Oh joy!

After reading Pundy's list of favourite books he'd read as a child, I went off in search of my own reading roots. I cut the list back to ten because they would have taken up the whole blog!



1. Stig of the Dump - Clive King



2. The Magic Faraway Tree - Enid Blyton



3. Anne of Green Gables - Lucy Maud Montgomery



4. Just so stories - Rudyard Kipling



5. Charlotte's Web (some pig!) - EB White



6. The Phantom Tollbooth - Norton Juster



7. The Wind on the Moon - Eric Linklater



8. The Borrowers - Mary Norton



9. The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett



10. The Indian in the Cupboard - Lynne Reid Banks





This was a great exercise and I remembered all sorts of things that had been buried at the back of my reading memories - Flat Stanley, a cat called Charbonnel (?) , the Bears of Berne many of which I couldn't track down.

I still often read children's books. Terry Pratchett is a favourite, David Almond and Philip Pullman, but the best children's book I have read for years and years is Mortal Engines by Philip Reeve. Here's an excerpt -


Chapter 1 : The Hunting Ground

It was a dark, blustery afternoon in spring, and the city of London was chasing a small mining town across the dried-out bed of the old North Sea.

In happier times, London would never have bothered with such feeble prey. The great Traction City had once spent its days hunting for bigger towns that this, ranging north as far as the edges of the Ice Waste and south to the shores of the Mediterranean. But lately prey of any kind had started to grow scarce, and some of the larger cities had begun to look hungrily at London. For ten years now it had been hiding from them, skulking in a damp, mountainous, western district which the Guild of Historians said once been the island of Britain. For ten years it had eaten nothing but tiny farming towns and static settlements in those wet hills. Now, at last, the Lord Mayor had decided that the time was right to take his city back over the land-bridge into the Great Hunting Ground.

Grab a copy and nick it off your children after they have read it - it's a classic.

This will drive you mad...

.

Hopeless? Or is it just me? Oh, okay then.

Monday, Monday - not good for me.

I long ago gave up trying to be perfect. Homemaking Goddess I was not, and after a number of major, and minor, personal catastrophes and life lessons, I finally got my work ethics in order.

Work to live, not live to work.

Good. Sorted. Work does not consume my every waking moment, I have a healthy social life and

my, umm, little writing hobbies fulfil my creative side.

Why then, am I still on a treadmill? No matter how hard I try, the week is still a series of 'shoulds', 'musts' and 'have to's', and I seem to spend the weekend getting ready for the week ahead.

Someone once suggested making a list of all the things you achieve in a week, but this only served to horrify me even more. I am a machine!

Oh shit, look at the time, rant over, off to werk, werk, werk....

By the way Wordcarving sort of says it all.

.

Caption this.....

"Mildred, I said pose provocatively. Now hold your head up - you look like a dork"

.

"You won't find men's genitalia in quality literature"

I was completely unaware that I have been teaching my children words that are dirty, unsavoury and now apparently outlawed by a tribe of small minded librarians.

The word in question is, dare I say it, is...

SCROTUM

A link on the wonderful Lowebrow led to an article in The New York Times where the children's book 'The Higher Power of Lucky' by Susan Patron has just been awarded a Newberry medal.

I read with growing horror that this bunch of prissy librarians are playing Book God and have decided that the word 'scrotum' is not suitable for children aged 9 - 12 and are banning the book.
What!
Dana Nilsson, a teacher and librarian from Colorado, apart from the title quote above, also said - "This book included what I call a Howard Stern-type shock treatment just to see how far they could push the envelope".

My God, I wondered, has Susan Patron plastered this book in scrotums? Were there scrotes in every chapter and sentence? Did the author use the word in an over sexualised way, encouraging corruption in our pre-teens?
.
No. No. No.
On the opening page a boy overhears a conversation where someone is describing how their dog got bitten on the scrotum by a rattlesnake.

"Scrotum sounded to Lucky like something green that comes up when you have got the flu and cough too much".

When the Feckers were young I taught them that words themselves are not taboo, only when they are used in ignorance. I've got news for you Ms Nilsson! Half the world has a scrotum and my children can not only tell you the correct word for genitalia, and other un-librarian like words, but they can also give a hundred juicy alternatives should you ever need one!

