was like a barrel six months ago. Comes here to the weight loss clinic. You wouldn't believe it to look her now. Not an inch of fat on her. Holistic, I think they call it. They can do everything here. I don't even mind which one I see. They've all trained for years and years.

I bet you're wondering what my problem is. Well, between you and me, I'm not ill as such but when you're in your forties and you live alone, contact is good. When I get called in, I'll have to lie down and be examined all over. I won't have to say anything. Some bits are undignified, I admit. The thermometer up your bottom, for one. But on the whole, I'll be treated with respect. They'll talk to me nicely, tell me just how good I am and then when it's all over, I'll get a special treat.

I'm not the only one, you know. It's not something they advertise but there are about six of us altogether. We've all got a special arrangement. Just because we don't have pets with us, doesn't mean a thing. Our money's as good as they next person's. Worth every penny, I'd say.

The Perfect Antedote

2010-12-02T12:28:00.005Z

I have discovered how when I write, I get the most pleasure from juxtaposing the prevailing images, ideas or events in my head and expressing the outcome of this process in words. I suppose it's a just a way of making sense of things and hoping that it will produce something positive and entertaining.

I've always enjoyed the wonderful Sarah Salway's 50 Word Stories and having a go at these myself. The different responses elicited by the pictures are so varied and now I wonder how it might work when there are two images at work. I think that this is how I shall pass the time on this lovely snow day. If all else fails, we shall just light the fire and open a bottle of wine instead. A win-win situation. Writing and wine go together just perfectly.

A Sample from My Grandfather's Letters

2010-11-17T07:04:00.002Z

Here is one of the letters we have transcribed, written by my grandfather during the First World War to his mother:

1/1st Wessex Divisional Cyclist Coy.
TOPSHAM.
1.12.15

My dear Mother,

Yet another letter in typewriting, which really is the quickest and best method for me of letting you know how your Soldier Boy is getting on. Really my day is so full that I haven't got time to sneeze. I am in the Orderly Room working all day and very nearly half the night, and my tea time is occupied in attending an N.C.O's class at the Officer's Quarters. I can just manage to get a drink at about 9.20. prior to 9.20. roll, which I, of course, do not attend, but at which I have to hang round in case the Captain wants anything done.

To-day has been the day of days. Last night late a telephone message came through from Headquarters at Exeter to the affect that a big pot from the Staff would inspect the Company. Now a General's inspection is the only occasion on which the whole of the Orderly Room Staff turn out in full marching order. What was the consequence. After 10. p.m. I had to go back to billet get all my donkey's harness out on the deck and polish all the buttons and straps, roll my overcoat, put in a clean shift or underclothing, canvas shoes, towel, mess tin, and a host of other things too numerous to mention. I went to bed at 12. midnight, and was out at 6 a.m. to parade at 7.a.m. for the Platoon Commanders to inspect the Platoon to see if we were fit for the General. Home to breakfast at 8.15., and fall in again at 8.50.a.m. ready to march off to the Inspection ground at 10.a.m. Fortunately the rain kept off otherwise we should have had a wet shirt because out great coats were in our packs at the very bottom. Anyway we got over it. The old Gen. had a look at me, but my buckles were clean, my leather straps also, and I had a jolly good shave just before I paraded. My word, you would have laughed to see me folding my pack. This life is doing me a world of good, because if one's pack isn't properly squared what ho, out it comes on the floor and you get it across the neck, perhaps 3 days for being slovenly, and three day's pack drill isn't a picnic party.

Well, about my Billet. We came here on Saturday. I moved up in charge of the Sick in the train, and after reporting here was put in charge of the baggage guard. That is to say to look after the men guarding the kit bags as the waggons unloaded. I got one man in the Report for not bucking up. He is an old soldier, and tried to play the rotten on me because I am a young one, but as the Captain said, I would not stand any nonsense, and that is the man he wants. If you get a man in that way the Officers back you up fine.

When I got to my new billet, the Landlady had a nice warm dinner ready for me. I am with the young Canadian still, and we are in clover. They are young people, and only recently got married. He is an Artizan Attendant at the Exminster Asylum just across from here, and another such a man as Ern. In fact I can almost imagine it is Ern when he speaks. His very ways and sayings are the same. The grub is right up to dick, and the bed is comfortable enough for me to sleep like a top, and not wake until 8.a.m. I am too tired to bawl or walk. Besides the life is different.

I was going to keep the fact that I am in the N.C.O's Class from you until I knew the result, but I tell you now. I am penalised to a certain extent by being in the Office, because I am not learning my drills, but the Officers are very kind and appreciate the fact, and my knowledge of Company drill now is merely book knowledge. I have had a go at a squad once or twice, and can manage to make them hear. I didn't know I had a voice until now, and the harder you can shout, and the more sharp you get the words out the quicker the squad moves.

Topsham isn't a bad place. It is about the size of Ivybridge. There aren't many people and there are no amusements to go to, which doesn't affect me very much. I am too busy to go anywhere. I am, however, having a bit of fun with some Nurses at Exminster Asylum. Our Landlord said he could put us on to a few, so we wrote a note which he took over, which was to the effect that two lonely Soldiers wanted comforting, and they wrote back saying that they would be very pleased to have a try at it. Laugh, Mother, We are always laughing in billet.

Sergeant Major Dunn has had a very bad hand. Just before we left Exmouth he had to stop in bed for a day, and his hand was swollen up very bad. I wrote a card to Mrs Dunn for him, and I hope she got it. He could not possible handle anything with his fist. He sends his kind regards to all home, and his love to his Wife. I think he is of opinion that his Missus doesn't believe he has been bad, but don't for goodness sake say anything about it to her. We must not interfere with their affairs.

We are in the local Drill Hall here. It is something like the Mutley Barracks. There is a shooting range and everything for training purposes.

By the bye, did you get the photo of my Comrade?. I sent it from Exmouth. His people are shifting to Exeter this week, so I have a home to go to there. I am number one there I can tell you, and as we are only four miles from the City it is rather convenient. I have to go up to Headquarters to study the system of correspondence there, so I shall have a nice time with my friends. Go home there to meals, and probably to sleep. I know my way about.

Well, Mother, I am snatching this five minutes to write you, and you must excuse mistakes. I often think of home, and you and Dad and wish I could pop in to have a yarn with you all. But you will be pleased to see how I am looking. I feel different, and have got the military touch alright.

Has either Ern or Frank been attested for the Army yet?. Everbody is joining, and we had a batch of schoolmasters in last week. They are decent chaps, and it is quite a treat to yarn with them.

Please don't trouble about me, Mother dear, I wouldn't care two pennyworth of cold gin if I knew you were alright. I am serving my Country, and have the feeling that I am doing my bit to keep the roof over my parents heads, which is only a small repayment for the care and kindness shown to me ever since I came to town. I shall want a home Mother when I come back, and for that reason keep your pecker up.

Love to your dear self and Dad, and all,
Your loving Son Bert.

Please write me
109 ??? Mc Dermott
1/1st Wessex Divisional Cyclist Co.
4. Victoria Road
Topsham.

A Short, Short Story

2010-10-02T16:41:00.002+01:00

Day to View

If you stood with your back to the door of what Shelley called her office but which actually had many uses, the first person sitting on your left would be a dentist. He had the first appointment of the day. It was always best to get him in really early because otherwise, he would inevitably find other people to squeeze in beforehand and then everyone would be running even more late for the rest of the day. She didn't dare to admit to herself, let alone anyone else, that she was nervous about this first appointment.

The waiting room was really Shelley's living room with her mismatched dining chairs lining the edges. However, if her day went smoothly (she was a stickler for planning) then there should only be two or three in there, looking nervous, avoiding each other's gazes and generally twiddling their thumbs, at any one time. She'd even put 'Please switch off all mobile phones' notices on two of the walls. Next to the door, in the spot on the wall not taken up by the bay window, the door from the hallway or the one with the fireplace, was a big noticeboard. The text on the pieces of paper, which flapped around in the stiflingly hot air as the office or hallway doors were passed through, was headed enticingly with bold print but followed by letters sufficiently small that they would have to squint to read on. No one liked to be reminded of their deteriorating eyesight, she knew that. Sometimes, they might get up on the pretext of stretching their legs, just to decode the juiciest bit of the notice only to find that they could be observed by others to be closely reading an invitation to a self-help group for people with sexual diseases. Or an invitation to learn to salsa.

Next in line was a young man clutching a clipboard. He'd brought someone with him, an older man who looked resigned to his fate at being there and uncomfortable in his suit. It was too tight. Borrowed maybe? No, Shelley thought. She reckoned it was his only one, probably from twenty years ago judging by its cut. Fallen on hard times, children to feed, wife wanting him out of the house. Shelley looked away quickly, reminding herself that she wasn't here to judge. But surely no one wants to sell energy supply for a living?

The man sitting on the other side of the waiting room, on the singular chair, he was a doctor. He'd been the hardest one to get to come. She'd more or less had to plead. He kept jumping up, trying to explain how he had other people to see. He really thought that he was important. More important than the poor chap opposite with the hungry kids and nagging wife? He would have to wait just like everyone else. Sure, they all had the same appointment time but wasn't that how it worked? He needn't worry, he'd get his seven and a half minutes. Eventually.

Meanwhile, Shelley looked down her day to view appointment diary. It would be a full day. The mortgage advisor, the customer service assistant from the refunds desk at the supermarket, the pharmacist, the post office clerk, the airline check-in agent ….. the list went on. An exhausting day it would be, indeed. She strolled out through the waiting room to make herself a cup of coffee. No one said anything although the air of anticipation was so tangible that it was almost clawing at her skirt and dragging her down. But she was made of stronger stuff. She was the one with the diary. They would have to wait.

Recipe for Disaster

2010-09-23T15:11:00.001+01:00

Recipe for Disaster

I know I must be a real grown up now. It wasn't being old enough to vote (that was a long time ago) or the 4 children which gave it away but something else. I made chicken soup because I needed to. I've done chicken soup lots of times before, varying the recipe according to what's in the fridge or garden and whether it's a chicken carcass or lamb leg bone. Sometimes, I add rice, sometimes, lentils. Whatever's at hand. But recently, I've started slipping packets of frozen casserole vegetables into my shopping trolley, thinking about the future, almost as if I suspected what was coming and yet barely registering that I am doing it. So who's responsible for such inevitability? Is it an age thing? The economic climate?

I don't specifically remember being fed chicken soup when I was ill as a child although I do remember a lot of soup in general. As integral to everyday life as politics. But here, today, the urge for chicken soup slipped out from under the mat of my consciousness and I didn't brush it back. Feeling bad? Chicken soup to the rescue.

On this grey, damp September morning I boiled up the chicken bones and added my frozen vegetables. I was heartened by the first hint of it wafting up the stairs as it came to the boil and then the sound of the huge saucepan lid tinkling and under the pressure of steam. I was convinced that it would do good things for me. Except for one thing. I'd run out of chicken stock cubes. Impetuous as ever and wanting to feel better about everything immediately, I threw in two mystery stock cubes, escapees from their box. I watch the colour of the bubbling water turn brownish. Thinking I had ruined it, I began to feel worse. Vegetable cubes would be OK but beef in my chicken soup? What kind of creature shall I tell the everyone it's made from? A feathered cow? A mooing chicken? A coalition. I didn't choose that on purpose either.

Lost for Words

2010-09-23T03:30:00.000+01:00

Let's try and get to grips with the scale of things. Just imagine that Dr Samuel Johnson was lying there in his coffin with a rubber and his dictionary. Naturally, I expect he'd need a torch in there too which in turn would need batteries and the whole thing's getting overly anachronistic but stay with me if you can. Say he rubs out the word 'writing' for example. All of a sudden, amongst widespread confusion over such a lexical absence, the whole English-speaking world has to think of a new one and agree upon it. Would the government step in? The Queen? After all, it's hers, isn't it? Perhaps she would stop writing letters. Maybe she'd reply to her correspondences by text. Or start phoning people out of the blue. You could be driving and, unable to resist picking up Her Majesty's call, you crash and afterwards, you couldn't even remember why.

We might find that the easiest solution would be to abandon all forms of proper writing. But there's a hidden danger here too and one we're already facing. Viruses. You know that computer keyboards are the dirtiest, germ-ridden items we touch regularly? Well, next time you switch on, be aware that brushing your fingertips across the keyboard is leaving you vulnerable to attack. You won't feel a thing, that's the clever part. The fingers are in on it already. Logging on to your computer without thinking about it? Touch typing? Then you know what I mean. It's only a matter of time.

One day, someone, somewhere will invent a virus and you'll be in the middle of a conversation - maybe with your work colleague – and you'll be offering them something to improve their sex life. Maybe you'll even do it with particularly bad syntax or lacking any grammatical structure whatsoever. Or worse. If you shook their hand that morning, you'll have already passed it on. The meeting you would have had then turns into utter filth and badly-spoken nonsense. The only way to deal with it will be to delete and reinstall the lot of you and no one wants that in these times of austerity, do they?

Be careful out there, won't you?

The Bronze Age

2010-09-22T15:22:00.001+01:00

Here's something I wrote the other week:

The Bronze Age

It wasn't Kerry's fault that she'd lost her job. It was crap anyway. Over the weeks, she shut out everything else too. Just at the point where she'd stopped even bothering to dress and begun eating her main meals in bed, the television lit a firework of inspiration. She could be that girl everyone talked about. Even if she was a little dumpy now, with all the money and attention, things would change. People would want to interview her, ask her opinion about fashion and make-up. Politics, even. That job she'd had, that wasn't the real her. She would show the nation, the world, the real Kerry. On TV.

Kerry was lucky that she got on the show when she did. Outside studios, queues of unemployed office girls and waitresses shoved each other, trying to edge their way forwards to the front of the line. Doors slammed in the faces of the disappointed millions. The rest of the nation sat at home, watching the select few. Widespread unemployment pushed up viewing figures for such shows as the one Kerry appeared in. The trouble was that the TV schedules had to be balanced. For some reason, some people wanted to watch news and documentaries about people dying in other countries. Budgets were at an all time low and so there was only one way to quench the thirst of the public for a reality outside of their own restricted, little lives. Repeats.

At first, Kerry blossomed. It didn't matter that she came across as an idiot, that she thought that Houston was in London or that there was a railway station called St Pancreas. The excitement caused her to lose weight. She got freebies from exclusive beauty salons, was sprayed bronze and her hair was tamed, smoothed and cut so that it swung and fell gracefully back into place. Kerry's introduction to the show made tabloid headlines, her gaffs endearing her and giving hope to others who saw themselves as much more likely to be successful had they only managed to get past the front of the queue that day.

Six months on, Kerry walked down the High Street. She only wanted to buy some cotton wool. She'd learned to park her Porsche in the darkest corner of the car park, well away from the footfall of window shoppers along the main thoroughfare. She couldn't sneak around to the back of the chemist's because knocking on the door itself would attract attention. It was pointless trying to disguise herself because she'd tried every combination of glasses, hats and big coats already. She'd have to tough it out.

Wealth did have some advantages. She could afford to educate herself. From home, of course. She was studying for a degree in archaeology. It was always interesting to know how people lived, even if it was in the past, wasn't it? The field trips weren't a problem because no one there watched the endless, daily repeats of the show featuring Kerry.

Writing and Things

2010-07-30T08:04:00.002+01:00

I've been absent from here for a long time but here's a quick update.

Monty's still with us, deaf and incontinent. We now have a new kitten to add to our menagerie whose name is Hattie. Photos to follow!

At the moment, I'm writing a long, short story about a hotel and its guests. The novel I wrote last November is on the backburner until I have the time and space to revisit it. I feel that it has much potential and I'm looking forward to looking at it with a fresh pair of eyes. By the way, I've also had laser eye surgery which is rather nice as I now get to wear very cool sunglasses.

The building work on our house itself is finished but decorating, cleaning and tidying is work in progress, as are the school holidays. Not that I would wish the school holidays away or anything but once they are over and I have a more serene environment in which to write, I will be rethinking my blog. See you soon!

Hoping.

2010-05-22T06:16:00.006+01:00

This is the longest I've been away from here. Almost 2 months. Shocking. However, normality looms ahead with the alterations to our house nearing completion so my attention is turning back towards what I should be getting on with. Nearly a year has passed since I vowed to actually enter some writing competitions and this has yet to happen. It's not that I haven't been writing at all, more like just skimming the surface of creativity to keep the waters running clear underneath. The novel I wrote in November (on the bed, underneath the chimney being demolished) is somewhere underneath the rubble of chaos and I have written some pieces of flash fiction to share with my writing group.

Meanwhile, since the building work began last year, the children are still sleeping in bunk beds in the living room. That's the same living room occupied by our smelly old dog. The fireplace is filled with dusty boxes of toys, all jumbled up. The carpet is disgusting and I can't wait to throw it out, just as soon as we can get to it.

Our bedroom, soon to be Peter's, is something else. The bed emerges - when it can - from underneath a pile of paperwork and ironing. This morning, a heap of Where's Wally? books, the TV remote and old cheque books separate us. Luckily it's quite a big bed and even offers the illusion of space from floor to ceiling. Elsewhere in the room, every inch is taken up with boxes of bed linen, bags of clothes and the most recent addition is the top half of our large dresser from the kitchen. Handy if you need a saucepan in the middle of the night but not so much if you get lost on the way to the bathroom in the darkness. On second thoughts .... I'm guessing that not many people are woken up by their wife croaking, from the far corner of the bedroom, 'I'm lost'. I thought I was squeezing past the dresser top on my way out of the door. I was actually trying to get through a 6 inch space at the other end of the dresser and heading for the window. Only the diamond shapes of the leaded lights illuminated by the moon alerted me to the unreliability of my night time compass.

