Sing-along-a-Minx......."Neighhhbours, evereeebody loves good neighhhbours....

'His wife died you know, breast cancer, mmmm.'

'Oh'

I have long since stopped jumping put of my skin every time my neighbour pops up behind the deliberately overgrown fuchsia. The 'Oh' was more of a mask for the 'shit, shit, shit' that was running through my head whilst I planned a dastardly escape from the dreaded Irma (as in 'Irmageddon', can't tell you her real name - you'll laugh).

I had spent the morning trying to make the garden look like a garden again. Irma works until lunchtime so I thought that I could garden in peace. I suppose I had been doing my usual and was staring off into space when Irma caught in what she interpreted as a spot of 'Neighbourhoodwatching'.

'Mr B, mmm, did you know?'

Oh God, how to answer? If I engage I'll never get rid of her and I'll have to listen to entire life history's of the whole town.
Don't get me wrong, I'm sure that my neighbours are all very nice people. I like them being there but I don't want to enter into their lives.
Irma would like to enter mine. She's tried a few times. The last time she got in she asked when the carpets were coming!!
Her house is the antithesis of all things Victorian, a hermetically sealed tribute to the seventies. Mine embraces the old, 1882 glass and we are rather partial to the wobbly-bobbly horizon and the drafts that try to nick your slippers. They think we're weird!!

She and Mr Geddon were very excited when we moved in and were determined that we were going to become their 'new best friends'. Thankfully it only took a very drunken, housewarming party to set the record straight, but she forgets herself sometimes.
When the kids were younger we used to lie down on the floor and pretend we weren't in- tsk, tsk, I don't do net curtains either!

So, I was trapped, I put my hands up and listened to the sordid tale of poor Mr B until I spotted Big Fecker standing at the door.

'Don't mention coffee' I yelled telepathically ' I'll give you a tenner, you can get drunk at the weekend and I won't say a word, no coffee, no coffee!'

'Mum, Dementia's on the phone.'

I made my apologies and scuttled inside expecting the phone to be handed to me.

'You owe me one' Big Fecker said smiling!

Eats, shoots and leaves with a smile!

Fans of English done proper should have a look at Robbie Lane and Co at 'My Grammar Could Hit The Target From That Distance'.
I am now thinking of going armed with a camera to 'out' all the offending signs at my local market!

Oops - forgot what day it was!

Sometimes I forget what a beautiful place I live in and sometimes I forget what day it is.
End of May bank holiday has great significance in Cornwall. Unlike May 1st we are not singing the 'Oss' and welcoming earthy Pagan Rites but it is still a date that we all abide by.
I forgot!!

As the MD was working and I had done some household chores which deserved a treat I set off with Small Fecker on a quest for some cultural viewing and a large ice cream in our favourite parlour in St Ives.
St Ives is lovely, full of tiny streets that you couldn't swing a cat in, should you feel the need. It hasn't changed a great deal from the time this old photograph was taken.
I thought it was funny that we couldn't park in our usual carpark and we had to use the park and ride. It was also funny that the bus was full!
By the time we got into the town my brain was slowly starting to realise the mistake that I had made.

NO QUAINT TOWNS FOR CORNISH PEOPLE AFTER THE MIDDLE OF MAY, IDIOT

It was heaving with accents. Brummies, Mancs, Scots everywhere and all attired in their 'I'm on holiday' outfits. Pale, hairy legs that had no right to be in shorts and t-shirts with cheesy slogans stretched across beer bellies - the men weren't much better either!

"We'll go to the Tate, they won't have found it yet" I said dragging Small Fecker through the heaving masses. (This is based on Locals Knowledge - holiday makers usually arrive on Saturday and it takes them a while to get their bearings).
Wrong again. The queue for the Tate was up the hill.

"To The Island" I said.
This is in fact a typical Cornish lie but I'll talk about them at a later date. Suffice to say that the island in question is not an island but a sticky out bit of land with sea on three sides.
I grabbed an ice cream from a van on the way and we took refuge behind some rocks for an hour.
All was blissful, the sea was aquamarine with whitehorses dancing on the windblown tops.
"What's out there if you don't stop" SF asked pointing seawards.
"Ireland"
"We don't get many Irish on holiday, do we?"
"No F, just the rest of the world."

Don't get me wrong, Cornwall needs its holiday makers in order to survive. We moan about our horrendous water rates but we know deep down that nowadays it is our only source of income.
I've now put a star on the calender marking the date when it will be safe to venture into town again, roll on September!

The Suicide Squad

For the first time, in what seems ages , the sun woke me up.
Cornwall has been going through a kind of monsoon period coupled with a soupy, gloopy fog.
I tried to get back to sleep as it was only six o'clock but the cat was sitting on my chest with his 'I want a wee' look.

