Gone fishin'

Gone fishin', there's a sign upon your door....

I remember I was younger. When the weekends seemed to be more than two days and going out was an event to be prepared for. I used to spend half a day choosing what to wear and the other half putting on my make-up, primping and preening until I was the best that I could be. A bath would stretch into hours, furnished with a few glasses of pre-event wine and a sandwich to make sure I didn't fall over before I was supposed to.

Gone fishin', you ain't workin' any more....

When the Feckers came along I forgot what it was like just to grab a handbag and car keys, replacing them with a kit bag that would make a squaddie proud. Nappies, bottles, toys and buggies replaced the small clutch bag, and going out became a scramble to the pub before the baby sitter rang with bad crying news. New clothes took on the value of hiding baby puke and make-up became just something that some normal people wore.

Cow's need milkin' in the barn, but you just don't give a darn....

As the Feckers grew I gave them a sitter with a penchant for Buffy video's, late nights and the biscuit tin. The Feckers loved him and socialising became more of a regularity but it always felt as if I was getting ready in a war zone. Evolving a black wardrobe meant that matching was a thing of the past but I could at least grab a soak before producing a hastily prepared dinner and ironing the last minute trouser change.

You just never seem to learn. You ain't got no ambition....

Now time is my oyster. I have plenty of time to fill the cracks in my face, to pick an outfit that flatters and hides. Time to spend time on myself - so what happened? Experience has led me to a woman who can juggle hair, ironing, jewelery, washing, make-up, cleaning and still be ready to go out by three in the afternoon when the table is booked for eight.
Oh dear, I really should learn - again.......

Mmm, folks won't find us now because
Mister Satch and Mister Cros
We gone fishin' instead of just a-wishin'
Bah-boo-baby-bah-boo-bah-bay-mmm-bo-bay
Oh,.......... yeah!


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Charming

In times of trial and tribulation we all rely on something to give us good luck. Human nature and human history have led us all to the lucky rabbit's foot (unlucky for poor old bunny) or a Buddha's belly to rub. Maybe for you it's a four leafed clover , a horseshoe, or a scarab beetle, but what makes us rely on inanimate objects to get us through those difficult times. What is it that makes us consider something lucky, or unlucky?

These charms may not be the standard talisman's either.
"I have to touch the door knob three times" a friend said recently when we were deciding whether to risk a precarious looking ladder in the street.
I didn't like to tell her that along with her need to clean the house five times a day that this is called OCD. She does, however have a weird looking gonk that sits in her kitchen. He apparently keeps the kitchen from exploding.

Beliefs and religions all carry their own special charms - rosaries, acorns, mantra's, feathers and prayers, all designed to give us power over the things that might be out to get us, and the things that we really have no control over.

I look around my own house and find all manner of charmed objects (well, what did you expect - I'm a witch, of course I'm going to have a few amulets dotted around), symbols to keep the evil eye on the outside of the door and ones to Feng Shui me chi on the inside.

The little guy below ( a very ugly baby who has no business being in any house let alone mine but was a gift from my sister when I was about eight - she hated me) aids me writing processes and being a witchy type I also share my home with a black cat who lives mostly on me bed - lucky for him that I don't mind.

So come on, fess up. What charms your life, keeps body and soul healthy and stops the evil pixies from stealing yer best knickers?

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(a very ugly baby with magick powers - he also sings like an angel and makes a mean fettuccine alfredo)


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Ten in the bed

My bedroom is important. It is my sanctuary, a place to hatch plots, to discuss matters of great importance with the Feckers, and a nest in which to escape from the world.
It has been likened to a Persian brothel and although not quite used for that purpose I would, if truth be known, like to entertain all sorts of people in my bed.
Oh, calm down, not that sort of entertaining. I'm talking about non-sexual bedmates, those that make those lists that we all make of who we would invite for dinner. However, I don't want them to come for dinner, I want them to pop into my boudoir for tea and toast and they could tell me all the answers to those important little questions I have been wanting to ask. They could also delight me with their anecdotes, poetry, chat to me about their art and ask my advice on all manner of things. Heh.

So here they are - my (nearly) non-sexual bedlist......