As a lifestyle, though, maybe it will catch on. Yesterday, in our small pond, there were 5 frogs crammed into one corner. For us, cramming things in will soon be a thing of the past. Hopefully, my writing will be pulled out of the creases in the bedclothes and instead, laid out to bask in the sun streaming through dust-free air in the conservatory. Hopefully.

Monty's Back

2010-03-03T11:11:00.003Z

The irrepressible Monty is back blogging again. Forced out of retirement by the amount of activity going on in the house and the lack of my activity on the blog front, he's agreed to put in a few appearances.

What's in the Box?

2010-01-17T10:13:00.004Z

What's in the box, Mum?

It's your Uncle Mark, Kieran. He's having a good long, rest now. He'll be alright, I promise. Hold my hand.

Is he tired then?

No. Not any more. He won't ever be tired again. He won't ever hurt again. He's in peace.

Why are all those people here, Mum?

Because they know what a good man he was and they're sad. Like we are.

How come he knew so many people?

Well he didn't actually know them. Not like that. No one can know that many people. Even if you're famous. He was special, though, remember that. Let's be quiet now for a bit, shall we?

OK.

The procession moved forward and Heather tried to quieten her own mind. She wished that the flags and bowed heads weren't so distracting. Kieran had a point. They hadn't known Mark. They hadn't made dens at Grandma's house with him, argued over the cake mixing bowl or vied for first place in the queue for pocket money handout by Dad on Sundays.

Heather surveyed the passing lines of mourners, ten or so deep in some places, wanting to confront them in the same way that Kieran had done to her a few minutes ago. Some dabbed away at their eyes. Some stared straight ahead at an infinitely distant horizon and saluted, mouths stiff. They hadn't had the call, the visit, the gut-wrenching sobs threatening to strangle their necks. They had been summoned by a news report. Another one. But what of those who hadn't come today? Those whose sense of emotional disaster could be contained by the dimensions of their television screens?

It seemed ironic, Heather thought, that as technology became more compact, its power became immense, blurting out messages to larger numbers of people spread over wider areas, like microscopic bacteria travelling first class to feed off the world's open wounds. Heather understood the onlookers' dilemma well. She, too, had watched catastrophes unfold before her eyes on the television and momentarily been desperate to be involved, briefly overcome by guilt at the distance dimming the pain felt by those victims depicted in harrowing images. Thinking about it, her role here was clear-cut. Her brother, a hero, was being buried and her memories of him were neatly sealed in by the lid of a coffin. He had been a good man. He had been a good man fighting for a lot of people he didn't know. He was special but she hardly felt lucky. Everyone was special, wasn't that what she was always telling Kieran?

For the onlookers, the coffin contained anonymous, slippery, collective symbols of grief, loss and pain. Confusion of what they ought to have been feeling and reproach for being thankful for what they were not. Remembrance of past losses and imaginary future ones. Sadness projected onto a box had to be a very individual thing. Some people threw flowers as a symbol of something. But universally, no amount of nailing down was ever going to stop their tears from escaping through the gaps or from seeping through the wood. On the grand scale of things, their responses to television news reports could shrink dramatically and neatly to microscopic proportions but only because they were too big to even think about.

Turning back to herself, Heather's only solace was that at least Mark was safe. It was small comfort, of course, but at least she wasn't alone. She sat in the car, naked in her emotion and sobbed, comforted only by the blanket of compassion. She shivered in its warmth.

DON'T LET DISTANCE DIM YOUR COMPASSION. PLEASE MAKE A DONATION TO THE BRITISH RED CROSS HERE.

Enough

2010-01-08T10:06:00.002Z

OK so it's all my fault. I said that we never have proper snow. I said I'd believe it when I saw it. I've seen it and it's proper. Three days of school closures and we're getting cabin fever. Supplies are running out and I'm not just talking about milk.

We're also counting down the days to the arrival of a plumber to install a new bathroom suite. Bad luck decreed that our toilet would stop flushing over Christmas. Maybe it was subjected to undue strain, who knows. The result is that we have to fill a bucket with water and throw it down the bowl instead of flushing it like normal people. So our days are occupied somewhat strangely, filling buckets, watching sparks fall like stars through the loft hatch as joints are cut and fixed into place and planning what our house might one day look like.

I'm just wondering whether there has been a huge surge of spending on the internet. If so, it can't all have been down to me, can it? You see, I have been a little frivolous in my boredom. Curtains for windows we don't have in non-existent rooms, that sort of thing. So, it's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas all over again as we wait for various mysterious deliveries to arrive against a backdrop of glistening, dusty snow.

Grab a Blanket

2010-01-06T08:32:00.001Z

When I woke up this morning, a blanket of art had been draped over the garden. By art, of course, I mean snow. If the purpose of art is to make you look at things from a new perspective, to stimulate the creative instinct, then what fell out of the sky is today's artistic medium. Children want to create models of people, play anarchistic games of snowballs, invent a replacement for the wheel with makeshift sledges and adults cast off their hard-won routines of daily life. They take guilt-free days off from work, huddle unashamedly beneath their duvets hugging mugs of steaming tea or better still, engage in child-like, creative activities outside.

As a nation, we are not equipped to manage extreme weather conditions because most of the time, we don't have them. Some may be justified in mocking the British inability to cope. The thing is, though, that if you took away our weather changes, even the most minor, predicable ones, what would we talk about?

The best thing about living in Britain is the changing of the seasons so let's not pretend that we don't like the snow or any other random extremes of weather sent to surprise us. Where else could a group of people be stranded in a pub for days on end or go out to get the turkey and be stranded so long as to miss Christmas entirely? These events mark out our lives as noteworthy. They make us realise what normality is and not to take it for granted. They allow us to enjoy temporary exotic (or arctic) conditions we wouldn't normally experience without going on holiday. They allow us all to take a day off from our mundane lives. If nothing else, when it's over, we'll appreciate the usual rainy, grey misery we put up with the rest of the year. Now, I'm going to savour not having to rush to get the children ready for school, prepare for the builders' arrival and go and take some photos. Hell, I might even write something.

Happy snow day, everyone!

Letting sleeping dogs lie

2009-12-27T04:11:00.003Z

I stumbled over the zipped-up bags of clothes on our bedroom floor (substitutes for wardrobes), negotiated my way around the metal poles holding up the ceiling in the hallway, gingerly crept into the kitchen, found the recently moved light switch and overcame my surprise once again that the room looks entirely different from how it did a week ago. Having done all that and on my way to my arsenal of medication, I almost tripped over a fat slug heading in the same direction. The appearance of uninvited guests is somewhat inevitable due to the holes in the walls but it was enough to destroy my illusion that I was destined to go back to sleep at any time soon. I wasn't sure what to do with it. Elongated, shiny and probing its way across the lino, it clearly needed to be stopped. Taking it outside would make me cold and I didn't like the idea of putting it in the bin so that it could squirm its way around the Christmas rubbish. So, I picked up the salt cellar and tipped out a neat ring around it, about 8 inches in diameter. I think I was hoping that after I'd left the kitchen, it would consume the salt and go quietly. Not so. It instantly sensed what I was up to. I'd left it room to reverse and do U-turns, the kind of which I hadn't considered slugs to be capable. A panel of judges sitting on the perimeter would have had their work cut out in criticizing its lightness of movement and manoeuvrability across the dance floor.

Now, here I am, back in bed, wide awake and checking my emails, only to hear that my sister in Australia has problems with wildlife too: bats, mango trees and her dog. You see, she wants the mangoes but so do the bats. The dog could scare away the bats except that the dog isn't nocturnal and obviously, the bats are. It's a bit like the slug problem. Had it been daytime, I would have asked my husband to dispose of the slug and he would have gleefully skewered it or something equally disgusting. He's asleep and not at all nocturnal. Presumably, the reason why we all sleep in shifts is to make room for twice as many creatures to coexist. So, you let sleeping dogs lie and let your slugs and bats do their own things and try not to notice what's going on. Or you write about them.

Tiny Christmas Story 4

2009-12-26T07:57:00.001Z

He thought he'd missed the shooting star but as Roger unfolded the paper, there it was. Because everyone else was so engrossed in their own presents, they didn't notice it travelling around the room. Roger made his wish and watched as it came to rest on top of the tree.

A (Tiny) Christmas Story

2009-12-25T04:12:00.002Z

Traditionally, it is the children who are awake at 4am on Christmas morning so here's to breaking with tradition and wishing you a very early Merry Christmas, unless, of course, you're in Australia in which case I'm rudely late.

Anyway, here goes:

Caroline was doubting her sanity. She found herself wanting to put exquisite things under trees, to bake moist, dribble-inducing cakes and to arrange colour coordinated tableware in patterns. She didn't know whether to sweep up the footprints or to leave them as evidence that the fantasy world wasn't hers alone.

The prompt for this one was 'Stealing my mother's spectacles'. This was actually one of Sarah's going way back to August. I squirrel them away so that I can use them when the creative cupboard is a bit bare.

Tiny, tiny story 2

2009-12-23T03:22:00.002Z

Yes, Officer, I can describe her. Her head's usually down. Looks like she knows her place. Doesn't push the boundaries. Rarely looks you in the eye, not wanting to attract attention, I expect. She's let herself go. She's been inside a lot but always comes out or writes at Christmas.

In case you're wondering, the prompt was 'Your neighbour describes you to the police'.

Micro Fiction

2009-12-21T05:48:00.003Z

I don't usually post any of my creative stuff on here, preferring to keep it for myself until it has fully developed into something else or not as the case may be. However, seeing as it's Christmas and I'm not working on my novel or doing much else in the way of writing, I thought that I would, just for the holiday period.

Very generously, Sarah Salway posts daily writing prompts and I enjoy responding to these as a means to keep my creative juices flowing. I tend to keep to a 50 word limit because this seems to work well for me, not only in the context of it just being an exercise but because it's fun and feels like playing. I tend to write them very quickly and this is an important part of the process. If I thought too much about what I was going to fit into 50 words, I'd tie myself up in knots! So, here is a taster of what I get up to when I've got 5 minutes to spare:

Hiding the gun in the cake seemed like a good idea at the time. It was only when Bert remembered how Charlie never chewed, he'd realised it would be a problem. Charlie happened to contract a cold and within a week, he'd started coughing up bullets. He killed ten people.

You will have gathered that these are not serious pieces of writing and most frequently, I don't even save them anywhere. They probably reflect my mood at the time which is maybe a little disturbing when you think about it .......

Snow Friends

2009-12-18T11:11:00.002Z

I decided to take a picture of Monty in the snow, knowing that sadly, this will probably be his last winter. He's particularly doddery at the moment although no doubt he'd say the same about me. Just as I was about to snap the picture, Marmaduke crept into the scene and for a moment, I think Monty forgot that he's around 108. Apparently, you're never too old to play in the snow.

Rambling Through The Rubble

2009-12-15T13:12:00.003Z

I've been writing a bit less recently, not necessarily by choice but because I'm tied up trying to maintain some sort of order in the house. My MA and Counselling courses are well and truly finished and the our building work is well underway. Our living room resembles a squat, with the number of bodies sleeping in there having increased to three. Floor space is at a premium and competition is hot for room to make footfall between the boxes of Lego and piles of clothes.

My laptop gets moved around periodically to protect it from falling plaster and is generally less available to me. Therefore, I've spent far less time on Facebook, checking my email repeatedly and asking Google random questions. I thought that this would be a good time to be reunited with my journal, which, I am ashamed to admit, I had neglected whilst writing my novel in November. It feels like a good time to pick up the pen, embrace its portability, spontaneity and freedom from electrical cables or absence of threat of perilous destruction from dust penetration. What I hadn't expected when I reached underneath my bedside table for my journal was to discover that there was rubble in my pencil case. It's not a particularly fancy case, made of clear plastic, not because I'm going to enter any exams but because I get a bizarre pleasure from looking at my collection of pens and highlighters. However, it is dulled and fogged over by a salmony coloured brick dust. At first, I was a bit saddened, then amused by the idea of 'rubble in my pencil case' as a writing prompt. I turned back to my laptop. Caressing the film away from the screen, again tinged pink, I felt a very familiar phrase bouncing like a ball inside my head and rebounding off the dusty shelves. 'Think of the end result, it will all be worth it' I tell myself. And it will. So rather than focus upon the rubble in my pencil case, I will look at the dust as a rose tinted view of the future.

Now I am going to snuggle down underneath the quilt on the settee, turn up the television and use the cat to get warm.

Destruction and Creation

2009-12-06T06:24:00.004Z

The builders have been in for two and a half weeks now. We've never done this before, not to this scale. They're remodelling downstairs to make the kitchen bigger and knocking down the walls of the smallest room to accommodate a staircase for the loft conversion. As the practicalities of our plans unfold daily before our eyes, we are thinking more creatively about the space.

It's all very exciting seeing our home change by the day. Yesterday, was exactly a year since we moved in here with the intention of making these changes. We're not property developers, we just liked the feel of the bungalow, its location and saw its potential. You don't have to watch too many property programmes to know that it always costs more than you think, you will hit problems and you will inevitably change your mind about a few things along the way. We're ticking all those boxes at the moment.

It's all very well seeing the potential from the outset but as walls come down, we're getting more creative. Perhaps it was the night we spent (me, fully dressed) in the freezing cold with our bedroom opening on to the kitchen, a hole in the ceiling and the roof where a chimney has been removed, separated only by a hastily-erected dust sheet? Is open plan the way to go? No, I don't think so. We're not really open plan types. I understand to a point, that if you have limited space and need to move around more freely, then of course it makes sense. It also makes sense to be able to close a door on the rest of the household at will. But yesterday, in between counting chickenpox and nursing my own sore throat, we looked around our expanding kitchen and made a big decision. The pantry and the boiler cupboard are going. I love my pantry but here's the truth: it's full of rubbish which could easily be condensed into something much smaller. My fantasies of popping in and out of the pantry, Nigella-style will have to stop. It would allow us to have a bigger table in the kitchen and will create much space because its walls are so thick. As for the boiler cupboard, well, the boiler is being replaced next week anyway so it could easily go somewhere else. And then the back door which is between the two cupboards in question can be bricked up because we're getting a new one at the back of the house and hey presto, we've got ourselves a whole wall to play with and against which we can place our range cooker. Simple.

So, just as we thought the main demolition activities had ceased (and no doubt, so did the builders) I'm going to break it gently to them over another bacon and egg sandwich that they'd better order another skip and some more bricks. Does it sound like we're out of control? We're not really. We have made a huge concession. The planned conservatory is being either put on hold or scrapped and we'll wait until the new year to get the existing bathroom done so we're not being completely daft but there's no point in going around doing things half-heartedly, is there? My only worry is that in doing so, we lose the charm that first attracted us here in the first place. But that's just it. So much attention to detail and care was put into the original construction of the house (it was built by a builder for himself) that it deserves the same now. Yes, we're changing certain things. It's going to have an upstairs for a start but it should blend seamlessly with the original style. We're not even changing the footprint of the house. Yes, we're ripping out the pantry but it's to make space for us so that we can continue to protect the house's identity and yet breathe a new life into it. The whole kitchen revolves around us retaining the original English Rose sink unit, built, we believe, by bits of leftover metal at the spitfire factory after the war. You see, they knew about making old things into something new. They knew that some things have outlived their use and rather than become a museum piece to be preserved for nostalgic glances, they can be remodelled into a new form. To get to that moment of realisation, they must have had to tolerate some uncertainty and chaotic thought. Then, unexpectedly, someone in mid creative flow came up with the idea of making kitchen units instead of aircraft intended for battle. Creation arising out of the ashes of destruction. Isn't that what creativity's all about? As a pair of very nice 'cultured builders' (their words, not mine), I'm sure they'll understand.

Getting Back to Normal

2009-11-30T17:57:00.002Z

I've been away from here for a while so I thought I'd let you into the secret of what I've been up to.

I'd heard about National Novel Writing Month from Sarah Salway on her blog. It sounded interesting but as a short story writer, the idea of producing a novel in a month seemed far fetched. With many other things going on, as they do in the lead-up to Christmas, I decided not to pursue it in 2009, not least because I wasn't a novelist. However, when I found out that three of my fellow students from my MA were taking part, I could no longer resist the challenge. The trouble was, it was already 2nd November by the time I signed up. I had no plot, just a vague idea. I started writing, building up the characters, describing their lifestyles and relationships to each other. By the 3rd November, I had made up the deficit accrued by starting late. I worked out that I had to write 1,666 words every day for the rest of the month. I knew that it would be tough but having taken part in Your Messages in 2007 and 2008, I was accustomed to the demand of writing daily and had enjoyed the challenge of writing within a word limit. I seemed to have forgotten my earlier resolve never to write a novel. Ever.

My vague idea expanded and developed but it wasn't until about half way through that I had a definite plan of how the novel would end. Even so, the detail of the ending, without which I don't feel that it would have been anywhere near as good, didn't come to me until I was within the last 5,000 words.

My adopted a varied writing style throughout. Sometimes, I wrote in an almost unconscious way and at others, I was far more deliberate and manipulating. Interestingly, the days when I resented picking up the laptop and getting on with it, those times when I really didn't feel that I had anything to say, were when I produced what I think are the best bits. Sometimes, I could feel my interest tailing off and I took this to be a signal that the narrative needed to be woken up. I worked upon the principle that if I was getting bored then so too would a reader. I believe that this helped me through the more difficult days when my motivation or energy was lower. I got a perverse pleasure from exceeding my 1,666 daily target, feeling as if those extra words were 'in the bank', relieving me of some pressure for the following day.

Just as I'm sure anyone else who takes part in NaNoWriMo does, I faced my own challenges along the way. Good television programmes, meals to cook, washing to hang up and children to ferry around to start with but in the last week, we had builders in demolishing a chimney right above our bedroom where I sit and write. But sit and write I did, amongst the brick dust and between making tea and I got to the golden 50,000 mark. The last few pages were difficult to write and perhaps this was some form of resistance to it all coming to an end. The novel's title didn't come until the day after I'd crafted the ending. I'd had two working titles along the way but neither seemed to hit the nail on the head. It was like searching around in the dark trying to grab something I couldn't see but once I found it, I was so pleased.