It is the first day of half term, I was hoping for a long lie-in but once up, the sea was calling. I jumped in the car and drove two miles to my favourite spot. It is un-named, but sits between Hells Mouth and Dead Man's Cove, both good suicide spots - Cornwall is full of cheery places.
I have an irrational fear of heights but the cliffs are one place where I can perch without my knees going jellylike. I found a great nook and settled down with my notebook.
Almost on cue the gulls came. I hate them. That is, I hate them when they are in town. They nick food from your hand and despite the warnings holiday makers still persist in encouraging the bastards.
I watched them in their own enviroment and they are indeed beautiful, graceful, soaring on the updrafts and wheeling high overhead. As a flock they took up positions just below me, wedging their pasty-stuffed bodies onto the most impossible ledges. All I could hear for about ten minutes was the sound of the surf crashing on the rocks below and the odd low squawk.
It was almost as if they were waiting for something, and they were.

I don't know what the signal was, but they knew. One by one they left the cliff and dived two hundred feet straight down to the sea. Beaks vertical, wings back they hurtled downwards until at the last minute they pulled off a turn that took them out over the heaving waters.

It was like a test, a seagull competition, a battle of nerve and seagull skill. Some of the younger ones, greyer in colour, pulled off before they got to the bottom and were railed by the older ones who laughed at their chickeness.
Half an hour later they moved off towards the closest town. Breakfast was calling and so was mine!

load of late night night crap

I thought I was droink but now I'm not so sure. Not sure I should be in here but evryone else is asleep so I thought I'd write a post with no subject and see what happens.. Hah!
Oh yes I was gong to talk about drunk, oh look up there it's droink, that's better. Oh fuckj.
maybe this is bad idea diazapam and chardonnay, after a very scientific experiment don't mix, no they don't.
Oh no, not depression, I can hear you you know, wtf was that 'you you' business, no not depressed .I've got a virus in my shoulder- that makes sense then, you stupid twat.
The witch doctor, him give me diazapam to relax shoulder, and I am relaxed....all over, so relaxed that i've just fallen up steps and giddled on the dorrstep for twenty minutes.
Got pissed on account of being an exemplary practice during ofsted, should that be carpitals? Yes numpty.
am not longer an exemplary of anything (ho jesus the italians have invaded).
Yess, got pissed and whipped the awful cow with my acid tongue but after a boat race with baileys, my legs lost the will to live so I come home.
I 'm thinking about sausages which is stranger than starange cos I really don't eat meat. Well none from the kebab shop anyway because you never know whats in them do you. What kind of animal comes in a roll anyway - there's probably some wag out there that will tell me the answer to this problem but I'm off for a sausage now and will reap the rewards of my drug ccktail in the morning. Love evry single one of you utterluy and completely.

Guess what?

Pundy's come home!!

Oh God, I've got SMO

I've never thought of myself as a person with obsessions. The washing of hands or the betting of the neddies has never really appealed although there are a few drugs that I'm a bit partial to.
A couple of posts lately, both on my blog and 'out there somewhere' have made me start to obsess about my Site Metre.
I didn't have one at first and got along just nicely without thank you, but then I started to notice these little boxes on people's blogs and some of them were flashing seductively!
I've had it for a while now and I used to pop in ocasionally to have a gawp at the visitors book. Now I find I'm having a gawp before reading my blog - is this normal?
In the last few days I've really studied the comings and goings and I've even found a little map that tells me where they all come from - how dinky is that?
Oh I know I'm probably a complete ignoramous, but did you know that it has graphs and everything and can even predict what is going to happen tomorrow. Does the rest of the world know of this device, it could change lives, goverments, the universe!

Nearly there!

I can see it
Yes, there it is, over there, do you see it?
Yes it is, it's the light at the end of the tunnel.
Thank fuck for that

Staff photo

I'm in disguise in the front row, second from the left!

A tiny morsel....

......for Debi

Just a tiny offering to say well done to turning your back on the daily slog. Can't produce anything bigger because OFSTED starts tomorrow and I'm busy thinking up ways to convince the Education Mafia that my glib attitude to the National Curriculum has only served to make the children better, more rounded individuals!!
Have supplied myself with a large bar of chocolate (nothing new there then) and a tub of vaseline to make smiling easier. No doubt the kids will let me down in some horribly evil fashion but come Friday when it's all over..........

Two months and counting

Just realised it's two months today since I started blogging.
That means you've got me for one more month (according to blog statistics) before I go into a serious decline and fade silently into blog oblivion!

Where do blogs go when they die?

Whodunnit - whocares!!

I have been wandering around for an hour, picking up the empties and the odd wig, trying to figure out why I feel like I've been kicked by a small and vicious donkey. It was only when the MD showed me last night's photographic evidence that I realised that I have probably broken ribs from laughing so much!

