September in France

Six hours bobbing across the English channel had better be worth it. I am not the greatest of sailors and after overdosing on seasicky tablets I made sure I knew where every sick bag was located in the entire ferry.I needn't have worried - the ferry is a massive cruise thingy and hardly noticed the mild swell or the 640 vehicles in its bottom that should have sunk it. I like to look on the bright side.

So, arrived in Cheap Tobaccoland and set off via the marvels of sat nav to the undiscovered interior of Brittany for a weekend of Frenchy fun.

Unfortunately Pontivy was asleep on Saturday but there were plenty of Tabacs to keep my thirst quenched.

Apparently it is traditional to have camels in the street in St Brieuc!

Quimper was also very pretty - this the Cathedral de St Corentin...

Quimper also gave me a taste of French cuisine - yummy!

The river was full of carp who enjoyed l'hamburger - obviously not fussy eaters.

Old bits of Quimper city wall.

And then to Concarneau (Konk Carne in Breton!).....

Me on the wall at Concarneau. It was about 31 degs and me skinnies were cooking me legs!

Ville Close (Closed town) - a town within a fort within the harbour within the town of Concarneau - yes, really!

Loved this part of France - very similar to Cornwall and I now have enough medicinal supplies (l'vino) to last me until Christmas 2015. Bien!

Now...where next?

A-muse-ing myself

With wilful neglect I left The Muse chatting up a dodgy Greek waiter last month.

I was fed up with her fickle ways and smug tones and I got on the plane home without her. She looked happy enough in my silver lurex bikini and genuine Dolechee and Kebabbana sunglasses but she still hasn't come home.

I don't mind about the erratic shopping lists, or the sloppily constructed notes to the Feckers, but I have half a mind to do some writing but she is still having a blonde moment and is romancing Panos Christos Mikos Stupidos in some bar in Kalamaki.

Anyway while she is getting her slut fix I wondered what it would be like to be a Muse, an inspirational, creative juice enhancing Minx! Heh heh....

(Minx with a pearl earring and a rather fetching hair wrap)

(Mona "fat cheeks" Minx)

(Marie Antoinminx - loving the hair extensions!)

Oh dear, the King of Muse would be turning over in his grave....

(Bard from an awful lot of pubs)

Anyway, if you see the harlot, send her home and tell her to bring some more of those nice olives. If not then please just share your musings in the box provided below and hopefully I can at least have a laugh.

Live streaming

I started thinking (always a dangerous pastime) and wondered if kick-starting some writing could come from no apparent kick.

I have turned off the editor (who is probably sat at some bar somewhere anyway) and let the fingers free to do as they will.

Nothing is happening....

I need coffee.

Can you just ramble on about nothing and find it interesting?

The answer is no, Kate, you are beyond stupid. Can you get beyond stupid? Are there stages of stupid and what about before stupid - what's that?

Anyway, I'm not interested in the slightest. My own inner voice has bored the pants off me for a while now. How the fuck do you feel? If I am bored then how can you be interested in the inane claptrap that often adorns this blog?

I need a wee - the toilet seat is still broken, in case you wanted to know.

I have the mind of the femalest of female butterflies, I can't even go to the loo without being distracted by thoughts that have no relevance to the job in hand - erk! I am wondering if the Feckers have started eating toilet paper - am I not buying enough food - are they resorting to quilted muesli?

And why am I buying quilted toilet paper - eeeek, I have been brainwashed by the very adverts that I don't watch. What is wrong with ordinary paper with which to wipe - we lived with the unquilted variety for years and years and before that there was school loo paper? Paper? Paper? That was not paper. That was some kind of genital torture with the absorbancy of teflon.

Small Fecker is now talking to me in the voice of King Julian from the film Madagascar - there is no hope for any of us.

I need nicotine.

King Julian says that there is something that I shouldn't be missing on the tv but he is lying to get me off the computer. I shall give up the hot seat but not before I have ordered a ton of school loo paper.