So, it seems that I can write a novel after all. It's really no different to short story writing. It's not such an overwhelming prospect when broken down into manageable chunks and if it is approached with the same discipline, authenticity and intensity of the short story, the narrative speaks for itself.

I have a huge pile of ironing in the corner and a number of other tasks to see to but I just can't wait to start editing. Neither can I wait for someone else to read it and tell me it's wonderful. Or to see it with a cover like a proper book. All I need now is a publisher.

Frogs, Ponchos, Blazes and Guinness

2009-10-23T09:34:00.003+01:00

Early on in the summer, we dug out a small pond. Although we'd talked about it on and off, it was an impulse buy when visiting the aquatics shop for tropical fish. It was one of those pre-formed, plastic ponds like a large, black jelly mould. It wasn't too hard to dig and impressed the children no end.

We bought a water violet. Unfortunately, it didn't survive the constant prodding from children wielding fishing nets but the buttercups and the michelmas daisies which grew and draped into the water like small-scale willows thrived. We'd filled the pond with water from our butts. That's water butts and I'm not sniggering. Not a bit. Anyway, there were lots of wriggly things in there, mosquito larvae so we were told but at least something was already alive and visible.

I am ashamed to say that in my impatience, I kidnapped a large frog my husband disturbed whilst weeding. I put him in the pond. The frog, not my husband. The following day, it was still there. Within a week, our daughter spotted a different frog, a medium-sized adult one. And then another. And then some froglets (it was well past the spawning season) one of whom liked to float on the breeze from one side of the pond to the other. Now, we have a collection of adult frogs who seem to be permanent residents. The maximum number we've spotted in one go is five. This is fairly amazing considering that the pond is only about three feet by one and a half at its widest points. Our regulars include a red one, an absolutely huge one whose body is the size of my palm, another with a silver-coloured throat, a lighter yellow one and a darker browny one. They all seem to coexist quite happily, hiding under the vegetation with just their eyes and nostrils above water. Whilst their eyes are characteristicly bulbous, their nostrils are so tiny and delicate. I am envious of their stillness, the way that they can emerge from beneath and break the water's surface without any ripple or sound. If startled, as you approach, you may hear a 'plop' or see a pocket of air, a speech bubble rising from beneath shouting 'Go away, you great oaf!' You might get a glimpse of their fat little thighs as they retreat amongst the roots of the rushes. I wonder what they say about us?

This has become such a subject of fascination to us all that we've decided to add another, much larger pond. This time, we've used a heavy pond liner. In the photos, you'll see the pond in the making. Again, we've filled it from our butts so the food for the frogs should be present from the outset. We've got to move a fern to the water's edge so that they've have cover and it would be lovely to see some frog life in there before they go into hibernation. I am trying so hard not to 'encourage' our froggy friends to move across to their new habitat. It's almost next door. Barely separated even. In fact, if you screwed your eyes up, it's almost one pond. Sort of. If you examine the photos of the new pond, you'll see just how close the old one is. So it's not really like I'd be moving them, is it? OK, I won't but I can't wait to see them there and I'm looking forward to what the spring might bring to the pond. Maybe I should write a story about frogs whilst I'm waiting?

So whilst the frogs slip beneath the surface of the world and hibernate at the foot of our pond, we've got a new pastime. We've got a fire basket for the garden which is what you will see in the last two photos. It's probably what men have been doing around their garden incinerators for decades. The only difference is that it looks a little more ornate and has a wire rack on the top for grilling. We've only had it out once so far but it was great fun. A bit like having a camp fire without the singing. I did make up some stories for the children whilst we sat there trying not to set fire to ourselves. One of my other recent purchases has been a poncho-type thing. Unfortunately, I couldn't wear the poncho around the fire because I didn't want it to be ruined. I'm sure that the cowboys in Blazing Saddles didn't worry about the sparks or human combustion. Once the building work gets under way (and I'm sure it will eventually, soon, maybe), it might be useful to be able to grill the odd sausage or pot of beans outside. Maybe we should take a lily pad out of the frog's book and hibernate until the house is more habitable. I've got a wetsuit but does anyone have any flippers I can borrow?

Going Green

2009-09-22T06:54:00.003+01:00

Since our house move and the shift towards a more elemental existence (eating huge amounts of seasonal vegetables), I've begun to approach food preparation differently. The first glut was the lettuce, then came the cabbage, the cauliflower, followed by the runner beans. What I can't do with a tomato is nobody's business.

Never having had such vast quantities of fresh food at my fingertips, I would be found at the local supermarket doing one of two things: I was either buying something exquisite but limp and expensive from a far-flung country or I was buying what the supermarket flung in my face at the end aisles. The former would inevitably be disappointing because most vegetables don't travel well. Consequently, their taste is impaired, probably their nutritional value too and not only that, their constant availability gives the illusion that their appearance on the shelves is somehow effortless. Of course, you can compensate for their deterioration by adding things, smothering them in over-complicated sauces and feign authenticity.

The second option was to buy the seasonal vegetables, often at a reduced price due to increased supply. This was no bad thing at all and something I still do when it's a crop we don't have ourselves. However, having witnessed how quickly vegetables deteriorate without swift and proper storage, I am more trusting of our own produce. I know exactly when it was harvested and that nothing has been added to preserve its condition.

Yesterday, we harvested our crop of butternut squash. I say 'crop' but it was only one squash. Not what you might class as a glut. We think that it was overwhelmed by the sweetcorn and didn't thrive too well. Anyway, I wondered what to do with it. Clearly, it deserved special treatment. Usually, I just roast them and they're delicious but this particular one was a little stunted and wasn't going to go far between five people. I had a flick through the recipe books and stumbled upon the idea of making pasties. I happened to have a large quantity of homemade pastry in the fridge so it seemed sensible. I added grated cheddar to the pastry, chopped celery, onions, potatoes and carrots into tiny pieces, crumbled some blue cheese and made up a small quantity of onion gravy to moisten the mixture. I made four huge pasties and although I was a bit worried that they would burst open, they turned out perfectly. The children didn't detect the blue cheese, ate the vegetables without complaining and tell me, why don't we add cheese to all pastry? Delicious!

The inspiration for this combination didn't come from any of the fancier books on my shelf. It came from one aimed at vegetarian students. In other words, for people who haven't really cooked for themselves before. My point is that sometimes, the simple things are the best. Take away the complications and sophistications of over-travelled ingredients and recipes and you're left with the best, the cheapest and the tastiest. And it gives you the chance to get creative and to stop banging out the same old tried and tested menus week after week which, in my experience, is what would happen on my weekly trip around the supermarket aisles.

How can one little squash give me so much pleasure? Size isn't everything you know. It's elemental.

Flying Pigs

2009-09-20T06:28:00.003+01:00

The school term has been going for just over 2 weeks now and I had hoped to have posted here sooner. Even my journal writing seems to have a desperate tone to it with lists of things I must do before ..... and this, for me today, is the interesting part. I'm not sure if I'm alone here but at the back of my mind there is always the thing which is so prospectively delightful that I almost can't bear to engage in its execution.

I'm torn in 2 directions here. My personal philosophy from a creative viewpoint is that the present moment is most important, that you shouldn't put off doing things or make excuses for the lack of the perfect conditions. However, a tension arises between this and responsibilities to others. Don't get me wrong. I don't resent or see my family responsibilities as obstacles to happiness but it's interesting that I am placing them in front of the goal.

There comes a point where the 'To Do' list will grind to a halt and I think I'm nearly there. In the past 3 months, I have reorganised every cupboard, redesigned our household filing system, gone back through all my MA folders and associated writing and shredded mountains of unwanted paper. In a sense, it is a process of reclamation of the self. Two years of putting things on the back burner whilst I struggled to write, study and be a reasonable mother are over. I've discarded the pieces that I know are irrelevant and ordered the remains in the most reverent fashion. To recognise irrelevance I must have reached a point of knowing. Otherwise, I've made a huge mistake and thrown away all my best clothes, shredded vital documents and the most important parts of 2 years' work! No. I think it's been good. Cathartic even.

OK, so the house still looks messy but I know that underneath, it's organised. And anyway, it'll all be pulled apart in a month or so when the building work starts. But there's another reason for all this frantic organisation. I seem to be losing my memory on a regular basis. Now, I have to rely heavily on my diary and calendar. This is a new experience for me as I've always had at least a vague idea of what I'm supposed to be doing. Remembering to look at the calendar is something else. I'm thinking of tying it around my neck. Last week, I only remembered my doctor's appointment half an hour beforehand and that was only because my mother rang to ask if I needed a babysitter. I went to the surgery not knowing precisely why I was there, came out and suddenly realised that it was our daughter's first Brownies evening starting in half an hour from then. Brinkmanship is not the way to a peaceful life. Needless to say, I'm still in contact with the doctor, trying to rectify the mess of turning up and forgetting half the things I went there for. Brownies, at least, went well so disaster there was averted.

Maybe my head has been too full of filing and catharsis. Maybe this week I will write something astonishingly good. Maybe. I'm afraid it won't be here because I'm going to be working on submissions for competitions but I might pop in to let you know how it's going.

Today, I am going to defrost the freezer and plan the week's menu. Today, I hope that our son's (suspected) swine flu is on its way out and that no one else takes up the baton and runs with it instead. Oh, and I've got just an incy-wincy little bit of filing left to do ..... Tomorrow is another day.

The Hardware Shop

2009-08-29T06:21:00.002+01:00

The butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker ….. a nursery rhyme about people who actually did things, made stuff. They were the job they did. Will it come around again?

Yesterday, I wrote a piece about the greengrocer's and today I am moving on to the hardware shop and its natural relationship to the modern DIY store. A sort of bipolar snapshot that is less about the history of retail outlets and more about what we value as a species. A bit like yesterday's attack on fruit and vegetables so I apologise for the recurring theme but maybe it's useful to examine the idea of the shopping parade and what it represents. Let's turn the clock back and see what is revealed as I ram-raid the shops of my youth.

The parade itself is L-shaped but the overall effect is that of a square with the missing corner occupied by a box they call a public house. There are two paths into the parade: the pavement leading down from the community centre, past and under the bridge made by the old peoples' flats and then the more direct route from the car park which takes you along next to the pub. This second entrance is flanked either side by grassy areas, littered with cigarette ends, teenagers on bikes and I think, some picnic-style benches belonging to the pub. But that's the thing. That's what would be there today, I imagine. I do know that it was a foreboding path to follow. Maybe I'm just projecting what is common now back into the past. A flaw in my memory. I'll assume that we've negotiated the teenagers, the pub's guard dog and resisted looking in through the darkened windows at the fruit machines twinkling hedonisticly. Not fairy lights. You'd go to the hardware shop for those. Right. Up the steps, don't hold onto the metal handrail, it's got chewing gum stuck to it. Now, at the top, dead opposite is where we're headed. The serious shop. All the others on this side of the L are lightweights. This is the shop to buy the things you really need.

The glazed door is a mozaic of stickers arranged around the 'Open' and 'Closed' sign. Unlike the greengrocer's, the door is usually closed or maybe in summer, wedged a few inches open with a piece of wood. As you push your weight against the glass, a bell tinkles above your head alerting the shopkeeper to your presence. The fact that you've stumbled in from the sudden give in the door's hinge mechanism or that the only line of vision you have is the tiled floor leading you straight to the till seems to be ignored as a means of announcing your arrival. The layout is a labyrinth of shelving stacked higher than you dare look for fear of flinching and knocking the displays over.

If the shopkeeper is occupied with another customer, you may get a chance to browse around this grotto but inevitably, you will be greeted with 'Can I help you?' and the fun will end. I remember tap washers, screws, rat poison, mops and rabbit food. There is always one of those portable gas heaters and a smell of paraffin. Mr Hardware wears a brown cotton coat, a bit like a doctor's. Mrs Hardware is never to be seen but her touch is evident in the knitted toilet roll covers and doilies in the window display and the varieties of threads and floral sticky-back plastic rolls.

It was the shop you went to buy everything that you couldn't get in the other shops. That much, I suppose, is obvious as it wouldn't be sensible to have an overlap but what I mean is that he sold the means to mend things. He sold little things. Or just one thing if that's all you needed. No sales, no offers. I don't think he wrote to any of his customers. They just came to him when they needed something.

This weekend is 15% day at our nearest DIY store. They sell similar stuff to our Mr Hardware but in bigger quantities. It's such a bargain to buy these quantities that if you're lucky, you might even get one free. For what? They probably won't have your tap washer because they're all made to a special design, you may have to replace the whole unit and hell, you may as well buy a new sink, a new kitchen even and yes, today is 15% day. So you've saved all that money.

I may hear you saying that the hardware store was old-fashioned and out of touch with modern style. Perhaps it didn't even address the issue of style at all. And that's a good thing. Mr Hardware didn't try to decide your style for you, he respected what you already had and helped you to fix it. If he couldn't then so be it and you could go off to make your choice elsewhere. The DIY store has already lured you out of town, swallowed you whole in its cavernous hangar and convinced you that their range is style itself, that you have a choice. Their choice. So you don't need to bother yourself with going elsewhere. A little Orwellian maybe?

The Greengrocer's

2009-08-28T07:54:00.002+01:00

The shopping parade of my youth: butcher's, baker's, mini-supermarket, newsagent, greengrocer's, hairdresser's, off-licence, fish and chip shop, launderette and hardware store. The pavement outside would always have been fouled and there would be a dog chained up to the railings outside, snarling and leaping at passers-by Nervous cats could be seen peering through the gaps between shrunken yellowed net curtains at the windows of the flats above but then taking your eye off the pavement below was always a mistake.

This morning, I revisit the most curious of those shops: the greengrocer's.

The heavy glass door with a thick diagonal handle was always propped wide open with squashed cardboard boxes, regardless of the weather. The air was warm with business, thick with the smell of bruised green cabbage leaves, earthy beetroot and damp newsprint. They rolled around the dusty floor with odd cooking apples as if being coated for batter. Thick brown paper bags hung on hooks by a loop of string next to the oversized scales, waiting to be punched into life in order to receive their cargo; produce deftly tossed in by dirty, lined hands belonging to weathered ladies with an intimidating patter. Greengrocer speak. Not the coarseness of a market trader but loud enough that their voices never faded even when they had their backs to you, shuffling and grabbing crab-like from the crates lining the shop walls.

Then we all got a taste for packaging. The ladies must have retired from the shop. They'd all looked like they were ready for it anyway. The earth and the smells gone, we ate varieties of fruit and vegetables only distinguishable from one another on the basis of shape and colour. Taste was as uniform as the supermarkets themselves. They were so pretty and we could buy them at any time of the year and we proudly stacked them up neatly in our trolleys. We would buy one and get one for free, the one which ended up in the bin because it not longer looked perfect. We congratulated ourselves on our wealth. Improved travel and international markets allowed us to interpret the availability of beans and tomatoes of exotic origins as proof that we'd conquered the seasons as well as our body clocks.

So how come it feels so good to eat runner beans for days on end, to give courgettes away to your friends after a rainy spell in summer? That they are so abundantly delicious that you search recipe books for new things to do with .... with whatever this week's crop is? Because we're celebrating the natural alliance between man and nature, trusting that harmony between them is more valuable than aesthetic perfection or material wealth which only ends up in the kitchen bin with the packaging. Oh, and it is real and can be right there in your garden. That's real fast food.

I'm sad that summer is ending but the pumpkins are swelling, tanned and promising another delve into the recipe books as well as excited children anticipating October 31st.

He's worn me down

2009-08-19T06:02:00.003+01:00

Monty seems to have found his voice again. He's been pestering me, trying to get to the laptop and I've finally given in. After all, what can be the harm in the innocent ramblings of a senile old dog?

I, meanwhile, am at some sort of in-between stage with my writing. Making lists, plans, writing the odd poem to keep the creative juices flowing and waiting for school holidays to end before I start writing more seriously. So much material accumulating it almost hurts. Anyway, I'm going to pass over to Monty now. Perhaps it will keep him quiet for a bit.

Hello Strangers

2009-07-21T19:29:00.003+01:00

Well, it's done and dusted. The dissertation is handed in and I'm in a very foreign place. I have nothing academic to do. So this is it. I just start writing now. Easy, huh?

The holiday's coming up and I will be taking my little journal along with me but it's SO nice not to feel the pressure of having to do something in particular. Except the housework .... but even that is only to maintain hygiene seeing as how it's all going to be ripped apart in a couple of months.

The best bit is coming up; all the planning, choosing things to go in our new space. I'm sticking my head well and truly in the sand and definitely not thinking about 'having the builders in', a phrase which seems to hang over people like a black cloud. We have suffered from our lack of space since we moved, whilst waiting for the planning and quotes and no doubt when it's all finished, we'll look back and wonder how we ever survived. At the moment, we can afford to be positive because it's all still a dream or at least it is until the end of September when reality will come knocking at the door.

In the meantime, I'm back here even if it's only a few days until our holiday. It will be odd not having access to the internet. Or shops, or civilisation. Yes, it really does look isolated and yet on the beach. It sounds rather perfect doesn't it? As I write, my son is on his way back from a month-long holiday in Australia. Thanks to the internet and phones, I've exchanged snippets of information with him throughout. This is reassuring as a parent, of course, but I think that if it was me, I would prefer to disappear altogether. Otherwise, you're not really gone, are you?

Now, time for a celebratory glass of wine and to put my feet up. Tomorrow is the last day of the school term, my last day of solitude until...until September and then the builders turn up!