The Gin Gang and the Beerpigs did themselves proud and as usual threw themselves into the 'spirit' of the night. We had wine labels for Scarfazi Vineyards replacing the originals and a priest with who could blaspheme in latin - his holy water turned out to be gin (wayhay!!).

The outfits were extreme, supreme and in the case of the thinly moustached MD just a little too realistic for words. YUM!

Dementia, who was playing a psychic, had trouble with her accent and returned to her thick Brummie roots whilst Demoana, who had managed to put her wig on backwards, spent the evening running to the tv to keep us up to date on Eurovision (we had a sweepstake going on the worst song).

By 2am no one gave a shit who had murdered who and we ate the last of the chocolatey (couldn't call it Tiramisu because Demanda had forgotten the alcohol) pudding and the MD and I sent them off in taxi's after they had woken up all the neighbours signing Sinatra songs.

We are now thinking of booking into a proper Murder Mystery weekend and inflicting ourselves on the public at large - anybody done one?

PS I didn't do it - it was that rat, oops, can't say in case you ever do this one

I really should be cooking!

But just had to get another post in before I attack the wine because I have something to say....

In mailing Lee Lowe this morning with an account of my 'Writing Course' history it set me thinking about what I got out of those mostly dreary hours I spent in the company of some serious weirdos.
I think I did them to try and validate my writing and to get some new feedback! Friends and family are great but they lie through their loving and giving teeth!!
In the last few days I have been whizzing about listening, and partaking, in some lively debates with people who, are not only like minded, but have some insightful words and advice about books, publishing, pitfalls and all manner of writerly things.
Everyday I laugh, cry, spit, giggle and swear at the posts I read and this has only served to make me feel plumped, coddled, advised and revived.
So thanks!
Blogging is the best Writing Group/Course I have ever attended and double bonus - it's going to last more than ten weeks!!

Now, back to my pizza parcels.......

I do love a good Murder!!

'You're wearing that???'

'I'm trying to.'

It has been a long time since I have made the MD's eyes pop out like an over-squeezed hamster and I have to say I quite liked the effect.
I have just tried ( pushed, pulled, forced) on my outfit for tonight's extravaganza. Complete with short, bobbed, Mary Quant style wig and some very dodgy, jewellery I am hoping to take ten years off. Yeah right!!

We are hosting this month's gathering of the Gin Co-operative and the Beerpigs and we're having a 'Murder Mystery a la Carte'.
We've done them before, but last time I ended up as Sister Wendy Miller who did in fact turn out to be 'Miller the Killer' but the outfit was hot, heavy and soooo not me!!
But tonight Matthew, I'm going to be ........Tara Misu, wanton wife of the gangster Rocco Scarfazi.
Can't stop long because I, stupidly, I opted to make a full Italian menu instead of grabbing a takeaway from Mr Munch in town.
The MD finds it very easy to slip into an accent and I have been worrying all week than I'm going to sound like I've swallowed a Dutch Lativian crossed with the Swedish Chef from Sesame Street. Oh well, probably won't matter if I fill them all with vino before opening my gob!
Now, back to my twenty year old dress - where did I put that shoe horn??

Diiiing-donnnnng!

Have just finished a first aid course with the most gorgeous paramedic ever. Am leaving you all
to take up a new nursing career!!
















(me in my new uniform!!)


Ps Cookies weren't broke, just needed an MOT.

I seek advice

Does anyone know why I can't comment on a typepad blog? As soon as I try to publish I get 'page expired'. I going to expire myself soon and my friends are going to think that I'm completely ignorant! Help!

To write - but how shall I begin? For I fear that I have nothing original in me excepting original sin. - Thomas Campbell (poet)

In this day and age is there still capacity for original thought? Are our thoughts, ideas and inventions not pirated as soon as we have placed them in the public domain? This kind of thought bothers me sometimes.

Having quietly voiced the outline of a new idea at work, I was gobmacked later, at a staff meeting, to find that it was coming out of the mouth of my colleague and she was claiming it as her own!
'Bloody plagiarist' I wanted to scream.
Mine! Mine! Mine!
And then I laughed.
Could I stand up in court saying 'Not guilty m'lud' with hand on heart, swearing that I had never bootlegged, nicked or copied an idea from elsewhere? No, of course I couldn't. I would be lying through my not-quite-so original teeth

Wilson Mizner the playright said: "If you steal from one author it's plagiarism, if you steal from many it's research".

I am, therefore, bereft of original thought, idea or invention. Everything I say, or do, or write, is lovingly swiped from those I admire and wish to emulate. Every word I hear that I like, that I want, is pasted into my 'favourites', to be dug out on a suitable occasion and claimed as my own!