I really should eat.

Hunted in fridge and found a piece of crusty cheese, half a tomato - (who puts half a tomato back in the fridge?) and a tub of houmous that has crisps already added - how thoughtful!

So, I will try not to lose hope about my writing and I will pray to the small Gods of Good Blogging that one day this stream of consciousness turns into a river and I can start making sense again.

And so the wait begins........

Gratuitous bikini shot (because I'm old, and shallow!)

I really must learn not to smile so much!

Costas (who else?) drives an easy bargain - eetsa no problem! His array of not-so-shiny scooters await the tourist who dares. We purchase our transport and take off like the responsible non-teenagers we are. The helmuts are safely stored under the seat - no point in looking after your head when you are driving around in a bikini and bare feet.

A little should be said about the roads - in fact a whole lot should be said about the roads but it is best to try and stay alive along a highway(think overlarge lane) that has been laid down by some lunatic Greeks. The tarmac resembles a recent eruption of some Ionian volcano coupled with potholes that come with their own guide.

I not only survive but can also navigate the island without the aid of signposts. Why do you need signposts on such a small island - you will get there eventually, but tomorrow may have to be soon enough!

And so, off into the depths of the Greek countryside where we are verbally attacked by the cricket noise. Rosemary, thyme, lemons and olives arrive on the wind that I can only describe as Greek salad. We drive through the 'Greekness' and pass small inlets of pure turquoise. At every turn there are stone houses, olive groves, mountainous hills and death-defying drops to a sea that has no right to be that colour.

I find an unpleasant side to scooting. My teeth have become a graveyard to small flying bodies who haven't got the horse-power to avoid their enammeled death. I am a death-bringer and I really should learn not to smile so much. Killing the locals might be an offence if the police were remotely interested!

Presenting Zakynthos (Zante)

There was....

...nice sea views.... ..and nice flowers.... ...pretty coloured water...

...a few old ruins...

...nice mountains to climb...

...and valleys to look at...

..an attractive coastline...

..the water was very blue..

...and they had some caves...

...and a shipwreck cove...

...and some rocks...

...and some very high cliffs...

..oh, and the sun was quite hot as well...

Live long and popcorn

A trip to the cinema still excites me. Sharing a film with a bunch of film nerds and the overpowering smell of stale popcorn has never been enough to put me off going to see a nice big, fat, phaser drenched blockbuster.
Last night I trotted off to exchange body odours at the latest Star Trek movie.

A long time fan of the Star Trekking series and films I was a little worried that this one would fall on its ass before me ice cream melted. Going back to the beginning and resurrecting the original cast in new bodies was going to be a hard one to get my head around and just how were they going to capture the infinite cheesyness of James Tiberius Kirk, Bones, the grumpy bastard in sick bay or the engineering ("I'm giving it all she's got, Captain") madness of dear old Scotty.
And should I have been worried that the collective age of the crew only put them a few light years ahead of High School Musical (a film I know nothing about, I hasten to add)?

No, no worries at all. This was cracking film from the breathtaking CGI'd docking station that felt like 3D to the re-invented, facially tattooed (rather sexy) Romulan baddies. Thingy Wotsit, the director, got it spock on and even the uniforms brought on a familiar feeling like an old, comfy pair of lycra slippers.

I am left with a) an aching need to see it again, and b) a wish to hop on a plane and get the next one finished as soon as possible.
For the time being I will content myself with trying to fathom why I am now hopelessly in lust with the deliciously pointy attributed features of young Mr Spock....



.......beam me up, baby!!

I'm wondering if facial hair is a good look!

The tanning conspiricy and other unlikely theories

I met an acquaintance outside a shop.

"You haven't been in there have you?"

"Err, yes and no." I said, glancing back into the tanning shop. I knew what was coming next - yep, here we go....

"Skin cancer." she hissed.

"Unlikely." I hissed back, and moved off before she had a chance to tell me that I was going to drop dead next month.