Read the whole article HERE .

Squirrel Nutkin and the Merkans

I grew up with Beatrix Potter stories and Squirrel Nutkin was a favourite. This morning I read the story to a bunch of children who are more inclined to know the cheats for getting a nuclear bomb on Medal of Honour (PS2 game - nah, I dunno either!).
.
"That's stupid," said one observant war monger " squirrels are grey, not ginger."
.
"Red squirrels used to be the only kind of squirrels in this country" I said.
.
"What happened?"
.
"War" I replied.
.
This got their interest and I went on to explain that the Merkan grey squirrels (you can tell they are Merkans - they have a stars and stripes tattoo just at the base of the tail), originating in the Carolina's, learnt to sail, and once on our shores, began a steady takeover, pushing our own tufty-eared darlings out towards Wales and Scotland.
.

"Why were we beaten?" they asked.
.

"The Merkans had tricks" I said "they spied on us and learnt wily ways. They liked the life in the towns, and there was always a MacDonald's just around the corner.
.



"What happened to the ginger ones?" they asked.
.
"Nearly wiped out." I said "Germ warfare. The Merkans used squirrel pox and drove out the remaining survivors."
.
"Why didn't we fight back?" they asked, unable to believe that our squirrels would not put up a fight.
.
"It was useless" I said sadly "The Merkans had advanced technology, and all we had were a few pine cones."
.

(sometimes I cannot understand why I am not teaching natural history)

When?

There is no movement,

under the sun

As ancient enemy

closes in, for the last time

Does God live in the west?

.

Excuses, excuses

An excuse for a self-made meme.

1. I swear because....I like to use the English language effectively and creatively and it fills in the gaps when I have forgotten what I'm talking about.

2. I smoke because...I need time to breathe.

3. I drink lots of tea because....I need the exercise.

4. I am a vegetarian because....I am lazy (noodles take 3 minutes).

5. I am a witch because....black is very slimming, spell making makes you seem mysterious and I like dancing about without me drawers on.

6. I shave my legs because...then my bikini line knows where to stop

7. I eat chocolate because...it is essential for healthy hair, nails, skin, beautiful feet, smooth knees and sparkly eyes.

8. I drink because...I know it makes you happy to think that I now see you as a very attractive person.

9. I am happy because...miserable people piss me off and I don't want to be pissed off with meself because I am already pissed off with them.

10. I love to laugh because...I can

I tag.......every bugger I know.

Ooh, I won a thingy and some some funny American money

Me short story - 'If (a study in foresight)' - won 'Maht's Choice' on the Moontopples comp - whoo hoo me! (The 'thingy' is in me side bar.)

It is now posted on Little Minx as well as on Moontopples

Be my......anti-Valentine

Like Christmas, the hype that surrounds Valentine's Day really narks me. The shops are full of plastic flowers, nasty red things and cards that shout 'WIFE'. I don't want some over-priced chocolates in a heart shaped box, I don't want an edible bra, and you can forget it if you think I'm buying you a leopardskin thong with 'I'm horny' plastered all over it.

Join me in a small protest by writing an anti-Valentine poem, or a few words about the whole over-commercialised sorry mess that has taken over a day that should be celebrated quietly with love.
Only one rule - no syrup!


Roses are red
Poppies are too
and I need the opium
to keep me with you


Your turn...... and you had better try hard otherwise I will be forced to unleash my inner-sop and cover you with wet kisses!
.

And here they come....

.

John said...
Nose is all red,

eyes black and blue,

sugary treats

end up in the loo.

Older, no wiser,

flabby and grey,

have a terrific

St. Valentine's day.

*

Debi said...

I love you

I love you not.

You are cold

And I am hot.

or

Quick, quick,

I'm gonna be sick

I'd rather have farts

Than more bloody hearts.

or

Bitter and twisted,

Yeah that's me,

Ugly inside and out.

But still too good,

That's understood,

Of that there is no doubt.

*

Shameless said...