An irritating habit of a recent tutor led him to compare style and content with the masters making one feel inadequate and devoid of any smidge of originality. In passing my (more than) worthy efforts over to him, I began to dread the red scribblings that would adorn my piece in return. In Minx-like frustration I shamelessly took a Seamus Heaney poem, 'Skylight', changed each and every word with my trusty thesaurus and handed it over. Hah! Surprise, surprise not one red dot or squiggle on the whole thing! He called it an 'interesting' and 'origina'l take on a loft hatch!!

And blogging, ideas flow across the blogosphere like an ever-growing patchwork quilt. Read something over there and it will undoubtably pop up over here in the next few days. Not word for word, but the idea is taken, twisted and spat out in a slightly different arrangement. So with this in mind i have decided that my new and totally original idea for a novel is going to stay firmly between my ears, for now.

"The original writer is not he who refrains from imitating others, but he who can be imitated by none" - Francois-Rene Chateaubriand.

And while we're on the subject!

Certes, methinks Mastere Chaucer hath thieved of Da Vinci!

Swoon...

at these beautiful poetical Rubies!

50 (useless) bits of information!

1. I love sleepy kisses
2. I hate eye bogeys
3. I loathe parsnips
4. and prunes
5. but I love food
6. I hate walking for no reason
7. I love walking on the beach in winter
8. I could buy shoes every day of the year
9. I would like to read more crap
10. I would like to really understand poetry
11. I love Cornwall because we're so cut off
12. I hate Cornwall because we're so cut off
13. I love the smell of petrol
14. I hate tights
15. and I hate my legs in them even more
16. I can't stand rudeness
17. I like swearing and do it once an hour
18. I love the sea
19. I love swimming
20. I hate being on the sea
21. I wish we were born without toenails
22. I hate cold hands and hot heads
23. I wait until my burnt toast is cold before buttering
24. I like being cuddled even if I'm not upset
25. I like fire
26. I hate fireworks
27. I lust after baldies
28. I love the smell of wet earth
29. I hate the smell of wet dog
30. I adore chocolate
31. I hate babies knees
32. I wish I was braver about spiders
33. I think I could kill someone who harmed my family
34. I want the truth
35. but I can lie like a snake
36. I can spend two hours in the bath
37. I hate plucking anything
38. I drink too much on Sundays
39. and not enough on Saturdays
40. I have to drink to do the ironing
41. I love the MD (Main Driver)
42. and the Feckers
43. and the cat and the dog
44. I'm partial to the postman
45. I like my comfy bed attire
46. I adore my pointy boots
47. I can't live without tea
48. I can't live without a pen and book
49. I hate writing
50. I love writing

The Graveyard Shift

'But there's no more room' the MD moaned.
I shoved a trowel in his hands and pointed his unhelpful ass towards the front door.
'Just do it' I said through gritted teeth 'I am fed up with coffins lined up by the back door.

This was a slight exageration. It has been sometime since we last had to bury a body in the consecrated front garden and yesterday I was keen to get this one over and done with and get on with some serious writing.

'Under the mint,' I suggested 'I don't think there's anybody under there.'
I waited until a suitable hole was dug and then carried down the last remains of Simon, now comfortably residing in an old birthday card box.
'This will have to stop you know' the MD said as we laid Simon carefully in his final resting place.
I knew it did, but some habits are hard to break.

I had been gardening on Saturday when I found him. His fat body, that had so cleverly wedged itself in the smallest of holes, was there in the border by the rosemary. Simon, the porkiest toad you have ever seen, now buried in a garden that was already full of treasured pets.
I say pets, but there was only Possum, my darling old ginger cat and Harry, the hamster, that could really claim this title. Most of them were roadkill, or catkill, that the kids had needed to bury in order to have closure!

The MD retired to nurse his cup final hangover and I sat on the doorstep and surveyed the graveyard. Yes, it will have to stop, the feckers don't care anymore. They no longer bring home the dead and dying to be sent off in a custom made coffin accompanied by the theme tune from Thomas the Tank Engine.
Ah well, things change. Just hope that whoever buys our house one day will ever get the notion to dig the whole lot up because they're in for a few surprises!!

Martha Minx says.....

oh God, look what you made me do... I had to bake another cake!!



















Does anyone have a problem with chocolate and cherry?

Been reading this for ages...

....and just had to share.
Geoffrey Chaucer Hath a Blog

What do you think?

The GOB (via Frank Wilson) put me on to this site - The Wandering Scribe.
Real or fiction what say you?

Can I sue?

I think that I've just come across my first case of blog prejudice. Well no, it's not the first but I decided to ignore the first one because I couldn't be bothered. This time I can.

So, it seems that some (two) people have an aversion to the colour of my blog!! I'll repeat that shall I? ...THE COLOUR OF MY BLOG.

Cheeky twonk!