Re-tail Therapy

2009-06-01T10:23:00.004+01:00

Apart from 'lurking' on a Facebook group for RA suffers, I have resisted signing up to online support groups in case by registering myself as such, I would get worse. I do know how weird this is, by the way. However, on Friday I succumbed and joined NRAS. Yesterday morning, I was flicking through their website and found an article on Canine Partners. Now, before I go any further, I want to state that I am not mocking the programme or its service users in any way at all as I am sure that it has been of great benefit to many RA sufferers. Basically, these dogs can be trained to carry out chores for you. Thinking of our dog, Monty, who has never lifted a tea towel in his life or offered to go out and buy some milk, this is a hard concept to grasp. Apparently, they are able to pass you your purse at the checkout or assist with dressing. This is disturbing on many fronts and raises questions about the limitations of their responsibilities. Firstly, do you they do the scanning at the self checkout? When purchasing alcohol, is their age calculated in dog or human years? I know for a fact that if you go shopping with your children in tow, you end up with more treats than you would normally buy. Does this mean coming back with a trolley full of dog biscuits? On the personal care issue: do they pick out your clothes for you to wear and if so, is their choice influenced by their colourblindness? I think I'll have to ask Monty. Oh no, I can't, he's deaf. So answering the phone is out then?

I think I might join a few more of these organisations. It's been such fun.

A Home from Home

2009-05-20T13:12:00.006+01:00

A small caterpillar has taken up residence in our bedroom. Found grazing amongst the cabbages, he was rescued from death row by the children. They made him a new home and plan to keep him until he has made his cocoon. I like the artistic way that the mini flowerpot has been arranged amongst the blossom and chive flowers don't you?

I don't think he's got a name yet. I will keep you informed of his progress. I think he's having a bit of a rest at the moment. Lucky him. Just wait 'til they get home from school.

Lovely, Lonely Rose

2009-05-18T15:14:00.004+01:00

I've got new batteries in my camera now so there's a bit of catching up to do with things blooming all over the place in the garden. And it's not just the plants. I was blooming all over the place today too. I was hanging out the washing, lost my footing and landed on my head in the rockery. The speed of the thoughts cascading through my head as I tumbled to the ground was unbelievable. I actually had time to think Oh no, I'm going to lie here unconscious and no one will know I'm here until it's too late. Not only did I have the time to formulate a plan to jump up and go to the telephone and alert someone, anyone, but I managed to execute it on the moment of impact. Quite impressive. However, in the grand narrative of my demise and resurrection, I didn't include a plan for letting go of the clothes pegs in my hand. If you look closely at the picture of the scene you will see 2 red clothes pegs. I am sure that a story will emerge from this. One day, when my head stops hurting. You'll pleased to know that no plants were harmed (apart from some superficial squashing) in the making of this post.

What I really went outside to do with my camera was to take a picture of the first rose of the bush climbing up the front of the house. I think it's a rather nice one if rather lonely. There is the promise of more to come but this one seems holds the most power because we didn't know what colour it would be. The secret is now out and soon, so will the rest of the roses, hopefully. Yes that's it, hope. Hope I don't fall into the rockery again.

Blooming Marvelous

2009-05-16T03:22:00.002+01:00

I'm afraid that I don't have much to report. At least nothing new, anyway. I've been a recluse for the past week due to illness so it's all gone by in a bit of a blur. So I thought I'd post this picture of a rhododendron because it looks cheery which is more than I can say about myself!

The only good thing about all this is that my dissertation creative writing is finally coming together which is a relief. I've abandoned the idea of extending it to full novel length because I've decided that I'm more of a short story person. There's no reason why I can't write collections of short stories and as a form, I find it far more inspiring creatively. So that's that then.

This weekend, we're probably going to be digging a hole in the garden. Don't worry it's not for Monty but for a pond. When I said 'we', I strongly suspect that I will be making tea and supervising. Or even catching up on the sleep I'm missing out on now. Talking of which, I really should try again because I've got to be up in about 3 hours. Oh no!

Moan moan moan moan moan moan moan

2009-05-08T04:13:00.005+01:00

The conifer towards the back of this photo is where I hope to be one day. Tall, poised, balanced, reaching for the sky in a dignified sort of way. The hedge leading up to it is the other aspects of my life, neatly pruned, flowing along their journey. The bit between here and that conifer is a bed of in a state of transient wilderness, a mixture of mature herbs; bay, rosemary, sage, mostly nice things. Just out of sight to the right, there is a small tree, as yet unidentified by us. We're just waiting for it to do something to make itself known. In the meantime, my attention is drawn towards the burgeoning weeds, the curse of any garden. The weeds have arrived there, either by seeds carried on the wind or from roots that have lain dormant, waiting for the right conditions to shout out their existence. The weeds come in the guise of illness and I'm pretty fed up with them.

Of course it's a way to meet new people. I'm on good terms with the phlebotomist at the hospital. We meet fortnightly and I look forward to the delicious free coffee (the treatment isn't) although I was alarmed this week when a notice went up on the machine stating that it is now forbidden to take your drink into the treatment areas. What kind of customer service is that? The result is that I knock back two in a row in the waiting area and arrive to see my new best friend on a caffeine high.

I have noticed that health care appointments are as much about the journey as the destination. There's a lot going on out of our view - probably the source of much stress to those working in the field - with the patient's arrival in the correct place to meet the right person who can corroborate that their notes correspond to the person in front of them being the most significant. Yesterday, I was an unlikely auditionee for the role of Goldilocks. First I sat in the chair in the doctor's consulting room. Then I was admitted to the inner sanctum of the surgery's administrative office whilst the secretary made some phone calls on my behalf. Next I was sent downstairs to sample another chair. As I sat outside the nurse's room at the GP's surgery, journal on my lap and scribbling away, one of the GPs (not the one I'm seeing currently as I like to spread the cheer around fairly) came past and said to me 'Are you writing your life's memoirs?' and my reply was 'Well, I may as well do something whilst I'm waiting'. I think he kept walking in case I was contagious.

The day carried on in the same vein. I caused the same sort of scared amusement at my evening class as the blood pressure monitor inflated at inappropriate moments. I started off having it covered by my cardigan but then realised that buzzing and going red in the face with overheating was a little startling to my fellow students. As it is a counselling training course, being anything other than totally candid in your exposition of your woes or joys is frowned upon. I have yet to find a simple way to articulate the process I am undergoing which could result in me being diagnosed with the same illness that King George is supposed to have suffered (yes, he was mad too) and is the basis for the myths of vampires and werewolves. I know that I'm doing a bad job in disentangling the knot of curiosity. Any attempt to offer a watered down synopsis of the plot so far inevitably leads to the unfortunate question of 'So, what are the symptoms then?' at which point, I hope for a distraction. Nothing is ever simple.

So, back to the garden. As I hold the camera to take the picture from the perspective you see here, my own distraction is the unidentified tree. It's probably a very innocent, common one. It's probably one that can co-exist happily with the conifer. I'm very interested in the concept of perspective. No view is ever so clear-cut, there's always something just outside of the picture that changes the way you look at the object of your gaze. The key to living artfully though is to watch and wait. It will identify itself in good time and I can take another picture. Who knows, I may even have got rid of the weeds by then.

2009-05-06T14:49:00.002+01:00

Yesterday I got to live out one of my imaginary lives as a doctor. No, not through any magically-acquired expertise or Hypocratic oath but I was appointed as Senior Consultant at the Insect Hospital. Alas, the first patient was a sorry case. He (or she, this has yet to be determined) was admitted after being found lying prostrate on the front lawn. The team worked hard on the victim of this savage attack, a dragon fly, which, it is thought, was unprovoked. The hospital spokesman has described the patient as critical, having sustained severe abdominal injuries and says that the next few hours will be crucial. He (or she) is receiving round-the-clock attention including little bits of rock, a bowl of water and blades of grass.

A witness (who prefers not to be named) has given a description of the assailant. He is said to be of muscular build, his coat an orange hue with slightly darker stripes and amber eyes. Anyone with information should come forward.

Containment

2009-05-04T07:16:00.002+01:00

I'm beginning to wonder what it is about gardening and the pleasure of it that drives us to see it as a worthwhile pastime. Aside from growing vegetables for obvious reasons, and the need to present our homes in a pleasant context, I suspect that there is something else happening.

Yesterday, I decided to throw away all the plastic containers, most of which were left by Mrs G (to whom I owe an apology as I inadvertently added on an extra 10 years to her age yesterday) and I have taken a disliking to. That's the container's, not Mrs G, in case she reads this which I'm sure she won't.

Anyway, I am going get rid of anything that is plastic or ugly as I see no point in displaying beautiful plants in hideous pots. I will then take pleasure in arranging the pots around the garden. Yesterday, I spent a while finding the perfect spot for an old sink in which I was planting some salad plants, parsley and thyme (photo to follow later on). I decided on a vacant patch of concrete up against one of the greenhouses; hardly glamorous but it seemed important to have it placed correctly. So, the positioning and presentation of plants, even in an almost agricultural context, is key to my satisfaction in having been 'gardening'. Curious.

2009-05-02T19:44:00.002+01:00

She has told me that I don't have time to write my own blog any more. True, I am busy on another project and my time is limited but I do miss the contact I have with you, my adoring public.

I thought you may be wondering if I was still around so I managed to persuade her to post this photo of me. It think it shows my best side (not that there are any really bad ones, of course) and was taken when the older boy was home from university. He's gone now so the explosions and gunfire has died down (I have noticed that I'm not as deaf as I thought) and they're clearing up the debris. The one thing I'll say about us dogs is that we don't eat and sleep in the same place or leave our bowls scattered around the floor.

Soon, She will be pestering me for the first drafts of my writing. She is so impatient so I bid you goodbye again for while.

A Match Made in Heaven

2009-05-02T11:07:00.002+01:00

I used to have a thing about shoes when I was very young. I am frequently reminded of the fact by those members of my family who were present at the time (along with the fact that my sister changed my nappies when I was a baby) that I liked to go into shoe shops and try on every single one on the racks. This was something I grew out of which is just as well beccause life is too short to spend it procrastinating over your footwear. However, yesterday, I did find myself taking a trip back in time. OK so the shoes lined up in front of me on the carpet (there's something very particular about shoe shop carpet) were there not because I was just working my way through the shop although it may well have appeared so to any witnesses. The reason this time was that it is hard for me to find shoes to fit, especially with swollen ankles. So, I fully expected to walk out with sensible shoes but I didn't expect black patent leather AND a matching handbag. Today, I so nearly wondered into another shoe shop. The good times are back! Whooohooo!

Snap Happy

2009-05-01T09:31:00.002+01:00

The other day I went around taking photographs of all the flowers in the garden. We first saw the house in October and moved in at the beginning of December and although we suspected that little surprises were lurking beneath the cover of winter, we had no idea just how many or how beautiful they would be as they sprung up. The previous owner sent us a card at Christmas saying how she hoped that we would enjoy the garden because there would always been something in bloom. How right she was, although it was somewhat of an understatement. She lived here for 60 years so that's a lot of work, the fruits of which I almost feel guilty for snatching from her as in her 100th year she moved to a flat. I do feel like we stand alongside her now in the queue of unlikely murderers lining up to exterminate the local pigeon population. On the Christmas card she also wrote 'Don't let the pigeons eat all the sprouts' and it seemed a little bit over the top. Not so. It's not just the house we've taken over but the battle too. No doubt the pigeons will greet the bank holiday weekend with mixed emotions; more human presence but more crops being arranged in the soil for their delectation.

Anyway, I just had to take another one of the clematis this morning. It climbs up an old stump in a way that made me think how artful its positioning is but also a little anxious as to what might replace it once its flowers have died. I suppose we have to trust Mrs G's words and wait for the next surprise.

Voices from the Grave

2009-04-29T11:08:00.003+01:00

Well, here we are on my new, relaunched blog. I hope you like it. I'm not going to be writing creatively here unless I feel it is appropriate but I will be thinking out loud creatively, if you know what I mean. Neither will I be boring you with the details of what's been going on because I'm sure that if you really want to know, you know where to find me! I'm hoping to be a little more reflective than that and when that isn't possible for whatever reason, I will be posting images of what's going on around and about, just things I find interesting. So, you'll probably learn more about me by seeing what fascinates me than if I told you what we had for breakfast. Or it might give you something to think about, I hope. The reason for this change of direction is not one of paranoia about my privacy (I'm not actually that interesting) but purely mercenary. My writing style is rooted in the domesticity of modern life and as such, if I want to get published other than on a blog, I should be a little more discerning about where I write. For example, my dog, Monty's voice is woven into my novel and 'his' blogging has been a great help in developing his voice but it does present a problem should I approach a publisher. I know that he was particularly appreciated so have no fear, he will still be writing but he's going to be saving it all up!

Anyway, enough writing about writing! Or is it? Yesterday, I went to sit in the graveyard at St Mary's Church in Horsham. It was quite noisy not from the dead people but with children's voices from the local school, passing trains, an aeroplane, cars and not to mention birdsong. I can only assume that the graves are soundproofed; either that or some very restless spirits must be in residence. I went there to do a bit of quiet reflection and maybe some writing. I sat on a bench and watched and listened. The bench's proximity to the church in this town centre location made me think about perspective and scale. The church steeple seemed to loom angularly, hence the diagonal image which was otherwise difficult to capture. It was as if it was struggling to escape the grasp of my gaze, growing up frantically into the sky like a magic beanstalk. It wasn't why I went there at all but I got some great ideas for my novel, much of which is devoted to the idea of perspective and the smallness of things.

Goodbye to Comic Relief/The First Cut

2009-03-15T07:47:00.003Z

Thank you to all those of you who sponsored me so generously to write for Red Nose Day. I hope that you enjoyed your stories as much as I enjoyed writing them. So that's it for now folks. Back to normal and I'm doing it for free until I hit the big time.

Today is Sunday and my husband sneaked out of bed so quietly that I didn't hear him. This is unheard of (obviously) as on weekdays when he is off to work, he is anything but quiet. So why the rush? Yesterday evening, he took delivery of a lawn mower. This is no ordinary lawn mower. This is the cylinder mower of his fantasies, the type that does stripes. Actually, I encouraged him to make this purchase. In fact, I actively dragged him along to a proper lawn mower shop (yes, we have one in Horsham) because I was fed up with him moaning about the two rotary machines lined up in the garage, neither of which functioned despite having spent all of last weekend trying to change this. It is almost like he is off on a date with someone. He has got the children their breakfast, made me a cup of tea and I can hear him emptying the dishwasher. He is setting himself up for an uninterrupted session of indulgence. It's a bit early to cut the grass, maybe, but he did comment last night that it's surprisingly quiet so perhaps he was planning his early morning sortie, even then.

I wonder if I should throw my clothes on so that I can witness the event? My own early morning trips around the garden in my dressing gown with the dog have stopped since someone moved in next door. Perhaps I should just clarify that I didn't go out into the garden for the same reason as the dog, I was just his chaperone although by the look of me, I was probably the one who looked as if they were in need of restraint.

And talking of restraint, I've noticed something this morning. Every time I decide that I spend far too much time on the internet writing rubbish that no one reads, I start rambling even more. This is a little perverse. So am I writing because I know that no one will read it? Perhaps. I don't always keep a handwritten journal, partly because my hands are sometimes a bit stiff, but also because I touch-type and so the flow between my thoughts and the virtual page is faster than it might be on old-fashioned paper.

I suppose that the end of the Red Nose Day thing made me think again about what I write here now or even why I write here at all. I've also been thinking about what to do after the end of my MA course. Suggestions on a postcard please! So is that the answer then? Writing and rambling like this is a bit like sending a postcard. I'm here and you're there and I'm telling you what's going on. A little snippet of what's going on. So there you go. Yet again, I have found a satisfactory conclusion by plucking a metaphor out of the air. Oh no, there I go again ......

I think I should get dressed and do something useful. Have a good Sunday. Wish you were here.

Comic Relief No 11 - For Claudia

2009-03-14T08:24:00.002Z

It was the best day of the year so far. Test results behind her, the midday sun beaming down from an azure sky and the path ahead just seemed so, so, uncluttered by the past. Its pattern, the staggered slabs, had fascinated her since she was old enough to stand upright although obviously, being able to express this preoccupation with what went underfoot when she was out and about, didn't come until later. Much later. But today, she was pleased to see that the little piece of the world which was passing along below, like a newly serviced and oiled escalator (but not an escalator, one of those things that went along horizontally, not up, a travelator maybe?) was perfectly aligned. Let her explain what she means. There was a pair of slabs, the line dividing the two, the left and the right, dead in the centre. On a good day, the width of the pavement would be restricted to the totality of their combined measurement. Just so. Their position would be confirmed by the staggered placement of the next row, the middle slab's centre being equidistant to the previous' join. Of course, this rarely happened, was just her fantasy because in reality, things just weren't like that. Not so cut and dried. It wasn't all about two bits of slabs joined in holy matrimony. There would always be other influences. Like, like, oh, she couldn't say because they were too numerous. In simple terms, she could only see the path in front and if it was straight then she had a good idea of how to make it perfect in her head. She could choose to avert her gaze away from the car crashes on the road or look to the right at the crocuses (croci?, she never knew what the plural should be) but at least she knew what she was dealing with. Around the bend, where she sometimes found herself, she had no control over where her long shadow might fall. But today? Today, the sun shone down on her crown and she was on top of the world.

One should celebrate these moments, she thought. But should one celebrate alone? Maybe. In a moment, a pub would come into view. This is not to say that she had negotiated the imperfection of the deviations in the pavement yet but this road was one she had travelled many times before and she knew that the wiggly bit ahead was only a temporary insanity on the part of the council and looking on the positive side, its return to the original route did allow her to see the pub before she was fully entitled to. In her opinion. Anyway, outside the pub there were picnic benches. They were greyed through urban neglect and the passing exhaust fumes but the way people sat under the parasols bearing adverts for beer amused her. Some had their backs to the queues of traffic, t-shirts stretched over their beer-swollen abdomens revealing the tops of their buttocks, others, usually ladies, she noticed, looking outwards, gloating and decadent with their false nails overlapping as they clasped their hands around alcopops bottles. Not really ladies then, she was just being polite. So you can see how she wouldn't want to join them, this brigade of street drinking pavement dwellers with nothing better to do with their time. No, she would sit on another bench. She wished for a circular, wrought iron table but it didn't come so when the barman asked where they would be sitting for the delivery of the meals she had ordered she indicated to the bench dead opposite the keep left sign on the little central reservation serving to protect pedestrians from their deviation from the post office to the pub.