.
If you loved me like you say,

then you'd want more of me,

so I'm going to eat and eat,

the dark and the milky ones,

to become gloriously fatter!

*

To My Second Wife
a very short poem by maht

You will never hold a candle
To the ashes on the mantle

*

Cailleach said...

He loves me

He loves me snot

He picks me

He picks me snot

*

Mutley, the disgustin' dog said...

Instead of just belching
I've taken up felching*
Its turned me quite gay
on St Valentines Day

*Look it up says the Mut

(I did, and it is an old Anglo-Saxon word meaning 'flower arranging')

*

Roberta said...

Old and Married

.

Don't take me to dinner

The flowers will die

I won't eat the candy

so why even try?

.

We're older than dirt

We've been through this before

I won't wear a skirt

So there's the door

.

A card would be nice

But I won't keep it dearly

We'll have steak and a beer

and turn in early

.

You know I love you

I wash your socks...

and if you love me...

well a night off ROCKS!

*

Atyllah said...
Posies of roses

scented, unlike your toeses.

Heart-shaped chocs. OMG!

You snarfed the whole box!

Passion aflame

What? You've been on the game?!

So much for love

Bugger Valentine, it's time you got the shove.

*

Canterbury Soul said...

skimming ulysses
plagiarising shakespeare
weeping through clockwork orange
governing edgar allan poe’s temper
falling for big brother in 1984
guffawing with emily dickins
on celebrating valentine’s day
.
they all don’t make sense

The spies among you.

Skint asked - Who are we?

We are the cloaked ones. Klingons, without the nasty looking foreheads.
We are seemingly normal, and can walk among you, never letting you know we are there.
You find us everywhere, supermarket, library, and at that cafe in the high street that does the nice coffee.
You won't know us. Most of us look quite ordinary, although some have a questionable taste in fashion, and a penchant for bad haircuts. We don't ask questions, we don't carry binoculars and the notebook is usually hidden from sight.
If you look very carefully, however, you may notice that although seemingly engaged in conversation, our eyes are darting back and forth, noticing the un-noticed, and storing it for future reference. Our radar is finely tuned to your appearance, tone of voice and those nasty little habits that you try to keep hidden from that girl that you are trying to impress.
We are human collectors, a repository for life, where everything you do, or say, is noted down, bookmarked, and added to our favourites.

And will you end up in a a piece of prose, a novel, a poem? Oh yes, no doubt, but don't worry, it won't be the whole you. We wouldn't be so rude. Your parts will be scattered, seeded and sown to make something new - a hybrid of humanity woven from life, gleaned with love from the spies among you.

More unreasonable demands from the Master of Skint

He calls for a 21 word answer to his own words.
Chuck one out, and link it up HERE.



Who are we?

Ghosts behind machines
calling wickedly
for likeness

touching in blindness
tickling
that fuckery within

I am your inner minx
And you?

How was your day, dear?

Today I had to go and talk to students at the local school about my job, and the skills needed to do it. Never one to prepare properly for anything, I ran up a list early this morning and was surprised to find that, apparently, I am some sort of high ranking job Goddess.

Not only do I possess the skills of diplomacy, organisation, IT, accounting and empathy but I also know all the words to Bob the Builder and can change a nappy in under a minute. Add to this, the cookery, cleaning, bike- building and toaster-fixing skills I have and, well, look, I am obviously some kind of genius.

I rattled off the list to the disinterested mob of students and then added on the extra hours I put in every week at home, in order to keep house, and family, running on a full tank.

"What do you do in your spare time" asked the only student who was awake.

"Oh yes, forgot that." I said "I write books as well but I think I need a hobby that allows me let off steam."

Now, where's the gun, I need to shoot something.


********************************************************

pee ess

Voting is now open over at Moontopples - please go and cast yer freedom of choice.

The Welshman returns

Skintwriter is back and making intolerable demands on us once again. He asks us to.....

"Use some poetry or creative prose to share something about what being a writer means to you, or if you don't label yourself a writer share something of what you think defines a writer."

Hmmm.....