The email suggested that I might change my colour to suit some people who are having difficulty reading black backgrounds. It was also suggested that Blogger should think about offering this colour as newpapers and whiteboards are, well, obviously white and easier to read for ancient eyes!!

I chose my blog and I happen to like black, it's my favourite non-colour. If Blogger made a white one I would fill it with garish flowers, flashing gizmo's, luminous type and anything else that I could cram into a small space.
This is me, and like it or not this is the closest thing you're going to get to the Minx's inner most soul and it's black and black all over!!

It was suggested (by email) that I may be losing valuable readers!!!

Yikes!!

...and then I scrambled to my site metre and.....

Yah-Boo-Sucks to you..... Black Gold baby!!

(and just for you I'm going to post this in the worst colour that Blogger has to offer)

Minx linx

New link to a little writing vampire - Marie at Deep Thinker - go check out her tiny fangs!!

Nom

My nom to be exact.
I have been sailing around the lit blogs lately and it has come to my attention that an awful lot of writers, for one reason or another, are using an alias. The most prominent section are the Romancers who have romancy-like names to suit their romancy-like writing. Most of them end with a 'ham' interestingly. These names are tailored to suit the genre - you couldn't have a 'Lucy Haversham' writing crime capers when 'Dirk Blackwell' is much more in keeping!

My real name is fairly pleasant but is open to constant pispronounciation, even the daft trollop in the bank, who has known me for twenty years still gets it wrong!! It would be nice to have a name that people could get right the first time without having to point out that the missing letter is irrelevent and that the family has been calling themselves this since the fifteenth century!

So what would I call me? Fantasy writers range from the ordinary Anne McCaffrey to China Mieville to the Romany influenced Tanith Lee.
I even thought about changing sex.
Hmmm.......Thud Wrangler ( a name that came from a suggestion of choosing two things that are near to you.
Bart Thesaurus?
Garfield Knob?
Virginia Rizla?
Don't think so.


Other name suggestions have come in the form of choosing the name of your first pet and your mother-in-laws maiden name, sounded good until I put it together.

Please meet Fanny Plapp!!


Suggestions anyone?

You have to see this....

Wickedly entertaining spat going on at Lee Goldberg (post - Not Interested 5th May). Steve Clackson sent him an invitation to read his much blogged about book Sandstorm. Oh, just go see, this will be going for weeks!!
Thanks to Petrona for this one.

Weird!!

Well, this has never happened before.
There I was, happily swimming through the first 10,000 words of a new baby, minding my own business without a care in the world!! I knew where I was going, I knew where I'd come from. The plot was sorted, chapters briefly outlined, easy-peezy lemons squeezyed when....
WHAM!!
There it was
Couldn't concentrate, couldn't follow plot, let alone next sentence. My characters were fading into non-existence and their world was crumbling before my very eyes.

I know that I've just missed out on a plum job (heard yesterday) and I know that Big fecker is about to start the big G's but it usually takes more than an earthquake of global proportions to put me off my stroke.

And what was it? Well, I'm still trying to get my head around it but it looks like a takeover bid by a foreign usurper!!

What was I to do? New, stronger characters were not only nibbling at my toes, but were taking great chunks of flesh in their bid for supremacy. I woke in the night with their names on my lips, their stories rolling out in front of me.

Weird, weirder than weird.

Do I ignore it?

Nah! Not likely, this could be the next best seller. (Hah!)

Surfs up!!

Oh spit!!!

Nuff waxing poetical for a minute, I' m starting to get a headache but now I'm just about to have a migraine.
Yes, right, an article in Myslexia (magazine for women what write) had me champing at the bit! Entitled 'Don't give up the day job', it outlines the false notion being touted by writing courses that being a paid novelist is a possibilty when in fact it is pie-in-the-sky for most of us. Well I know that, I have a permanent lump on my head from all the times that I bash it against the wall!
Danuta Kean says "The stark truth for most writers is that their income is being seriously eroded by the harsh realities of book retailing in the 21st century".
She goes on to say that whilst the high rollers are commanding six figure sums the average author can expect £12,000 on a two book deal! And if you take your average £6.99 paperback £4.00 goes to the retailer and the publisher divvies up the rest with the author getting, on average, 52p per copy. Isn't there something a little amiss here, isn't it time someone started screaming rape and pillage!
What is happening? We have become a society of Tesco bestsellers, fed standard genres along with the potatoes and no doubt we will shortly be sold down the river in a blue stripe (cheap and cheerful) cover.

Look at these, spit spit:

Charlotte Church - £1m for lifestory (lifestory - she's twenty!)
Katie Price - £1m for series of novels (about her frontage no doubt)
Wayne Rooney - zillions for four books (he has that much to say about a diddy little ball?)