She carried the drinks to the bench and sat down, facing outwards. She drank the first glass in one. The second followed immediately along with the feeling that she didn't need the sun any more, that she had an inner warmth sweating from her pores. The food arrived, and the barman put the second plate opposite her. Not wishing to explain her intimate details to a complete stranger for the umpteenth time in her life, she left the food where it was. At least until he had gone back inside. She didn't want him to think she was mad, even if she was. He wouldn't understand, of course. Not having travelled the same path to get here, he would have no idea or see things the way she did. He may even have his own dark side, she would never know. But she did know that her own was hungry. Very hungry. In fact, she'd discovered that if she didn't feed it properly, take it out for lunch now and again, it found all sorts of devious ways to get her attention and engulf her. You see, sometimes, she had walked along the pavement and been unable to see the slabs for what they were. Sometimes, the shadow had been too hungry, too long and she had ignored it. At the end of the day, she wanted to feel that she had followed her heart, not her shadow. At the end of the day, the shadows were longer on the pavement but if she stood at the right angle against the setting sun, she was at one with her shadow. Sometimes, her shadow shared her chips with her. But she always asked first. She didn't want to them to fall out. She would never let the sun set on an argument with her shadow because actually, she was quite good company. That was the bright side of madness. A companion for life.

Comic Relief No 10 - For Gabi

2009-03-09T07:22:00.001Z

He was still. Out of the patch of concrete on the wide grass verge and in between the banks of violet and yellow crocuses yawned a damp bench. Or was it? She wondered this because she needed to know how long he had been there. She didn't want to touch him, to wake him from his dreams and be responsible for jolting back into this miserable, cold and wet Sunday afternoon in March. Not for the first time, the monologue in her head switched to her native language because that's where she went in her head when she wanted to know what to do. In this case it happened to coincide with the place she had trained to be a nurse before she had transferred this skill and her body to this foreign country. She wondered whether one day, her mind would make the same journey. But some things were universal and here was a man lying on a bench, possibly dead. There was little of his face visible, his overgrown whiskers shielding the bottom half and the peak of a brownish hat covering the top. The bulbous end of his nose, a scaled-down version of his protruding belly was blue and veined like a map of the meandering Elbe. She really didn't want to do this, fearful of unleashing a torrent that she couldn't control. She wished that she was anywhere but here.

She leaned over, trying not to breathe in, to disturb the still and tense air between her body and his where this moment seemed to be contained in isolation, away from the disturbance of the passing cars and the weather. She reached into the space between the cuff of his brown jumper and his puffy, white hands and felt for a pulse. As she had feared, the pressure of another human's touch on his skin roused him and he jerked his arm towards the sky as if she were an irritating fly. The suddenness of this movement disturbed the hitherto hidden bundle underneath his coat and a bottle smashed onto the concrete below. She was grateful that the contents, cheap gin had had an antiseptic effect upon the air of their intimate, isolated world which was much needed because, eyes still closed, a foul-smelling chasm in his beard had opened and he had begun to sing. He slurred in a gravelly fashion but the tune was still recognisable; Kde domov můj? (Where Is My Home?). In that split second, she was all at once joined and separated from this man with whom ostensibly she shared her roots. But then their temporary world shattered as quickly as the bottle had done. She didn't want her memories of home ruined by his slurring, she wanted them kept as pristine as the sparkling cobbles of the Charles Bridge on a frosty morning.

She didn't know how he'd come to be here; she would never know. She would never know because she didn't want to so she she walked away, leaving him to drown in his own mess of gin and shattered dreams. He was alive and that was good enough for her. Her work here was done. She was alive too and that was how she wanted to keep her memories of her motherland. Pravda vítězí" (Truth prevails), she thought as she pulled the drawstring on the hood of her raincoat, put her chin down to her chest and headed on up the hill into the wind and rain. If the crocuses could survive this temporary doubt, then so could she.

Your call is being redirected

2009-03-08T19:47:00.000Z

Marmaduke, aka the Ginger Ninja has finally got around to posting.

Comic Relief No 9 - For Pierre, again!

2009-03-02T10:59:00.001Z

Elvis has left the building. There it went again, that phrase, one of many, the origin of which she couldn't quite fathom. Elvis had died when she was sixteen. She hadn't even been particularly fond of Elvis other than in a kind of evolutionary way, the primeval stirrings of a future, more sophisticated taste in music. Up until then, he had been there somewhere in her unconscious, a pelvis gyrating in the amniotic fluid, a precursor to Cliff Richard, Dr No and the assassination of JFK. So she wondered why she couldn't shake off these five words niggling at her day and night, especially at night when she sank into her pillow and went to the place where she let go of her daytime worries.

The Elvis of her unconscious was untouchable and multitudinous. At night time, he danced and sang, wowing audiences across several continents simultaneously. The Elvis in her dreams had lunch with her dead grandmother, organised tropical parties and built vast castles for his own occupation in every state. He could fold napkins into swans, swim up Niagara Falls and if ghosts threatened to engulf him with their angry, rotten mouths and bulging, green eyes, he could fly at them and make dissolve into a heap of nothing-dust on the floor. This Elvis was someone to be admired and feared but most importantly, someone to inhabit. At least for the duration of her dreams.

Now, if you thought that Elvis' life sounded complicated, then I must tell you that her life - the one that other people saw - was a complete shambles. She lurched from one man to another, one job to another and one town to another; the only notable change in her would have been the lines on her brow and the sagging of her stomach together with her willpower not to sink underground and completely give up. Elvis probably kept her going even if she didn't notice. Perhaps he was even relieved that she never actually asked him to sing, that he could just do his thing, whatever that was. And so they were a fine pair in ignorance of each others' needs. They would have carried on that way too if hadn't been for the writing course.

What happened next was as unplanned and unexpected as the manifestation of Elvis serving at the Meat & Fish counter in the local supermarket. Running out of new directions to take, she'd signed up at the local college, hoping to find her perfect man. She didn't even believe in taking courses but it made a change from the singles nights at the wine bar or smiling at sweaty men on rowing machines. What happened was that she stopped running and Elvis caught up with her.

What happened was that she learned to write and Elvis started speaking onto the page, uninvited. Before she knew what was happening, Elvis was popping out all over the place. Sometimes, he distracted her and she forgot where she was going. But this was good. She learned to follow Elvis without thinking about anything at all and discovered that what he had to say or do was often far more interesting than any of her grand schemes. She learned that each time Elvis was about to leave the building, she should follow because you just never knew what would happen next. The niggling feeling became more of a tingling and she felt a certain smugness that she knew where Elvis was hiding, that she could uncover him bit by bit in her writing.

Comic Relief No 8 - For Pierre

2009-03-01T08:22:00.002Z

I didn't have any prompts for this one and so I used an idea that came to me when I woke up this morning!

Just stand back for a minute. No, don't take me literally, I mean up, not back. That's it, right up, up, and hold it there. Make sure your body is absolutely straight, perfectly horizontal, as if you're being suspended by invisible wires from those ceiling tiles and that each is calculated to precisely the right length. In fact, imagine that you are invisible too. Now, relax, let the strings take your weight. And look down.

Can you hear the noise again now? Good. Let it seep into your pores. Practice letting each voice you hear get louder, and louder until it is as sharp as a pin. Listen to the words, to the pitch. Is it a child? An adult? Male or female? Look for its partner but be quick before the moment passes. Now allow them to fade back into the crowd. Write it down in your head with your fast pen. Don't worry about anyone else being able to read it. Just get it down. Rewind the tape in your head. Not too much, just back again to that moment. Which walkway were they on? Were they arriving or departing? Think about where they were coming from. Perhaps it was somewhere tropical or cultural. Look back at their appearance. Tattoos, expensive luggage, sombreros and make up all give away so much. Now look again to the things underneath that you can't see. What are they trying to cover up? Perhaps there is something about the way they are walking. Pay attention to the way they hold their shoulders, whether they are tense or relaxed as this will tell you much about their journey. Or maybe it will tell you about their whole life. Are they pleased to be back or to be escaping?

Now jump back to the present again. Look at your people and where they are now. Yes, they are now your people because you've created them. Start the whole process again only this time they will obviously be more familiar to you. Make a comparison of how they have changed from the first moment when their voices pierced the bubble you naively surrounded yourself with when you set out for your holiday this morning. Think about the journey they have taken between those moments in relation to the one they probably think that they have taken. Marvel at the possibility that they are completely unaware of the stranger who is both their creator and their stalker. Imagine their reaction when they notice you observing them, their outrage or pleasure when your thoughts tumble out onto paper, the details you have to give to the police officer who is demanding to know all these things about who you are and what you're doing hanging about in an airport entrance and imagine what the final statement will look like when it's written down at the station.

But surely they'll understand. Surely those nice policemen will understand that a writer is never off duty, that if he is then he should re-evaluate his career choice, because he does not have the right mental attitude to be a writer.

Comic Relief No 7 - For H

2009-02-26T14:28:00.001Z

A mound of minute granules of chewed up bits of earth, that's how we see an ant hill. But a house? More elaborate perhaps but the same amount of chewing up goes on in its creation. Let me explain.

Barbara was a shy little girl. She had goofy teeth and knees that knocked together. When they played British bulldog in the school yard – a harsh game for a four-year-old girl – she retired, flushing with fear to the safety of the wall, one leg bent up underneath her and leaning back, rather like a drunk flamingo. The boys' wore scratchy blazers just the same as the girls but they always looked more layered somehow and as they tore backwards and forwards during the game, each component of their uniform took on a life of its own. Barbara's clothes, on the other hand, remained rigid, neatly tucked in and she couldn't bear the tickly feeling she got on her back if her blouse slipped out and her jumper rode roughshod through the open gap. Appearance was everything to her and from her point of observation at the wall, she sensed that it meant nothing to the boys; that whilst she was nurturing perfecting her outer shell, they prized the way their inner warriors burst through their shirt buttons and spilt out onto the playground, completely spent. This uncanny intuition was to save her from many a fall in the playground.

As she looked on at the game, she knew that one day, she would have to let one of these nasty little beasts through her outer shell; that if she wanted wedded bliss like every other little girl, she would have no choice. It was disgusting. She'd read about it. Every night, the same thing happening in bedrooms up and down the country. Yuk. She loved her invisible fairy wings and reached back over her shoulder to stroke their downy hair, almost believing that they were real. She knew that one day, she would leave her parents' nest and the nuptial flight would be her last before her wings were chewed off.

And so it was. But she was prepared and in a big way. During playtime one day, she went upstairs to the school library. From up there in her castle, she could see the other children charging around outside like mad things propelled by the hidden energy to self destruct that she seemed to be lacking. She sat down and surveyed the spines of the books. She half pulled out the odd one here and there until a particular cover caught her attention. It was about The Stupa in Sri Lanka, a huge brick construction that looked like the biggest ant hill she'd ever seen. Occupied by Buddhist monks, apparently. Now you might think that at this point, she decided to become a nun. Not so. At this point, she gazed at the image of The Stupa and vowed instead that she would have the most huge, the most elaborate brick palace built for her by her suitor as compensation for having to take that nuptial flight. So from her seat at the library window she looked down again at the ant-like figures darting around on the playground. She was looking for the fastest, the most aggressive, the one using the cleverest tactics to conquer the enemy. Little did Barbara know that sixty years later, she would just be satisfied with finding one using his own teeth.

Poor Koalas

2009-02-19T02:43:00.005Z

Last week, you may remember that I wrote about a mysterious piece of newspaper that turned up in the post from my sister, Maureen, in Australia. Initially confused as to why she should be sending me adverts for mobility scooters and various other matters of interest for the over 60s, I eventually - perhaps optimistically - realised that it was a feature about someone who had got a publishing deal from blogging. Okay, so she was 77 so really, the whole two pages were devoted in some way to senior citizens which makes you wonder whether it was the whole paper was like that or if Maureen just saw it and felt compelled to rip it out and send it to me. If you can tell that I am becoming a little paranoid by all this then you may be right especially as I only came here to tell you about the latest post from the other side of the world.

Again, I thought it was going to be stamps for my father-in-law. But no, it was koalas. Not whole ones, obviously as this would be cruel but pictures of them. Now I think I quite like koalas even thought I've never seen one as I've never been to Australia but they have nice faces. They look sort of loved, patchwork in some way, maybe because of the shape of their ears and it is like someone has thoughtfully just sewn on a nice new leather nose. They also look slow, as if they are unlikely to make any sudden moves and this, I like. I also like the idea that they smell of eucalyptus and this reminds me of our children's bedtime creatures that we put in the microwave (obviously, I'm not suggesting that I would microwave a koala any more that I would like to put one in the post) so there's something very comforting about the image of a koala.

Anyway, the pictures were of koalas who had suffered in the recent bush fires. I had already seen some images emailed to me by my brother-in-law and if you click here, you can see them too. I'm trying to think what to say. The scale of human loss is unspeakable and although the images depict animal suffering, their very existence seems to capture the essence of what it is to be human, of being fragile. I will say no more now because I think that the pictures speak for themselves.

Comic Relief 6 - for Judith

2009-02-15T17:08:00.002Z

This one comes from my sick bed but more exciting, it comes from my brand new netbook:

She'd been sporty when she was younger, for about a month, but it was long enough that she could regale her friends with tales of pulled ligaments, going for the burn eighties-style, thus providing an explanation for her creaky knees. Now, at forty-five, any hint of a weekend sporting event and she would be found either in the local supermarket or the coffee shop. The former she found rather depressing as even the displays for pizzas and barbecue food were were studded with flags, the latter a welcome relief from the national frenzy which on this particular occasion was directed towards the Olympics.

That Sunday, she almost turned around and walked straight back out of the shop. It was as though all the local mothers had decided to bring their offspring here. It was an Italian shop, well established in the town and one of its appeals for her was that the décor was brown and dingy. For her, it had the air of a proper continental cafe, the sort where you could drop in, read the paper, write a bestseller and not be under any obligation to leave before you were ready. The ban had seen to it that the umbrella of Galoises smoke was in her imagination as was the bohemian customer base. The reality was that the small middle-class population flocked there competing for window seats, ignoring their wayward, sugar-fueled children whilst they gossiped at ever-increasing volume to drown out the next table, a mirror of their own except that the children scattering in different directions would shatter the illusion of glass existing between them. Sometimes this unhappy fact intruded upon her ruminations but today, the coffee was especially good and she was able to shut them out and slip through the door into her imagination.

She was already on her second latte. The last square of her complimentary bitter, dark chocolate was melting on her tongue. She watched the brown sugar flow from its little tubular wrapper into the centre of the surface, its edges darkening as they became saturated and finally sinking, dissolving in a spiral, still swirling as she sipped it, lifting her up, up so that she could take a deep inhalation of the Galoises whilst ignoring the clattering below. What she breathed out onto the paper would be a mystery until it emerged; a plan for a story, a few notes, observations of the way the barista danced to the rhythm of the coffee machine, the way his black apron was tied as if he had been giftwrapped that morning, but no, today her plans were skipping sideways and then forwards rather than dwelling on the here and now.

Four years from now, she would be sitting here, slightly more grey, skin fading and the children snapping around the wooden tables would have moved to the doorways of the burger restaurant or the fountain. Four years from now, her husband would be sitting in their lounge in front of the latest technology (a necessary purchase for such a big occasion) watching the Olympics again.

Four years from now, there would be at least two major conflicts in the world, troops would still be somewhere foreign, at risk from insurgents, politicians from opposing parties would be battling over tax and expenditure and we would still be fighting climate change. All this much was certain. What was also certain was that the rift between the rich and the poor, the haves and the have-nots, the hungry and the overfed would remain. She knew that the flags would come out again and she would take herself off to the coffee shop to hide with her fellow sport-avoiders. Absentmindedly, she had written down two words: coffee and olympics.

The barista with the bow-tied bottom had just been dismissed from her thoughts as the solution of caffeine and sugar deluded her into thinking she had found a solution of a different kind. Her tangential plan was one of pure and simple and genius. Even the traditional Olympic motto: "Citius, Altius, Fortius" - "Faster, Higher, Stronger" could be reused in 2012.

Comic Relief No 5 - for Chris

2009-02-14T01:11:00.001Z

The outward bound instructor surveyed the gathering of souls around him. He thought that one looked a little more on edge than the others. Physically, they matched his expectations all having donned a comfortable attire, a weathered face, possessing feet clad in seasoned walking boots. Standard stuff. Except that one. That one, whom, he could tell, wasn't paying attention now to his exposition of the current health and safety risks. He would have to speak to him privately later.

The teacher fingered the folded up piece of paper in his coat pocket. Aside from biscuit crumbs and an empty cellophane wrapper, there was also a biro. He hoped that it still worked, that the crumbs hadn't clogged up the ballpoint. It gave him a secret sense of security outside of the classroom. He couldn't risk taking the paper out now, it would be considered odd. He would check it in private later. If there was a later.

The boy's father was worried about his son. He shouldn't have brought him on this foolish trip. Should have listened to his wife, taken a proper weekend away. Somewhere like Chichester where they could all enjoy themselves together, she'd said. She could wander around the cathedral, visit the theatre and then on the Sunday they could have gone to the Harbour. But he never went for the safe option and now here they were miles apart. Like this.