(gravy browning will kill you one day!)

It wasn't that I didn't agree with her, over-tanning is definitely bad for you but it would be hard to explain about a congenital liver condition = low level jaundice = nausea and that 3 mins of UV a week helps keep me healthy!

No, okay, I suppose it wouldn't be that hard to explain . I do have a bit of a tan - it was mostly gained from an afternoon sorting out a jungly garden last week, but do I need to justify that to anyone? Surely my choices are my own.
The government helpfully put pictures of nasty diseases on packets of cigarettes - desperately trying to look politically correct they are still raking in the extortionate taxes. It is the same with alcohol and all the other vices that humans like.

(No? Well, maybe you should be!)

Too much of anything can kill you but I am struggling to find a reason for not getting as much fresh, tax free, legal air that I can.

Dear Madam,

further to our conversation about my abject misery last summer I am just writing to ask you if the signs that I see all around me are in fact just another one of your little jokes (last year you thought it funny that I had purchased seventeen new t-shirts and never got to wear any of them without a fur coat/wooley hat/gloves/wellies over the top) but it seems to me that spring might be underway.

I am not usually given to dumping a load of flowery type pictures on my blog (there are far more shoes in my wardrobe that probably deserve it more) but I just wanted to display the promise you have shown.I know that thunderstorms and gale force winds, hail, snow and bitter cold are probably more entertaining for you but would you please take into consideration that humans are marginally less miserable when the weather is good.


In essence, madam, I am putting in a request for one of our usual Cornish summers and not the miserable effort you gave us last year as it is very hard to look stylish in a pair of muddy wellies.

Yours
Minx

pee ess - I am enclosing an invoice for the t-shirts.



(All photos were taken at near Mawnan on the Helford Passage, Cornwall, and no plants were harmed in the making of this blog post.)

Walking canvas

I can almost hear my parents turning over in their graves sighing - "oh jeezus, not another one".

I am resisting the urge to smirk, teenagelike and trying to remember that I am in my forties and should know better. It isn't working.

Whoop, whoop! I have just added to my modest catalogue of bodyart with, again, a self designed tat.

It is still a little scaley, flaking healthily to reveal the brand new branding underneath. I love it just as much as I love my other small works of skin art.

This is the first tattoo that I've had that I can't really cover up, especially in summer. My other ones range from mildly hidden to completely hidden in everyday life.
I have never had any wish to become a tattooed lady, full body art, sleeves, cuffs etc have never appealed to me and I have always been a little concious of not losing a job or upsetting my boss at work who sometimes glances pointedly at my nose piercing (very ouch). I have enough to satisfy the alternative me but not enough to frighten small children.

In case any of you are remotely interested here are some FAQ's...

Does it hurt?
Yes, like fuck, but after the initial sting you kind of get to like it! He said I would scream like a banshee when he got to my big toe - I didn't (women are so much better at pain) but I did wince after when I stubbed my toe getting off the chair.

How long does it take?
The whole thing took an hour from prep to the last needle hole (I should say five needle holes because the shading tool has seven darling little needles).

Is it painful afterwards?
Not really, just a bit like sunburn. I use a gel designed for piles (an ancient remedy and completely un-official) and it helps combat the drive-you-nuts itching you get as it heals (do NOT pick).

How long does it take before it settles in?
About a month to six weeks. You endure the scabby, flaking and then you are left with a raised design - this goes down completely in about six months.

Are tattoos addictive?
Totally. As soon as one is finished I want another!

Do I have any regrets?
None at all. I love my bodyart. They are with you for life so being branded with someone's name has never appealed. I thought long and hard about each one and planned them down to the finest detail.

My only advice to anyone would be - express yourself if you are absolutely sure it is you that you are expressing!

Master of the dance

Oh yikes! There it was lying in a heap of newly minted freshness on my doormat. It was late but that made it no less interesting. The request inside said 'for review for John Baker's Virtual Tour' and seeing as today is today I had exactly six days to cogitate and spit out a review of a book that fell into none of my usual reading categories.