I'm not arguing advances, I along with the rest of the writing fraternity would bite off the hand that offered a quarter of that, but where will these books end up? Lining the the supermarket shelves where nearly everyone behind the book is losing and we'll probably have to forego our clubcard points before long as well!!!

The Flooded Dog

Life has come too close
safety has deserted
honour destroyed
there are no bowls of joy here
no blankets of comfort
gone
swept by a rising enemy
that leaves behind a place
no longer to be called home
no longer to be called Sam

Perfect......for women everywhere (because they don't want a name put here)

I wish that I were perfect
that my boobs stayed where they were
and didn't need an industrial bra
to stop them falling to the floor

I wish my legs were longer
were tanned and not so hairy
but giving up the waxing
would make them more than scary

I wish my stomach was flatter
and didn't behave like dough
spilling over my trousers
in an unattractive flow

I wish I had a bikini line
that didn't try to be
a part of something other
that started at my knee

Now,
I know that I'm not perfect
but at least I know I'm free
because the only thing I'm interested in
is the 'inside' perfect me

Poetry challenge...

see below for the rules of this very stupid game!!!
And will the person who emailed me 'foreskin' kindly bog off and go and get a life!!

I can't do poetry.....for SharonJ

Fear and dread
Inside my head
As I am led
To poetry

Now it's near
The constant fear
Far from clear
This poetry

Hope my soul
can fill my bowl
It is my goal
This poetry

The seeds I sow
Learn and grow
To make me know
My poetry

Song for Llywelyn App Owain...for Skinty

Celtic air still holds your name
sealed on the lips of a wind
that whistles down the song of years
You took a bride of spite
through lands that whispered
bitch
but she melted the hearts
of the bastard sons
who took up the reins
and the soul of Gwynedd
No such greatness has shouted since
or called the name
Fawr

Poetry challenge....see below for the rules of the game!!!

White chicken in a wheel barrow in the rain....for jta

I have a little white chicken
he's very thin and narrow
he likes to ride
at my side
in my one wheeled
red wheelbarrow

On sunny days the ride is fine
nothing could be better
but poor old chick
he's just a stick
if the rain comes down
it makes him sick and
we end up in the gutter!!

(yeah thanks for this one!!)

Rainbow ........for Asengard Kindon Brunei

There's a rainbow at the garage
I see it every week
This piece of earthly beauty
lies ruined at my feet

no one else can see it
its vivid colours marred
by the constant flow of traffic
and the bitter sands that scar

I've tried to pick it up
on the bottom of my shoe
but something holds it down
like a multi-cloured glue

I think it wants to be there
living out the end of days
tired, used
old and worn
rainbows end
all forlorn

It must be dead by now.

Poetry Challenge......Rendez-vous - for Nooy

Step off the platform
back up against that wall
pull up that collar
and make yourself small
screw up that carnation
say 'hi' to the blues
your lover's not coming
there's no rendez-vous


For Mike de Nooy

Poetry Challenge

Thank you for all the emails. It would be helpful if they were posted on the blog so that I can keep track of them!
See rules below if confused (VTN, you know who you are, one or two words are sufficient not a book!!).

Silver Metal Lover......for Cathy

With the skill of a consummate thief
you took without asking and
laid your silvered hand upon
flesh that was less than willing
at first

Money could buy me anything
I purchased one of you
a travelling minstrel
mechanical lover
robber of souls
soulful brother
of mine

In the hands of the Gods
we lay
and we prayed
that the metal makers
love takers
will turn their divine eyes
away

Poetry Challenge

I challenge you to challenge me to write a poem for you.

Here are the rules....

1. Leave one word/idea/concept in the comments box and I will attempt to write something/anything about it (mostly stupid, unless inspired)

2. Do not expect miracles, they never happen and I'm not that talented!

3. Foul language, sexual innuendo will all be considered and then rejected to the slush pile! I'm not that sort of blog.

4. No suggestions of fluffy bunnies or fields of dancing daffodils please!

Haven't got a clue whether this will work but it has made me forget about yesterday's abject misery so who cares!!!

SHOOT!!

Famous people - come hither!

Today I have a bad attack of the miseries. I should probably not be anywhere near my blog in case I infect anyone with my twenty-four hour depression. I suppose I am suffering from post-interview syndrome, tired, drained and left in the lurch until next week. To cap it all I had another cold, impersonal 'thanks but no thanks' from a lit agent who had hung onto my beloved for five months.

Rats!

What am I to do? Where am I going wrong? How do I get my pointy boot in the door?

The trouble is that you never know where you are going wrong.
Was the cover letter too much, too little, too bright, too dull?
Was the synopsis a 'grab em by the throat' or a damp squib?
Did I say enough about myself?
I'm not going to say anything about the actual manuscript because if I lose faith in that I may as well give up now.