This madness

Hot words
burn my head
drag me, screaming,
from the midnight bed
disrupt my days
destroy my nights
pen is missing
(always a dread)
to seal the words and
keep them still
locked in files
chained until
the moro -
new pots to be filled.


If you choose to bow to his unreasonable request, please link back here , and you had better go and tell him that you missed him!

My lying eyes

You you would think, wouldn't you, that as we call oursleves writers, that we would be inpossession of optic nerves so atuned to mistakes that they would jump from the page and headbutt us between the eyes.
In editing a couple of pieces of work over the last few days it had come to my attention that this in fact isnt true The brain is a wonderfull thing, it reads the words and interprets then, reading the sentence as a whole and ignoring any glaring cock-ups making way for a smooth flow of text.

I recently sent a story into the Moon Topples competitition only realising afterwards that, in fact, I had in fact, repeated myself badly. I had read this piece over and over again, carefuly checking each spelling apotrophe, comma and general writing style.
Why then is it so easy to spot the mistake in others peoples work? Fuck nose?

Men in black (well, charcoal grey actually)

Don't get me wrong, I think a man looks great in a suit. Weddings, funerals and doing 'something in the city' are all places you would expect to see an abundance of the suited brigade, and very nice they look too. I do have a problem, however, with suits in the wrong place.

Last week I attended a meeting for promoting local services for children and was confronted by a whole flock of them who had flown down from the council headquarters. You could smell the Ralph Lauren (with undertones of testosterone) even before you got through the door.

The suits stuck together, drinking all the coffee and exchanging the latest buzz words. There were women suits as well - all identical in appearance and talking as much bollocks as the men.
I had to give a speech on my role in the local community and I could see one or two glances at being thrown at my appearance. I was wearing a suit, of sorts, it just involved purple and a certain amount of ribbon.

As lunch was served I overheard a few suits complaining about the quality of the free food and the fact that they had to attend another three of these meetings next week. Oh dear, what a shame. They should get down on their tailored knees and thank the Gods of Sharp Black Suits that they don't have to wear jeans and actually work for a living!

Minx linx

Try this.... Wordcarving

Eboy

A while ago, bad mother that I am, I tried to sell me Big Fecker....
Description of product:- A bargain priced, man-sized Big Fecker!!
Appearance - Large hairy type, pierced eyebrow, scruffy head with a wicked pair of eyes.
Sex - definitely male and already displaying the immature traits of his sire.
Hormone status - raging
Habits - nocturnal but has been know to rise mid-afternoon to answer the call of a wave.
Beerpig status - still maturing, practises frequently
Maintenance -
Hair gel consumption - high
Phone card - high
Water use - low
Food intake - sporadic and poorly timed
A BF comes with free accessories:- unmade bed, 90% of all household coffee cups and aromatic washing that hasn't seen the light of day for six months.
Add-ons - This model comes with 'The Big Fecker Social Club' - attachments of varying styles who make themselves at home anywhere and are also able to sleep on anything.
Extras include:-
The Big Fecker Maintenance Kit - Gas mask, Barbeque tongs (for sock fishing) ,Odour eliminator spray

BUY NOW - AND RECEIVE ANOTHER IDENTICAL MODEL IN THREE YEARS TIME.
~~~

Well, Little Fecker, has come to maturity sooner than expected so I am now offering a
'buy one get one free' deal.
The Little Fecker model comes with his own language, his own smell, and a drawer full of dubious looking 'comics', (not that I've had a close look).

Anyway, hurry, hurry, this offer ends somewhere at the end of puberty, which should be about the time they decide to leave home.

Fire in the belly

Today is the start of Imbolc (pronounced ee-molk) and is an important festival in the witchy calendar.

Imbolc is one of the fire festivals in the Wheel of the Year, and represents the move into spring. The goddess has cast of the robes of the crone and renewed herself as a maiden and Imbloc celebrates season of awakening and rebirth.

On this day in Ireland the Celtic calendar celebrates Brede's Day. The Catholic church were at pains to squash the Celtic Gods and so they canonized Brede, who became known as St Bridgid.

Light a candle - spring is on its way.

Competition

Moon Topples calls for entries to his competition. The theme is 'Vision'. Rules and regulations are HERE.