The writer was feeling on edge. He wasn't really here for the outdoors experience as such, more as an observer but then again, his existence depended upon that. Always on the outside then on the inside but never quite fully engaging with his subject. But this wasn't the moment for beautiful prose or poetic descriptions of the Welsh wilderness or indeed any form of introspection, come to that. He should pull himself together. He looked down into the icy water. He marvelled at the depth, the layers of the non-colours, all distinct, solid yet fluid. Yes, it was the movement of the water that was hard to capture in words. The bubbles, the foam on the surface; they were the defining features of what was going on underneath, of what the conditions were really like in the body of water.

One canoe, that was all the rapids had left behind. One canoe, one boy and an ensemble of characters who should have been a strong and united force just like the rapids but instead, were a feeble trickle of drips being blown indiscriminately by the slightest whim of the breeze over a fragile shield of glass. The boy looked at them. Unnoticed, he climbed down the bank and into the remaining canoe. It rocked precariously as he eased himself in and pushed off with the paddle. He turned back to look at the spot he had just left. There was one man staring back at him.

He might have expected a crowd as it seemed to him that adults made things overcomplicated, made themselves overcomplicated. Why couldn't they just be? Why couldn't they understand that sometimes, sometimes, you've just got to get into your canoe and paddle?

Comic Relief Number 4 - for Sarah Salway

2009-02-13T18:46:00.002Z

I'm afraid, Sarah, that this one's way, way, over the 500!

It had been one of those nights. You know, one of those nights. Whilst his younger workmates were probably worrying about their pulling power and shining up their Friday night shoes, Bruce had gone into the corner shop with every intention of getting a six pack of bottled lager, some corn chips and salsa dip. It was one of those shops for which he was both thankful but yet despised. It was so in your face. The chiller units against the wall were oversized for the width of the aisles so that in order to squeeze past the cardboard boxes of wine on offer (surely a contravention of some health and safety rule), you could almost fall inside them. Even when not falling in, you could breathe in the gases being exhaled from their vents, both warm and cold which pretty much described the contents on display too. Not much of an invitation for Bruce to indulge so he slithered sideways through, only knocking one of the price labels off from the perspex strip along the edge.

The prize for being able to negotiate his way to the back of the shop without picking up what he didn't want was the holy grail of seizing what he did want. When Bruce finally got there, he gazed despairingly at the gaping chasm on the shelf in the drinks chiller. No, it couldn't be. Surely they knew it was Friday, that he would be in. Anyone taking a cursory glance in his direction would have seen a middle-aged man, in smart, casual attire in autumnal colours with his head bent, hands over his ears, possibly conferring with his wife on his mobile over the choice of wine to go with dinner? But no. If they'd lingered a little longer, the picture would have become far more horrific. This was a man pushed to the brink of despair. There was no phone. No emergency service that could save him from what was about to happen. No choice of white or red. Just red.

In the queue of customers (and they did have the cheek to call themselves that), was a mixed group of youngsters, late teens, laughing and texting, jostling for position of top dog, excited about an imminent party. They had a trolley. The trolley was full of Bruce's favourite bottled Friday night lager, nicely chilled. Oh, and six bags of corn chips.

Bruce was beginning to lift his head now and as he did, the rage pouring forth in their direction may as well have burned a trench in the shop floor. Had there been room for more people in the aisle, they surely would have parted to allow what was about to happen. It had been a tough few days. This week's special offers: credit crunch, cut backs, no bonuses. Next week? No job.

Bruce ran his fingers through his scalp as if that by making his forehead more taut, he would appear more fierce. But there was really no need. After all, if you saw someone charging towards you with the acceleration of a cheetah, letting out the most soulful roar, you may pause before retaliating. You may just stand back in wonder as the middle-aged man with the boiling, crimson face draws level with you like a freight train rushing past the platform of commuter station in rush hour and deftly swipes your trolley from under your nose. After all, it's not paid for or anything and it's a bit of a laugh, really isn't it?

Meanwhile, the cold air had smacked Bruce in the face and panic began to set in. He couldn't go back. He couldn't go home. So he kept running. He ran in the darkness under the subway to the park, through the gates around the pond and sat, panting heavily on one of the benches there. He was in no doubt that they would find him but the reeds and laurels would buy him time.

In the distance, he heard a siren and he wondered if it was for him. But then again, he wasn't alone in all this mayhem was he? There were the ducks for a start. Was it the end of the world to lose your job? He could live just paddling around his flat, being thrown crumbs by the state with no stress. The ducks weren't stressed. There would be no Friday nights, no wind up, no wind down, no high-flying career to aspire to. He sat back and smiled.

The yellow street lamp on the perimeter of the pond reflected on the wire of the trolley, glinting conspiratorily at Bruce. He reached in for a bottle of lager, opening it on the gaps between the slats in the bench seat. He may as well enjoy his last moments of freedom. He rummaged a bit deeper down in the trolley for the corn chips. He was feeling much more relaxed now. As he felt around for the packet, he realised that his bounty was greater than he'd thought. Delighted at his find, he unwrapped it, bit off the top, stuck his tongue in down through the hole and waited to feel the sweetness of the yellow centre dissolve and slip around inside his cheeks.

He heard footsteps beating across the frozen grass and torch beams filtered through the bushes. This was it. In no time, he would be been positioned leaning forwards over the bench, gripping the back with his hands whilst the officers frisked him. They would feel egg-shaped protrusions.

'What's this then, mate? Would these be eggs or are you just pleased to see me?'

But Bruce wouldn't respond, maybe saying 'So how do you eat yours then?'

Comic Relief Number 3 - For Laura & Charles

2009-02-13T02:16:00.003Z

A slight case of insomnia tonight. I think I'm just excited at having raised £25 already! Thank you and please keep it coming!

So, here I am in Paris. It's been a dream of mine as long as I can remember. We got here this morning, fought our way across from the airport by bus and eventually found our hotel. Lovely place but I don't suppose we'll be able to afford the mini bar. Still, it's a treat. And after all, it's a special occasion. Where else could be better to take the missus for your Silver Wedding? She wants to get our pictures painted by one of those artists by the Seine tomorrow. Perhaps we can get them to leave a few of the wrinkles off, though! Barbara calls them laughter lines and there's no denying we've had more than our fair share of laughter over the years. Luckier than most, I suppose but then I was born lucky; came from a long line of lucky people too. The only one who wasn't so lucky in my family was Bob, my brother, I bet he wished he'd swapped his sink plunger for something else but that's another story. We've left Bob and Reading far behind, forgot all about work and everything the moment the plane took off and we watched the rooftops get smaller and smaller below.

We've never been on a plane before, always stuck to the ferries and went to the Isle of Wight most years. We were going to go to America for Bob's wedding and then he went and did it in Las Vegas so we didn't get to go. What a mistake that was! Apart from all the grief over that, I was gutted not to make the trip. That's why it's all the more special being here now.

Look down there. See? The little cars and their lights are like Dinky toys. Barbara's clinging on tight to the railings. Mind you, she's not as fit as she used to be so it might not be the height. She's not used to it like I am. I can't believe that they won't let you walk up the stairs right to the top. I don't mind lifts themselves, it's sharing them with other people I'm not happy about. I like my own space, space to breathe, to look down. Yes, now we're here, I can appreciate that it's been worth saving up for. All those weddings I did, dressed up in my top hat (like I wear that all the time!), going around kissing brides and shaking bridegrooms' hands like some idiot; it's all paid off. There's more to it that you think, you know. City & Guilds, a code of practice to stick to and knowing how to talk to people. It's mostly about prevention, like most things I suppose.

I hope Barbara's enjoying it. She's let go with one hand now and slipped her arm inside mine. She told me earlier that I still scrub up well, even now. What a great place the Eiffel Tower is! Where else would a chimney sweep come for his Silver Wedding?

Comic Relief Number 2 - for Sarah C

2009-02-12T21:18:00.001Z

OK, Sarah, so it's more than 500 but who's counting?

he estate agent was uncomfortably close to Beryl, cloaking her in aftershave whilst blinding her with the glint from his shoes, one smartly cuffed arm hovering behind her back, the other gesturing over the fence to the allotment as if thanking an orchestra for their contribution to his concerto.

He plucked his eyebrows, she was sure. No man had eyebrows as neat as that. Bernie would have pruned the hedges with that kind of precision but not his eyebrows. He was gone now but the mark his hands had made on the earth would keep touching her; little seedlings germinating from plants he had nurtured, even the piece of soot that blew down the chimney in the storm would have been because he had lit the fire and sent it off to wait for that moment, timed to fall and remind Beryl that he was still with her.

In springtime, the daffodils appeared, shouting out 'Spring', echoing Bernie's excitement at the list of gardening jobs ahead; she almost expected his hands to rise right up out of that soil and say 'Pull me up dear, I've got work to do' but of course, this never happened. It was just a feeling she had.

Beryl was reluctant to consider moving house, especially so early on in the year. Aware that their décor was old-fashioned and flowery, she hadn't really expected to get a buyer so soon. She was unsure about leaving before the daffodils had reached out of their winter coffins or if their voices may be lost in the wind of change brought about by young, minimalist-loving new owners. Would she still hear them?

The estate agent was still going through his act. He'd made a remark about his girlfriend and her mountain of clothes. He probably had a whole repertoire of little anecdotes to demonstrate the virtues of various features. As he threw his head back laughing loudly, his sparkling teeth were more mesmerising that his sharp wit.

'So, shall we make an appointment for Mr Williams to come and view the property? Where are we? Yes, goodness, I can't believe we're at the end of February already. We have had a lot of interest so it really would be better to get him along pretty soon. A house like this in such a great area is just bound to ....'

'No, it's okay thank you. He's ....'

'Let's go back into the house shall we? We'll get warmed up and I'll give the office a buzz. We can sort out a time to suit you. Any of my colleagues would be more than happy to come out with your husband.'

They turned their backs on the sleeping allotments and headed towards the kitchen. The estate agent ushered her with much grandiose over the threshold. Just as he followed her through, a sudden gust of warmth caught the door from behind him and slammed it shut. At the same moment, the grip on the ceiling of a cold, clammy pancake was loosened and it landed square on the top of his perfectly coiffured head.

The way in which the pancake hit the estate agent implied a speed of impact disproportionate to the momentum you might expect it to have gained travelling from the ceiling. Beryl took the estate agent's silence and obscured vision as an opportunity to slip out of the front door. It wasn't the house for her. It just didn't speak to her in the same way as her old one. The door slammed hard behind her.

First Posting for Comic Relief!

2009-02-12T19:00:00.004Z

100 WORDS FOR CHERYL - I hope you like it! (they were free, those last ones)

Having dropped her bicycle, she raced over, wiping the grey city rain off the car window with her uniform cape. Before the clear patch could disappear again, she peered in. The figure inside, surrounded by ash, butts and crisp packets was unmoved by her camera-like gaze taking in the scene or the knock-knock of her fob watch. She tried to part the curtains of gloom hanging weightily on the inside with a strange but familiar sense of reluctance and intensity. She knew what to do. She would arrive on the ward again already having done a day's work.

Comic Relief

2009-02-12T15:18:00.004Z

I must be completely mad. I've just come up with the idea of writing for Comic Relief. Please visit my page:

http://www.myrednoseday.com/kathrynharriss?SID=56338

Responses to the prompts will be posted here. I thought I'd start now because that gives me a whole month to get writing!

Thank you - I think........

2009-02-10T15:14:00.002Z

My sister who lives in Queensland sends over stamps in an envelope for us to pass on to my father-in-law (I hope you're following this, or better still, following this and still awake) and usually, the envelope contains nothing but used stamps.

However, today the envelope arrived with pages 33/34 torn from The Sun Herald. Now I'm a bit confused because there's nothing with a ring around it, highlighted or marked in any way at all. Here are the contents of the 2 pages:

WHEN MYSPACE ENDS IN TEARS

TEASED SO MUCH HE WANTED TO DIE

CHILDREN KNOW THEIR TORMENTORS

RECORD DEMAND FOR WEIGHT-LOSS SURGERY

2009 PREMIER'S SENIORS WEEK GALA CONCERTS (for over 60s)

GET MOBILE IN STYLE (advert for mobility scooters)

VINCE MALONEY SALE (from 9am tomorrow)

Finally, I spotted the one, possibly: WRITER, 77, PUTS HER DREAMS INTO PRINT FOR CAREER BREAKTHROUGH. It is an article whose online writing was spotted by a publisher which led to the release of her first novel. This is good news. That gives me another 32 years to become successful. Or maybe it was the mobility scooters after all .....

Hibernation

2009-02-09T20:41:00.002Z

Today, I have taken delivery of a new book to read, Direct Red, by Gabriel Weston that I ordered after seeing her on BBC Breakfast the other day. The author studied literature before switching to medicine and becoming a surgeon. An account of what life as a surgeon is really like, it promises to be interesting. Meanwhile, the weather promises to be miserable and as I'm feeling very under the weather too, I'm going to take a little break from using the computer (I may have to be surgically removed) for a few days whilst I recharge my batteries. Back soon!

For my sister in Australia - frozen sprouts!

2009-02-02T16:52:00.003Z

and .....

and ....

Caught in the act

2009-02-01T20:36:00.002Z

This image speaks for itself. All I need to tell you is that this was taken early yesterday morning. Someone isn't quite as fast on their feet as they used to be.

The lost photo

2009-02-01T20:32:00.004Z

This was one of the photos I couldn't upload on Friday.

Keeping it Fluid

2009-01-30T08:42:00.002Z

What never ceases to amaze me when I'm writing these days is how I never (or rarely) know what I'm going to write about when I set about the task. I think that I have my studies to thank for this sense of discovery which makes writing such a pleasure. I won't bore you with the details of that but I will bore you will the details of this ........ Oh no I won't, which just goes to prove the point. I was going to show you a photo I took this morning but it wasn't to be after all so I'll have to explain it instead.

There was another pretty sunrise this morning so whilst our daughter took the dog out around the front garden, I thought I'd take a picture. Just as I was about to press the button, he cocked his leg which was both unwelcome and unexpected because usually he doesn't bother these days. It was only then that I noticed how the cat was perched on top of the bird bath in the middle of the lawn. I'm not sure if he was frozen solid to the stone, waiting for it to thaw for a drink or even expecting breakfast to arrive. All of these little incidents sparked off a train of thought different to the one with which I had started off. So, filled with creative, inspirational ideas - albeit very small ones - I thought I'd post the photo here and write something outstanding. I connected up my camera but the pictures I took don't seem to be there. I'm not sure if it's because a), the battery is flat and I can't seem to get the cover off, b) I'd had to wrestle the camera away from our youngest son before connecting it up or c), what I had suspected all along is true; that I never really understood how to use it, only pure fluke has enabled me to do so up until now and I've finally been discovered for what I am. A failure. Whatever, you're not going to see the photo now.

So, I'm back to square one telling you how unpredictable writing can be, how it is both joyous and frustrating. Willingness to keep it fluid (I'm not referring to the dog's poor joint mobility here) bring me tales of the unexpected on a daily basis.

A new broom sweeps clean ... or something like that

2009-01-27T09:56:00.003Z

I knew it, I just knew it!

Readers of this blog - and I know that there are a few of you poor masochistic souls out there - may or may not be aware that along with the pretty Maploco picture, there is a list of places inhabited by the people who have visited. This seems to be a good time to thank regulars or say 'Hello' to any new people passing through today. I often have a look and usually I see my friend Cheryl has stopped by, Lost Star, my mother-in-law Pat and it's always nice to know that my sister, Maureen, in Australia is still alive (unless, of course, there is internet available in the next place) and I know that the lovely Pierre is a follower too.

However, today, I am especially excited because I got a visit from Washington DC and I am amazed that he's got back to me about the muffin situation so soon. I feel most privileged that I can hardly concentrate. I've cleaned the kitchen up just in case he pops in to give me a demonstration.

Monty indulges

2009-01-24T21:58:00.002Z

I was a bit shattered from my first session down at Sussex so Monty has taken over for today!

A Momentus Day

2009-01-20T01:11:00.002Z

I know it's the middle of the night here and technically, the early hours of the morning when I really should be asleep but I'm wondering what stroke of literary genius I can pull which is commensurate with the enormity of what's going to be taking place the other side of the pond tomorrow. None, probably. Neither can I stun you all with my powers of political analysis or satirical wit. But I do know that it is a very important day. I also know that Mr Obama is a man of the people. A man who would surely not mind being asked a very important question.

Now, cast your mind back to Sunday when I was doing a little baking. You may or may not be wondering how it went but I'm going to tell you anyway. Flapjacks? Good. Bread and butter pudding? Excellent (in fact, sufficiently nice that we were secretly relieved when the children didn't eat their main courses up at all and therefore were not allowed any pudding - harsh? Maybe. Oh well, have to make some more then ...) Blueberry muffins? Edible but only just. I used proper blueberries and followed the recipe but they bore no resemblance to the ones I've eaten in our favourite coffee shop. They tasted like fairy cakes with random bits of fruit shoved into them. Which, I suppose, they were. British food is just so easy. Good, honest stodge, fat and sugar. I obviously haven't completely mastered the American way of doing things.

So, do you think that the new president will be able to spare a little time to tell me where I went wrong? In between sorting out two ongoing wars and a country in financial meltdown, surely he's got a moment? I await his instructions. I might be waiting a little while. In the meantime, whilst I pontificate over my puddings, I wish him luck. The Best of British.

The Good Life

2009-01-18T09:54:00.003Z

I have plans today. My stiff little fingers permitting (wasn't that a band in the eighties?), in addition to the usual Sunday dinner, the children and I are going to make some soup with celeriac from the garden plus some flapjacks and blueberry muffins using supermarket ingredients. I thought that this level of domestic activity was quite impressive until I had an email from a good friend in which she told me that they were doing things with a brace of pheasants and a brace of ducks. She even used the word 'bucolic' and I was a little worried about them until I looked it up in the dictionary (not the medical one, I might add) and all of a sudden, I felt a bit inadequate. We won't have corpses or blood and guts all over the kitchen, feathers flying or entrails sliding into a bucket; just a shower of flour and maybe the odd berry bursting underfoot. At least, if all goes to plan ......