Give me a hint, a tiny clue!

At least at interview I got a chance to prove myself face to face, blinding them with my glowing credentials and my sparkling personality. I know how to tackle an application form but I have discovered that I would rather write a hundred books than write one measly covering letter.
That is not to say that I have not poured my heart and soul into it, far from it. I have slaved into the night to produce a letter than would convince God himself that I was worthy of an Angelhood.
I wish that agents would say something, anything that would help you one way or another. Just a teeny-weeny message in the corner would do.

I have come to the conclusion that:
1. I need a famous person/known author to be my bestest friend.
2. Famous person must also be on intimate terms with agent or publishing house
3. Famous person needs to drop my name every five minutes at famous people gatherings
4. Famous person must be a) famous, or b) have large breasts and a bad auto-biography

So if you are an FP, come hither and meet your new best friend. I will forever be indebted and will run your fan club, clean your house, wash your knickers and supplicate myself every time you walk into the room. Just give me a leg up and shove me to the front of the queue and I promise I'll dedicate the first one to you!

If only they knew

Interviews, don't you just love them?
I've done the paper tasks, the 'real life' role play and got through to round two. Here is today's synopsis and the random thoughts that escaped my needle focussed brain.

Gestapo 1-"Well, first I'd like to say well done for getting through"
You had to put me through otherwise I would have sued you for purple hair discrimination.

G2 - "What qualities do you think that you can bring to this job?"
All the ones that I have already put on my CV and my covering letter, idiot. Apart from that I am a shining example of everything that you could ever possibly hope for but will never get.

G5 "Tell us about yourself"
Pissed on Fridays, regular as clockwork. I play the guitar in the wee small hours when I can't sleep and I think that no one else should either. I am well known for nodding off in staff meetings and training sessions. I buy inappropriate footwear that will sit in my wardrobe for the rest of my life and I do as little as possible the rest of the time

G4 - "Do you think that you are the right person for this post?"
Not on your nelly. You've probably got far better candidates lining up outside the soup kitchen down the road.

G3 - "How do you see your role in this organisation?"
Hard to tell until I've got my foot in the door - then I will assess the situation and decide whether you are worth a two year attention span or not.

G1 - You put 'blogging' under your list of hobbies, would you like to tell us about it"
Oh shit!!

Personal plug

New short story over on Little Minx!

Blonde interlude

I was trying to fill the endless hours before going to my interview (part two). I can't concentrate on a book and in desperation turned to the free paper that plops through the door and then usually plops straight into the bin.
But I found this....

Blonde Diary

January - took a new scarf back to the store because it was too tight.
February - fired from pharmacy job for failing to print labels. Helloooo...bottles won't fit in typewriter!
March - got really excited, finished jigsaw puzzle in 6 months, the box said 2-4 years!
April - trapped on an escalator for hours, power cut!
May - tried to make a casserole, wrong instructions, half pint of water won't fit in packet!
June - tried to go water skiing, couldn't find a lake with slope!
July - lost breast stroke swimming competition, learned later that other swimmers cheated, they used their arms!
August - got locked out of car in rain, car swamped because the soft top was open!
September - the capital of Holland is 'H', isn't it?
October - hate M&M's, they are so hard to peel!
November - couldn't call 911, duh, there's no 'eleven' button on the phone!
December - baked turkey for four days, instructions said 1 hour per pound and I weigh 108!

What a year!!!

(can't credit this to anyone and it may well be years old - but I liked it)

Also liked this...

A blind man entered a Ladies Bar by mistake. He found his way to a bar stool and ordered a drink. After sitting there for a while he yelled to the bartender "Do ya wanna hear a blonde joke?"
The bar immediately fell quiet. In a deep husky voice the woman next to him said "Before you tell that joke I think it only fair, as you are blind, that you should know five things:
1. The bartender is a blonde girl
2. The bouncer is a blonde girl
3. I'm six feet tall, blonde with a black belt in karate
4.The woman sitting next to me is blonde and a professional weight lifter
5. The lady to your right is blonde and is a wrestler
Now think about it Mister. Do ya still wanna tell that joke?"
The blind man thought for a second, shook his head and said
"Nah, not if I'm gonna have to explain it five times!"

(if you have been offended by these blonde jokes please try brunette next time you dye)

Ps, Normal blogging will resume as soon as I have convinced the Gestapo that I'm the woman for them!!