I have blogged alongside John Baker for over three years. I admire his dedication to keeping his blog crisp, neat and professional (unlike my own rabid, meandering, often of late, neglected blogspot). I have also admired his dry sense of humour and nifty line in hats! So, who is John Baker and why does he tell me that he has been tangoed?

John is a crime writer and his latest offering - Winged with Death, is simply a great read (so far!). As an 'occasional' writer I am intrigued by the process of writing and how a writer gets down and dirty with his subject. The novel opens in Uruguay, John says...

"I dreamed Uruguay. Or at least I dreamed Montevideo. Just woke up one morning and realised I'd been in Montevideo all night long. Never visited the place in reality. Started writing immediately to get the feeling of the place down on paper."

..and he did. The novel opens with a near penniless Frederick Boyle landing in this heaving nest of intrigue and the prose is a dance in itself, weaving through the hideously censured world of Uruguay in the 70's. The dance fascinated me, I learned a lot as Frederick Boyle evolves into Ramon Bolio and works his way through the process of becoming a Milonguero - a master of the dance.

John surprised me even more by telling me that tango has been part of his life for a while (always write about what you know!). I threw out the image of a Yorkshireman with a rose between his teeth as the author explained that tango is far less saucy than I would like to imagine (he would nevertheless like to have a go with Penelope Cruz if given the chance!).

I am alsmost embarrassed to say that I have not read John before but Winged with Death (I am on page 216) has alerted my reading senses to a genre I vaguely ignored before. Well written, crisp, neat and ultimately a page turner.

"Florencia is sweet and sickening at the same time. She attracts and repels. I find her repulsiveness attractive. She is forbidden territory. I am not allowed her"

As is my want, I asked John some very probing (read 'stupid') questions and in particular one was about his Spanish name, should he ever wish to change. "Pandero de John." he replied, which very simply translates as John Baker. I liked it as much as I like the book and have decided that my own blog name translated could serve me well - 'Moza Descarada Interna'.

Anyway if you are edging on the brink of trying a crime novel I would urge you to give this a go. He's actually quite good!

Oh, and he blogs HERE

News and stuff

For those of you who -
a) Couldn't be bothered
b) Gave all their loose change to that dodgy looking bloke selling DVD's for £1.99
c) Thought that witches went out with the last one burnt at the stake
d) or thought that Dorcas Fleming was just a figment of my imagination

well, here's an easy way to get hold of my words....

SMASHWORDS

COVEN OF ONE is now at the the mercy of your mouse. Click it and see!

Coven of One is still selling steadily and if you would still like to purchase one in the old fashioned way and still enjoy having the real thing on your shelf then you can go here and buy a nice smelling, shiny new copy as well.

Opening Chapter Publishers

Go on, you know your are curious!!

An audience with the Pope

So, I stopped the clocks and got off my not-so-merry-go-round for a while. Did you miss me? No, probably not - you all have your own Popish meetings to attend and in the grand scheme of things mine was just a quick chat with his holiness.

He's like that, the Pope, I mean, he fitted me in between a couple of heads of state and the latest episode of Lost and offered some sound advice about engine tuning. He told me to ignore all the moaning emails and concentrate on getting my car back on the road. So I did.

My little car was knackered and had lost its sense of direction, it kept driving down one way streets the wrong way and parking in illegal places! His Popeness suggested the scrap yard but I found a wonderful car mechanic who cleaned up my oil spills and pleasantly tweaked my over-fandangled condooberaters until I was on the road again.

So remember....

If you have an audience with the Pope
and you're saving the world at eight
If he says he needs you,
he says he needs you,
everybody's going to have to wait!

And you did - thank you.

The wickedest party in the universe

Presenting......

The GIN CLUB!

Happy me


Gazza rocking us up with wicked tunes


Party on

Glamour girls

Big Fecker