Happy Sunday!

Debris

2009-01-17T19:10:00.002Z

Debris, carelessly discarded refuse, is different to plain old rubbish. Different to things that are just lost. Or debris could be things that are lost but now forgotten. In other words, something that no one cares about anymore. But how does this carelessness come about?

Tell me how people come to lose shoes out of cars. Now I know that there is a grim side to this, that maybe the odd trainer at the side of the M40 might have a sad history and of course, no one is going to risk their life to rescue a trainer for sentimental reasons. But I'm not talking about roadkill. There are the others.

Along a local stretch of dual carriageway, I counted eight different odd shoes at the roadside. Given that I was driving and therefore paying at least a little attention to the road ahead, it is quite possible that I missed some. You might be surprised to learn that the road in question is probably only a mile long at the most, very likely less. Or you may not be surprised at all. You may well have all the answers. Where do they come from?

Fairy Magic

2009-01-15T06:46:00.001Z

Fairies are very slim people. No one knows how they work their magic. The fact that you never see them is testimony to their powers. Go down to the woods and you are guaranteed never to see one. Sure, some trees are fatter than others, but all conceal a fairy.

PS - MONTY HAS WRITTEN A POST TODAY, TOO.

Sunrise, sunset

2009-01-14T19:08:00.002Z

Sarah Salway, has been playing with the idea of the 50 word photo-story and I've joined in for the odd one or two. I believe that she's in Virginia at the moment so it seems worthy of comment that her picture for today featured exactly the same colour sky as mine from the other day taken from our front porch! The main difference is that hers was sunset and mine was sunrise. Better watch out for happy/angry shepherds milling about ....

Good Morning

2009-01-11T08:12:00.002Z

This was the view from our front porch this morning. Just two minutes earlier, it had been even more spectacular but I had to drag Monty off the sofa before I could open the front door.

I promise to be back blogging soon, just as soon as I've got my term paper sorted out!

Happy Sunday!

A Fishy Tale

2009-01-01T09:20:00.002Z

Christmas has been largely uneventful here so I've nothing particularly interesting to tell you. Except that I caught some salmon the other day. Almost as bad as a joke from a cracker, I admit, seeing as what actually happened was that the food in the fridge was stacked so badly that I when I opened the fridge door, a large packet of smoked salmon (it was THIS big) leapt off the shelf and I managed to catch it before it fell into the dog's mouth. So I really did catch some salmon. But what was more amusing was how I came to have so many leftovers in the fridge in the first place.

We'd been around to my mother's for lunch on Christmas day. Due to various illnesses and a reduced attendance at the dinner table there were more leftovers than usual. The next day, she rang and left a message to say that we should stop off at her house some time to collect some food and that it would be in the fridge for us. We had to pop out to the DIY store and went via her house on the way back. We took her at her word and helped ourselves to the food in her fridge, all conveniently stored in a plastic box. She'd even left a bottle of wine, some cider and mince pies as well as the sausages and turkey. How kind she was. Whilst we were there, we thought that we would be doing her a favour if we took some cheese off her hands too. We left her house fully laden with goodies and looking forward to a repeat of the previous day's feast. What we didn't know that there had been a second message to say that she was going out and that she would actually drop the bag of food off at our house. And there it was in the front porch.

'We was robbed' said my aunt who was staying with my mother for Christmas. They say that there's nothing worse than being left with turkey leftovers for days and days. Apparently there is; having it all stolen. They did see the funny side of it although the disappearance of the mince pies caused the most distress. They weren't just any mince pies ......

Happy New Year!

2008-12-31T18:15:00.002Z

Just wanted to wish you all a very Happy New Year. May it be healthy, creative and rewarding for you all. Failing that, survival is the next best thing! Anyway, I hope that you're all doing something nice to see in the New Year. We're just staying in with a nice bit of steak with stilton and red onions followed by a vanilla and Scottish raspberries cheesecake. In case you're wondering, I didn't make the latter but it is of the Finest variety. I guess I'll have to start cooking properly now I've got a lovely new cooker and a new cookbook on its way, not to mention some new baking tins, a wok..... yes, I've been shopping. Being ill may have prevented me from visiting the sales but rest assured that retail experiences have not escaped my grasp. Unfortunately ....

I'll probably be asleep for the bells but I'll be with you in my dreams and just as soon as I've got my term paper sewn up, you can expect me back here regularly!

The Homecoming

2008-12-14T08:23:00.002Z

Yesterday was the last session at Sussex for this term and I expected to collapse in a heap with relief. Instead, my mind is buzzing with new ideas and they're not related to Christmas trees which is what I should be thinking about today.

The other major event on which I should be focusing is the arrival of a certain black Labrador at our new home. As he is slightly senile, blind and deaf, we felt that it would be unfair to expect him to clamber over boxes in a strange house and so therefore, he has been staying with my mother for the past week. Now, I'm not sure what the situation is there. When I've visited, he greets me with enthusiasm, in fact, he grabbed my coat the other day as I walked past him. My mother maintains that he is missing us all. I'm not convinced. Maybe he's grateful to us for providing him with a little respite? Time will tell. Or at least his blog might. She doesn't have the internet there so I'm sure that when he arrives, the first thing he will do is to spend hours surfing and other doggy-type things online. I can't wait.

Good News

2008-12-10T07:29:00.002Z

I'm back here again. The first reason that I went off was to write for this year's Your Messages project on a daily basis throughout November. It was great fun (again) and I'm very, very pleased to say that I have been selected as a joint winner with Jacqui so congratulations to her too! When I took part last year, each day I would worry that I had exhausted my repertoire and that I had just written my last piece. This time I felt quite differently, much more relaxed which I think must be a measure of my progress. The beginning of last year's project coincided with my first attempts at serious creative writing and I wonder whether I would have continued writing without the momentum of the Your Messages project. So, all in all, I have a lot to thank Lynne & Sarah for. The best thing about it all has been the sense of a writing community in what can otherwise be a fairly lonely pursuit.

The second reason that I'm back now - albeit briefly - is that we moved house last Friday so it hasn't really been practical to do anything other than move boxes around. Actually, it's still not that practical as we're far from sorted out yet so I must go and have one final push to declutter the hallway. Oh, and our bedroom, the boys' bedroom. And then there's the garage. The sheds. I'd really better go. Back later!

Happiness tastes like Friday night

2008-12-03T19:57:00.004Z

The taste of happiness is something I hesitate to think about until every last spice jar has been checked for its BBE date, turned upside down to see if its contents are still mobile or whether it has been replicated on a yearly basis in which case it will be thrown out.

When that lorry drives off down the road on Friday with all our belongings packed inside, I might have a think about the happiness we sought when we started this whole business. I seem to remember something about a big garden, vegetables, greenhouses and the sort of privacy from onlookers that we don't get just now. It does come with penalties. A bungalow that needs a loft conversion to meet our needs means a that a lot of stuff has had to have been given away. In fact, I'm giving it away faster than I'm packing. It's so therapeutic. When the removal men turn up on Friday, I can just imagine four of them taking a corner each of the one remaining box to be moved.

I'll let you know next Monday what happiness really tastes like but realistically, I won't be able to post until then as we won't be online over the weekend and seeing as how tomorrow, I'm off to do my voluntary work in the morning, I may be a little busy tomorrow. Have a happy weekend!

Actually, I lied

2008-12-02T21:45:00.003Z

There's nothing on TV except something about Einstein and string theory that my husband has watching. Therefore, I will post a little after all. Nothing exciting mind you.

The other day, I overtook a plumber's van on the dual carriageway. Nothing unusual in that, you say. Maybe not but I noticed something amusing. The van had a kayak strapped to the roof. At first I had thought that it was a surf board and it was only when he overtook me back again (these van drivers don't like being beaten) that I realised that it was a kayak. It's better that it's a kayak. At least it means that his jobs are negotiable with the use of a couple of oars and a strange shaped boat. Had it been a surf board, it would have suggested something completely different to me; that he was expecting tides of wastewater of such monumental proportions that he would have to ride from the stopcock to the ball valve on white water.

OK, the physics programme has finished so I'm off to watch the Culture Show.

Busy, busy, busy

2008-12-02T21:23:00.001Z

I'm far to busy to post today but I have let Monty borrow the laptop for a few minutes.

I'm back

2008-12-01T21:38:00.002Z

November has been and gone and so has this year's Your Messages. If you haven't done so already then why not have a look and even better, think about donating some money to Kids Company which is a very good cause. Plug over.

We're moving house on Friday so it is very likely that my posts will be even less structured than usual and if they are, then you may take it as a reflection of my manic state of mind at the moment. We have 3 days to pack up 6 people's belongings so that they fit into a 3 bedroomed bungalow. The reason for this is that we're planning a loft conversion so that eventually, it will be big enough to accommodate us all. I just lost half a day's packing because the children's new school told me this morning that actually, they can't hold the place until January and that they would have to start there immediately after we have visited the school which is tomorrow. Therefore, I spent the day fretting over their lack of appropriate uniforms and tore over to meet up with the uniform supplier, came back home armed with a bundle of pristine royal blue sweatshirts and fleeces (I even told our daughter about the change of plan) only to find out by accident during another telephone call that it had all been sorted out and that in fact, they would allow them to wait until after Christmas. Luckily, my husband is very understanding as when he came home this evening, there was no evidence of any packing having been done whatsoever. It's tempting just to order a skip.

Tomorrow morning, the dog will have a shower and his bedding will be washed. Tomorrow afternoon, I will spend my time trying different ways to extract dog hair from the drums of the washing machine and then the dryer. No doubt I will marvel yet again at the amount of hair collected in the filter, contemplate knitting a scarf or something just to prove a point and then poke it into the bin along with the usual byproducts of the drier. I'm sure that Monty will have something to say about all of this. I think he's a little overwhelmed at the moment. He's not the only one.

Where have I gone?

2008-11-02T06:48:00.002Z

Last November, I took part in the Your Messages project. The process became addictive and it's the reason I started this blog. So for the month November, I will be diverting my energy towards this year's Your Messages (not all my energy, of course, I have to leave some for moving house, a term paper and the usual domestic hubbub) so please visit there instead of here.

Dull, dull, dull.

2008-10-26T13:18:00.002Z

When is a writer not a writer? I'm not just talking about clever, established, well-known authors but the more lowly breed such as myself who write because they have to and/or they enjoy it. The answer to the riddle is 'never'.

Chores never get much more dull than supermarket shopping on a Sunday morning, this much I can tell is a universal thing judging by the glum faces on this rainy morning in our local store. Just recently, following on from discussions we had at Sussex last Saturday, I've been wondering what puts me in the frame of mind to write; in other words, what makes me get all creative. Now, I really didn't expect the answer to be shopping for our weekly trolley full of food. However, today, there were a series of announcements over the PA system, given in fairly quick succession, which were begging to be linked together to make a story. I won't give away everything just now but I can tell you that it involved the Customer Services Desk, a first-aider, the owner of the dog tied up outside and a security guard. It just set me thinking ....looks like our shopping bills are about to rocket and not necessarily because of the credit crunch.

And another thing ....

2008-10-24T15:39:00.001+01:00

Monty and the Ginger Ninja have been blogging again today.

Dananananananananana Batman!

2008-10-24T11:22:00.003+01:00

This is my son (number 2) as he prepares to leave for college this morning.

It emerged this morning that his college email inbox has exceeded its size limit and that the messages sent out to students to warn them of the fact that they will no longer be able to send or receive messages are not empty threats. Consequently, work he thought he'd emailed to 3 different tutors hadn't gone at all.

I never thought I'd see the day when I could actually teach him anything related to computers. How did the concept of deleting unwanted messages or having an awareness of the Sent Items Folder bypass him? I've no idea considering I thought he was some kind of techo-genius. How does he propose to explain his unfortunate situation to his tutors? Dressed as Batman, that's how. I'm not sure which aspect should be of the greatest concern to me.

By the way, it's Rag Week in case you were wondering.

I should also add that he's wearing a full-length wetsuit underneath as apparently it was rather revealing without this reinforcement.

What you need to know is

2008-10-22T10:27:00.002+01:00

What you need to know is the way through from here to there. If the sun's up and you can't see it, then it's time to prune the hedges. If you prune the hedges, you might get to talk to people on the other side doing exactly the same and then you can always chat about finding your way to the next place.

If the ground ahead of you is muddy, the chances are that someone has been here before you. If you should catch up with them and they're at a dead end, you could share your failures and work together. If you catch up with them and you haven't really been walking that fast, maybe they're wounded and could do with some help.

If the ground ahead of you is dry and the blades of grass are growing straight upwards, it looks like you're the first to tread this path, at least for a while. Take heart in the knowledge that you are a pioneer. Every now and then, sit down and reflect on your experiences. You may find that the last part of the journey is the hardest but don't worry. Being first is always difficult but think of all the times you've walked down a well-trodden path and taken it for granted.

When you arrive, you will do something to mark the occasion; plant a flag, get a certificate or hear a round of applause. This is your moment. Eventually, the flag will seem smaller amongst a field of others and both the certificate and the applause will fade. But don't worry, it's not the end. Because this place where you got to is inside of you now and you will begin to feel hungry for another journey.

What you need to know is that although you may feel full for a little while, it's a good sign that you're starting to feel hungry already. It means you're alive.

Writing to Musical Prompts

2008-10-21T12:12:00.002+01:00

Sarah put up some musical prompts for writing to today. I've never done this before and it was fun. There were 2 different pieces:

I want to fly, to feel the breeze stroking my armpits, my hair sleeked back from my forehead by the thin wisps of clouds rushing through it, my arms stretched wide, finger tips and toes pointed. My neck is free of weight, looking ahead, not down at the land beneath, at the shifting horizon because I'm going fast now. And there are trees; tiny and still, yes, I have a real different sense of perspective because I remember how from the ground they were heavy and foreboding and rustled in the gales. Up here there is no weather as such, just air, light and coolness.

I'm feeling threatened, it's dark. There are brick walls, dirty from the bottom up, they're chipped at the corners. At the end of each alleyway, there promises to be a light but when I get there, its corner is as dark as the last one. In the distance I can hear raucous, drunken laughter, I smell wisps of cigar smoke, doors closing and muffled screeches of tyres. A cat startles me by jumping from the top of a wall on to a metal dustbin. It lands on the edge of the dustbin lid which couldn't have been on properly as the cat clatters to the ground, meows and streaks off into the gutter. There is a rustle of paper from the dustbin, the tinkle of cans being disturbed and three rats run over the top edge, down its side; their smooth movements belie the existence of their feet and they all run in unison, synchronized and I wonder if it's just habit or calculated. The rats have gone and I am scared because I can't remember which direction I came from. I don't want to have to wait here for sunrise.

This has bothered me

2008-10-18T18:37:00.002+01:00

Life is still horribly hectic, not least because this was my Sussex Saturday and I had to fit in taking the children to swimming lessons beforehand. However, it was a very enjoyable and productive day. The leader of our group today provided us with the prompt 'This has bothered me' to use as a warm up exercise. Before I sink in front of the television to watch the X Factor (a bit of a contrast to studying for an MA, I know), I thought I'd share with you what I'd written, especially as I haven't been blogging as regularly of late. It's not ground-breaking fiction or anything but just to let you know that I'm still alive:

Going to the doctor's bothers me. A lot. It bothers me because first of all, I can only phone up for an appointment on the day at 8am so that element of uncertainty is always there with the apprehension attached to this impending event usually starting the evening before.

Having argued my way through getting an appointment; 'Yes, it's sort of an ongoing problem but honestly, I don't mind who I see as a) they rarely remember me which is strange considering the frequency of my visits and b), I like to spread my misery evenly'. Okay, I don't actually say that but it's implicit in my acquiescent tone, surely? Anyway, having been forced to see a particular doctor, I arrive at her door, knock inaudibly, almost apologetically and prepare to reveal the reason for my visit. Should I blurt it all out therefore risking making her think I have made a self-diagnosis or do I provide her with little tidbits of symptoms and if so, does the in order in which I present them have any impact? She might judge me to be anything ranging from hypochondriac to know-it-all.

I don't think it's any accident that patients are described as 'presenting' with symptoms. Going to the doctor is always a performance for which no amount of rehearsal can be adequate. All that bothers me. A lot.

Going around the gender bend

2008-10-15T09:03:00.002+01:00

The pile of ironing in our utility room is only one visible representation of my workload this week. I haven't got any time to blog today except that I must share this with you before I forget. Of course, it's also a delaying tactic as I should be hoovering right now but I'm sure I will hoover all the better for having got this out of my system.

On Sunday, we went to the supermarket. Now, I've begun to find it rather irritating how there are now car washing people there, ready to leap on you as soon as you get out of the car with your head full of shopping lists. Anyway, I was driving and my husband was in the passenger seat. As we got out of the car, the nearest car wash person was on his side and they shouted out 'You want car wash lady?'. I should explain that their view of me would have been completely obscured by the height of our people carrier and the blacked-out windows (you'd want to be anonymous if you drove a people carrier too) so they were definitely directing their question at him. Oh, how we laughed, especially as he does have an extremely deep voice, even for a man. In fact, I can't remember the last time I laughed so much. Even the children repeating the 'You want car wash lady?' line over and over didn't diminish its impact. Eventually, the tears on my face dried and we went shopping.

On the way out of the supermarket, we stopped to get some diesel. I went in to pay and the cashier said to me 'Would you like a VAT receipt for that, Sir?'. So now we're even. I'm married to a lady-boy and he's married to an extremely butch woman. The implications are endless. We could swap clothes. Coincidence maybe? Perhaps. And then I went to take our daughter to gymnastics the next day and there was a sign:

TEMPORARY MALE
CHANGING ROOMS

Do you think I'm being a little over-sensitive?