Interesting bedfellows

The MD recently described our bedroom as a Persian Brothel.
"Exactly" I said "just what I was aiming at", which was a complete lie as I had been trying to copy 'the warmth of the Saharan sun coupled with Kings purple' from a house magazine that I'd nicked from the doctors surgery.
The MD leans towards YDI (you-do-it) when it comes to decor. We once had a snarl about a Battleship Grey bathroom and ever since he glazes over when I mention the 'D' word. I don't mind a bit and can happily indulge my taste for rich colour as the fancy takes me.
Ah yes, the bedroom, the most important room in the house, and one that is home to our enormous bed. I love my bed, it is my/our sanctuary and over the years it has seen a lot of action! Childbirth, puking babies, the cat, the kittens, crying in the night, trampolining toddlers, getaway guests and of course, us.
There is room for everyone, and from my bed we can watch the sea on a Saturday morning whilst eating toast, and watch the sunset with a pims and a good book.
As a compiler of lists (sadly not often the shopping type, when I just take pot luck) I have a list of 'interesting bedfellows'. These are bedfellows of the non-sexual type, (I keep those to myself), but the MD and I often get out this mental list when we are bored or have just completed the list of 'things we would buy should we ever win the lottery'! Oh dear, this looks a bit sad, perhaps we should get out more.
Anyway here is my current list of Interesting Non-sexual Bedfellows. The MD has his own and I will only say that he managed to get Goldie Hawn in there for some stupid reason.

1. Sean Connery.........so that he could read to me in 'that' voice.
2. Jamie Oliver........to cook me breakfast.
3. Charles Bukowski...so I could hear him say 'fuckers' at the end of '8 Count'.
4. Jack Kerouac.....for the beat, man!
5. Stephen Fry.....to twist my words.
6. Kurt Cobain....to ask him - why?
7. Kurt Jackson....to paint me in bed.
8. Spike Milligan...to talk drivel.
9. Anthony Hopkins....to say 'chianti' and still be sexy!
10. The cast of Lost.....to tell me the next bit so that I don't have to wait until next week!
10.5. Ray Winstone.....oops, he just slipped in!

This list is ever changing but all would be welcome to share marmite on toast and a large pot of tea. Who would you have in your Persian Brothel?

Minx Linx

Hello to Jai Clare, at 'The Cusp of Something', a fellow pasty with an informative, floral blog!

Please also welcome James Long from The Tammany College who manages to write about flowers on the page where he has just delivered a blow of sheer Brute Strength!!

The gin co-operative, a truck and a rather large dictionary!

Yes, I know, it's May Day, that funny little holiday in the English calender where all the banks close and some towns go all 'Pagan' for the day.
At this time or year the Beerpigs go off in search of that mythical 'really good pint' and the Gin Co-operative have a day out all of their own.
I had drawn the short straw this year and was in charge of the Chelsea Tractor (US alert: CT= 4x4, otherwise known as the MD's Isuzu funky truck, his pride and joy with underfangled conduberators and the like!).

"What's this?" Dementia said pulling something large from under her legs.

"That's one of Minx's dictionaries," Demanda said "she'd keep one in her knickers if she could."

I smiled and nodded consent. They have never understood my need for a bright new word every day.

"Ooh look, Sphincter," Demoana said "that would be a nice word if it didn't mean what it means."

We had a quick survey to see what our favourite words were - mine is Mockapockahooter - not a real word, Big Fecker couldn't say computer when he was little and the name stuck ( I also like Helipopter and Parcark).

"We haven't thought of a game yet" Demanda said.

It is a tradition of the Gin Co-op to invent some sort of stupid game to play on the unsuspecting public whilst we are out on one of our forays.

"Right" I said "pick the first word you come across and when we get to The Shed (our first watering hole) you have to use it when ordering a drink."

The deal was done and here is what happened.....

"Afternoon ladies, what can get you?" said the barman, who looked about twelve and was already blushing as Dementia was trying to force her tits back into a top that she had borrowed from the much smaller Demanda.

"Cocktails?" I said, and he blushed again, oh dear.

"We have some specials, there on the board, the, errr, Long Comfortable, ummm, Screw is, umm buy one, errr, get one free" the boy said.

"Tis a fallacy young man to think that I would want one of those" Dementia said and we all applauded politely. One down three to go!

"We'll have two of those, a Sunset Dream and a diet coke for the self-confessed coke addict" Demanda said smirking.

More applause.

"Are you eating today?" the boy asked the mad clappers, praying that we had fed elsewhere.

We perused the menu.

"I'll have tapas, I have a yen for tapas"

A small clap followed, we all thought Demoana's was too easy and I had a sneaky feeling that she had cheated.

"And you Madam?" he asked me. It was my last chance and there was much sniggering going through the ranks of the Co-operative.

"Tell me" I said "the squid, are they scorbutic?"

"I don't know madam, I'll check with the kitchen."

I recieved a significant clap and was just taking a small bow, when the barboy came back, very red in the face.

"The chef says that they are served with balsamic vinegar, a green salad and pitta and have no traces of the scurvy."

The chef poked his head out of the kitchen and we gave him the standing ovation that he deserved!!