A change of direction

2008-10-07T19:24:00.002+01:00

I was going to write something about having all the time in the world because that was Sarah's prompt for today. However, as I went to my blog and saw that my last posting was entitled 'White Rabbits' I'm going to go off at a completely different tangent.

Today has been another fairly trying day for one reason and another with some fairly serious issues to address, the details of which I won't bore you now. Peversely, amongst all these domestic trials and tribulations, I took the rabbits to the vet to be castrated. It started badly when I went to grab the catch on the hutch door and instead felt my fingers sinking into a fat slug. And that was only the beginning. Bramble is a slippery chap and he played games with me, disappearing as soon as I loomed over the hutch with the intention of scooping him up. When I took a few steps back (carefully avoiding the rain-sodden dog faeces on the lawn disguised cunningly amongst fallen conkers) he would re-emerge from his bedding area. This went on for some time whilst I got soaked in the rain, increasingly mindful of the time slipping away, their appointment with fear approaching and the local school-run-scrum clogging up the roads, competing for tarmac against the Tuesday visit from the dustbin lorry. Eventually, I won and it wasn't long before I had arrived at the vets victoriously having fought off the traffic which seemed to be coming from all directions. I felt like I had just run naked across a battlefield but at least we had got there.

I contacted the surgery at 4pm and said 'I'm just phoning to see how our rabbits are following their castration?'. I'm really not sure what sort of response I had anticipated or whether had put either one of them on the phone, they would have been as cheery about it all as the receptionist.

Imagine this for a moment: you can't stand your next door neighbour, in fact, the very sight of him causes you to see red and any meeting - however accidental - ends in a punch-up and one of you getting a bloody nose. He's not the sort to be reasoned with. He never says a word to you but wouldn't hesitate to urinate in your direction given the opportunity. Now then, someone has come up with a solution. You're going to be castrated. Next, the perpetrator of this deed phones up the surgery to ask how you are. What would you say?

So I've had a bad day and the perfect end to it is the discovery that Holby's not on tonight and it's my favourite programme. Still, it could be a lot worse. Our next door neighbours are very pleasant.

White Rabbits

2008-10-01T19:58:00.002+01:00

Happy October. White rabbits, rabbits feet for good luck and being late. Today and not just today but recently in general has been a time of running late for me.

Today I got out of bed, did an hour's worth of ironing, vacuumed the whole house, cleaned the bathrooms, got myself ready and left for my hospital appointment hoping that the house was respectable enough for the potential buyers viewing the house at 9am.

Having got about a mile down the road, I realised that I'd forgotten to place my new tax disc in the holder. Given that I would be passing the roundabout near Gatwick where I know for a fact that they film passing cars, I thought it wise to turn back and get my disc from the study. I'm not sure why I had delayed putting it in the car in the first place. Perhaps I like being late for things?

I arrived for my appointment with plenty of time which is more than I could say for those I had to see. The whole process would start again (house viewers, not hospital appointments) before 5pm, the same time at which we had to drop our daughter at Rainbows, go and collect fish & chips because we were in exile from our house, eat them and return to pick her up by 6pm. Phew!

Amongst all this, our second eldest was requesting a lift to see his girlfriend who lives about half an hour away by car. Oh, and a lift back again later. No way. Apart from the fact that I'm exhausted, I've been told that my new medication limits me to one glass of wine and this is for a lifetime. I am planning to start on Saturday. Therefore, tonight, we eat drink and be merry. Pinch, punch, the first of the month .....

The Service Wash

2008-09-30T18:31:00.003+01:00

I've never used a service wash at a launderette although I suppose it's a bit like being a minor whose parent does their washing for them. The problem is that you don't appreciate the service you're getting until you're the one doing it for someone else.

In our house, it's getting trickier to determine whose are who's as my two sons have started buying clothes from the same shops and are roughly the same size. Of course, I'm supposed to know the difference between two seemingly identical items of clothing. You only have to look around the streets outside the local college to see that whilst there are wild variations in the styles of clothing, they tend to gather in clusters of those with a like-minded sense of fashion.

As you get older, clothes seem to be a more individual affair. My own are not those I would choose to wear; they are more of a collection of things which have stood the test of time and the tumble drier. They don't represent me, they're just a convenience to stop me from being arrested. If I had a little money, I probably wouldn't buy clothes but if I had a lot, I would.

At my counselling course, we were discussing making observations of how people look in order to gauge their mental state. This is worrying. That would make me an unco-ordinated, faded, worn-out, outdated heap of rags. OK, that's maybe a bit strong but it is enough for me to vow to buy some new clothes at the first opportunity.

And so I have been paying a little more attention to people and what they are wearing. On my way back from dropping my son off at college, I keep seeing this man on foot crossing the railway bridge. The first thing I noticed was his dark eyebrows and white hair, chin length and blowing like sheets on a windy day. His face is bony and he's so tall and his strides so long that I imagine office workers being lost in his inside leg. His coat, a navy blue quilted anorak flaps open in time with his hair and he moves so lightly as if hastily gliding from cloud to cloud in order to avoid falling through to earth. The thing is that he looks out of place, from a different time and doesn't fit the demographics of your average Horsham person. All that and I'm supposed to be concentrating on the road and if making observations for writing purposes wasn't enough, now I've got another excuse to do it.

It seems that it is inescapable for us to judge each others' appearance. So I'd never use a service wash. I couldn't face going back to collect my clothes.

Pussy Paranoia

2008-09-28T14:47:00.002+01:00

I'm all for giving those on the fringes of society a voice. And no one lives more on the edge of things than Tiger. Therefore, despite the libelous content and sly insinuations of his little soliloquy, we have decided to let me have his say. Marmaduke, has not only put up with the cat-cursing and clicking of claws on the keyboard but permitted him to publish it there so thank you to him for his cool co-operation.

Yo-ho-ho!

2008-09-25T16:57:00.003+01:00

On Saturday, when I should have been doing other things, I entered Sarah's competition in honour of National Speak Like a Pirate Day. So, if you've got time, go to Sarah's posting for today to see the result!

Today's posting

2008-09-23T16:54:00.001+01:00

Marmaduke has decided to write today. I'm surprised that he's managed to stay awake long enough.

2008-09-20T14:00:00.001+01:00

51 seconds

Jobs you have no chance of getting

2008-09-18T16:35:00.003+01:00

I think that most of us would consider ourselves extremely lucky if we ended up with a career for which we were both ideally suited and enjoyed. I think that most of us settle for the best we can get to get by the best we can.

Sarah's prompt for today set me off thinking about making lists of things in reverse. Reverse lists could be useful and could tell us more about ourselves that the conventional sort. Here are some of the jobs I would have no chance of getting:

MP: My knowledge of current affairs is sporadic ranging from watching Newsnight every day for a fortnight to falling asleep at 9pm after a glass of wine. Also, I never have time to read a newspaper.

SALESPERSON: I'm too honest. This was proven when I showed prospective buyers around the house and I ended up telling them how I'd like a smaller house and a bigger garden. I think they came around to my point of view.

TEACHER: I enjoy intellectual debate and challenge. The trouble is, I'm not sure I want to share it with anyone.

AIRLINE PILOT: I tend to avoid crowds and or queuing for ages to park. I also like to sleep and watch films whilst flying.

Clearly, this list has infinite potential. As does my shopping list. Therefore, next time I go shopping, I will make a list of the things I don't want and it will be shorter. I will honestly be able to say 'Look, there's not much on my list, please come with me'. Problem solved.

So this is the beginning. No, wait, this is. No, actually this is ...

2008-09-16T09:20:00.003+01:00

They say that life begins at 40. I'd like to pretend that this little milestone is something to look forward to but unlike my husband who is soon to celebrate this momentus point in his life, it's something I look backwards at. Actually, my 40th was really quite a non-event given that I had only given birth to our youngest son 2 months beforehand and that he was 10 weeks premature. Around the time of my birthday was the point at which he should have been born so it marked a new phase whereby people no longer stopped us in shops to marvel at his tiny form and exclaim 'I've never seen one that small before' and instead we became a normal family rather than a travelling circus.

Beginnings are not just about newness, that's the easy bit;they're about having the energy to enthuse, perhaps to inject a new life and hope into what has become staid (at this point, I hope that my husband doesn't think that I'm describing him in this way) and start over again.

I'll soon be back at uni, resuming my MA studies and that's another beginning because if I'm honest, I've managed to switch off from it almost entirely with all the moving house business. But I can only face it if I sit down with my books spread around me and a new resolve, an attitude that says 'Right, I am now a student again' and this magical vow will transform my thought process from one belonging to a harangued mother into academic genius. If only.

With the children, we have beginnings all the time. When the morning routine slips into a cacophony of chaos (as it frequently does), when just getting them to brush their teeth seems to be the most unachievable goal in the universe, I think up a new scheme to encourage their co-operation. A new beginning in the form of a star chart.

Well, I must go now. We're expecting a man. My mother's getting a new car which means I'm getting her old one. It's the same old one I've been borrowing regularly for the past 6 years and yet, to have it given to me makes it new again. I'm even going to clean it. It will be born again....

My mind is swimming

2008-09-15T11:16:00.002+01:00

As I flop onto the sofa after a manic Monday morning rushing to clean the house for the estate agent and prospective buyers to visit, my mind is swimming. My mind is swimming with the 'what if's'; whether they'll like it, if they do, will we get the house we want? If we do, how long will it take? Will we be here or there for Christmas? And what was it we were going to have for dinner tonight? Ah, roast beef. Mustn't forget to put it in the oven before we go to gymnastics.

Watching gymnastics feels very un-sporty. In the dingy cafe, sat upon spindly aluminium high chairs overlooking the sports hall, it is stuffy; the smell of warm rubber from the squash courts, and the plastic exercise mats mixes with the cappucinos sipped at by harrassed mothers trying to keep awake through the hour-long session. I wish that by watching my daughter at gymnastics, I could absorb the essence of fitness by osmosis or something. I wonder whether attending sports centres has a positive effect upon your health or if even just parking outside can be beneficial in some way. Some hope.

There are always posters in reception inviting you to tone up your body for the summer, although now it will probably have switched to ski fitness classes and taunts to 'get into that xmas party dress'. It's not that I don't like exercising, just that I've been there and done that about 20 years ago and it probably explains my arthritic condition now. Plus, unfit as I probably am, it may well kill me.

Whilst my daughter is learning forward rolls and cartwheels, my mind briefly flirts with the idea of just one last game of squash. And then I remember how my knees have never fully recovered from the skipping incident. So I'll have to stick to walking the dog which is probably as good an exercise as any and at least you get fresh air. However, I think that we all like to feel part of a movement, a rhythm, (if you'll pardon the pun) and that the sense of belonging to a group of people committed to improving themselves in some way is the finest reminder of our continued existence in the world whether it's through an activity such as writing or indeed exercising. Well, I've got the writing bit sewn up but I don't think that this spectator sport business is going to work on my middle-age spread. Perhaps I should try swimming again. Actual swimming. I think I'll have a cup of coffee and think about it.

A new arrival

2008-09-12T20:35:00.001+01:00

Marmaduke has just started his own blog. He doesn't say a lot but we're hoping to get a little insight into the cat world.

Virginia Woolf brought me breakfast in bed today

2008-09-12T09:18:00.004+01:00

In 1929, Virginia Woolf wrote A Room of One's Own (1929), with its famous dictum, "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."

Let's take a room of one's own in the first instance. I've tried having a room of my own for writing purposes and strangely, I have settled for the busiest room in the house, the sitting room. I can sit on the sofa with my feet up on the coffee table to avoid the spider underneath the chest and look out to the garden through the patio doors. I've got somewhere to rest my coffee cup, the television's there if I want to put it on and I've got the dog for company. It's not idyllic when the children are around but aside from school holidays, I'm usually busy running about with them anyway. So it's not about rooms, it's about spaces in which you feel comfortable.

And money? I've just been trying to find out who first said that you can never be too rich or too thin but I've decided to give up on that one. I think to be comfortably well-off and comfortable with your size is the best you can strive for; I'm a bit doubtful of being either but it's always good to have a goal in mind even if its achievement is constantly deferred. I digress.

I've been rather preoccupied with thinking about living spaces because we're moving and in this dreary market, waiting for an offer on our house, at least we do have time to think about what we want. Something smaller, for a start. Something older, definitely. Our house is very nice but it is a mish-mash of different styles and this disturbs me for some reason. There are certain practical considerations; we need four bedrooms, one of which must be large enough for the older boys to share when they're both at home. There are other matters to consider but I won't bore you with those right now. Because I've had time to ponder, I've come to the conclusion that my preference is for houses that are authentic to their period. I don't want the latest style in kitchen or bathroom; there is something really appealing to me about original fixtures and details. But, of course, the next question is, just how far do you take it?

We've looked at one or two houses built in the 1920's - 1930's. We're not going to dress in clothes of the 1920's or dance the Charleston instead of watching TV in the evenings. By its very unprogressive nature, it would be self-defeating to embrace modernist values so it's not about that either. It's not about identifying with a particular era, or a process of re-enacting. And yet I know that there is something wrong in not recognising that each generation will leave their contribution to the house. This is only tolerable to me when it's been done a long time ago. For instance, it's fascinating if the original house was built in the 1500s with additions made in the 1700s. However, a house built in Victorian times with a 1970s double glazing thrown in is less desirable. If it's recent, it has to be sympathetic (Estate Agents' speak) but if it's history then it's OK.

A friend of mine has a house built at exactly the same time as ours, 1959. The main difference, between them in terms of style is that hers has original fixtures and not only that, they're in a wonderful condition. I think that as a nation of DIY-ers we've probably ruined most of our houses by now. I don't disagree with change when it's real progression such as replacement windows and heating or redecoration as an expression of creativity. Anything else and you can save yourself a lot of money because sooner or later it will come back into fashion. Your newly purchased whatever-style kitchen/bathroom won't have the enduring spirit of the original.

And talking of enduring spirits, I didn't really have Virginia Woolf bring me breakfast in bed today - I think she may be a bit too full-on first thing in the morning - but it was Sarah's prompt and it set me off thinking about why I want a period house. See how bad my obsession's got?

What are you waiting for?

2008-09-11T06:09:00.002+01:00

Yesterday, I met a man who was waiting; he was frustrated, exasperated, apologetic. What was he waiting for? A computer. In my experience, it is not unusual for there to be an association between waiting, computers and frustration but I always try to remind myself what wonderful creations they actually are, how my life would be so totally different without them. They are almost like magic to me, in the real sense that I will never understand how they work. I know that I could not do the things I do without one. But then I'm a writer and it is my tool.

Yesterday, the man I met was a consultant at a hospital. The source of his frustration was that he had a computer sitting on his desk that had been there for 4 weeks and no one had come to make it work. He said that in all probability it would sit there for another 4 weeks before anything happened. Apparently, the NHS computerised things 8 years ago and this added to his exasperation that the investment hadn't been there previously in this very nice private hospital (if anyone wants to lecture me on the immorality of going private then I probably deserve it). The point is that he was obviously as lost as I might be if I had to permanently resort to writing by hand, not being able to Google things and all the other really useful things I do like open accounts, fill virtual baskets with purchases and then empty them again before closing down for the night.

Anyway, my GP is wonderful as are all of those at the surgery but I have noticed a growing trend for note-taking on the computer whilst you're talking. I'm not suggesting that I necessarily get an impression of them saying a silent 'Are you still here then?' (although this is entirely possible) but that somehow I'm bypassing the doctor and speaking to the computer. This is more of an observation of the natural progression of things rather than a criticism. Of course, the doctor is not Googling my symptoms.

There was something very reassuring about sitting opposite the consultant who scribbled away on a sheet of paper as I talked; the magic of technology didn't intervene. Not even once.

A Week Without Speaking

2008-09-09T14:18:00.003+01:00

It is perfectly possible to imagine a week without speaking. Obviously, it would be completely impossible to stop those around me from speaking (particularly those under, say, 4 feet tall) and decidedly risky to suggest to anyone over say, 5 feet 11 inches tall that they should not speak as there is a very great danger that it may be irreversible (I'm referring here to teenagers and husbands). That aside, I will now plan my week of silence.

Best to start on a Monday. Probably about 9ish when the children are off at school/college/university. I can vacuum, dust, clean the bathroom. I'm not sure that I can tidy bedrooms without outwardly cursing the fact that I'm picking up wet towels off the bed yet again with the certainty that they'll be back there again tomorrow morning. I will practise silent cursing. I can order my grocery shopping on the internet. When it comes, I'll have to accept all the substitutes.

I could text people. Perhaps even improve my texting skills. I don't usually send texts because it takes me too long which is odd because I can touch type very fast. I suppose that I'm not used to the ordering of the keys on the mobile phone keypad and as we get older we become reluctant to change our ways of doing things.

I could talk to people on MSN or whatever is the in thing at the moment. Except that most people are out and about in the world, not sitting in looking for non-verbal communication. I could look through Facebook, think of witty things to write on people's walls about the exciting things I'm up to but I only joined to keep up with my eldest son and not many grown ups are into that sort of idle chit-chat. Not in writing, anyway.

I could watch television but most of the programmes shown in the daytime are repeats so this would be short-lived as an enjoyable pastime. I could search for houses or clothes on the internet but I did that yesterday.

I could do some cooking, read a book, stroll around the town. Without being able to speak, I would be limited to the thoughts bouncing around inside my head. Which brings me to my point. I've been planning an exercise for a Communications Group for stroke survivors, some of whom are limited to a handful of words. Sometimes we can't find the right words but imagine never being able to find the words. And so we have to look for alternatives to speaking, a new way of communicating ideas and enriching lives. I don't think I couldn't speak for even just a week. Some of them belong to the older generation, some don't but they all have to learn a new way to communicate and that must take a lot of effort. Makes you think, doesn't it?