1. Oscar Wilde
2. Mother Teresa
3. Kevin Spacey
4. W.B Yeats
5. Judi Dench
6. Maya Angelou
7. Jack Nicholson
8. Kurt Jackson
9. Peter O'Toole
10. Mrs Doyle (Father Ted)


I also have a secret list of blogger bedmates, but I fear I would need a rather large bed!


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Flipping an old bird

Glad to see there is plenty of research going on behind the scenes. Thank you to Soubriquet for this beauty.
Oh my, Grandma, what big knuckles you have.....

But who was she finger hexing?

Aud's finger

Miss Hepburn's wickedly minxy finger (over there in me sidebar) has come in for a wee bit of a discussion. Being a bit of a sweary Mary and no stranger to sign language, I find it hard to believe that the Americans find that 'Flipping the bird' (or the 'one fingered salute' as we Brits call it) is ruder than rude and have even banned it from public consumption.

Banned from televisual screens across the States, this expressive hand gesture is apparently part of our cultural history, as John describes.....

"To clear up this little mystery we have to return to Agincourt. The French, who were overwhelmingly favored to win the battle, threatened to cut a certain body part off of all captured English soldiers so that they could never fight again. The body part in question was, of course, the middle finger, without which it is impossible to draw the renowned English longbow. This famous weapon was made of the native English yew tree, and so the act of drawing the longbow was known as "plucking yew". Thus, when the victorious English waved their middle fingers at the defeated French, they said, "See, we can still pluck yew! PLUCK YEW!"

Over the years some 'folk etymologies' have grown up around this symbolic gesture. Since "pluck yew" is rather difficult to say (like "pleasant mother pheasant plucker", which is who you had to go to for the feathers used on the arrows), the difficult consonant cluster at the beginning has gradually changed to a labiodental fricative 'f', and thus the words often used in conjunction with the one-finger-salute are mistakenly thought to have something to do with an intimate encounter. It is also because of the pheasant feathers on the arrows that the symbolic gesture is known as "flipping the bird"."

I did think, at first, that this was a load of birdshit but in depth research has shown that this is in fact true(ish). However, digitus impudicus (isn't that fab?) goes back further than that. Apparently the Romans and Ancient Greeks used it with gay abandon to ward off the Evil Eye.

I have to say that my impudent finger is quite often let lose at ignorant drivers and my boss often cops one behind her back, but why do Merkan's find it so offensive? Please tell me before I rush off to the land of stars and stripes and come home minus some digits!

While you're about it, could you also explain why this word has been banned as well....poor little innocent word.


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Caption me.

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Listen up yo, or al smackee cross the fez n' eyes.

Living in the far southwest of England has its drawbacks. The rest of the country tend to think that because of the accent we're all bit thick (stupid), they also seem to think that we live off a diet of pasty's, scrumpy, clotted cream and scones. The latter may be true for some but as far as most of the population goes it's all just a ruse.

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(a Cornish pasty crimped 'at side' the proper way)

Is it a lie? Oh yes.
Most people who live here adopt the accent at some point. It never fails to confuse tourists and stops them asking inane questions like "Where's the beach?".
The Cornish accent is a treat for the ears and unlike some of the TV programmes
(who incidentally, never get it right) the accent is more of a way of speaking than just a lilt. A regional dialect that differs from Devon (next door) , Somerset, or Dorset and the greatest irritation is to be compared with a Bristol accent (pah!). Cornish people have no hang-ups about the rest of the country - you are all just foreigners as far as they are concerned. Non-Celt's who live over the bridge in heathen England!
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So if you're coming down on holiday this summer, smile, drink the cyder, eat the pasty's and nod in the right places when a local talks to you. You can then leave us to tuck into the real Cornish stuff.....



Oh, and watch out for those things in the picture below. They'll steal yer scrumpy, yer pasty and yer wife too!
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pee ess - The title of my post means "Listen carefully dimwit, or I'll give you a wallop".

Sometimes I sits and thinks

These questions were posed by Clare at Keeper of the Snails. I liked them, so.........

1. What is the Book Whisperer?

I’m not sure but he works for Amazon and knows my credit card number. His best friend is the CD Persuader and between them they can clean my account in less that half an hour.

2. Why can I smell when it is going to snow?

Snow is quiet and has no voice. It announces its coming by appealing to the froidian nasal receptors.

3. Tell me about a road that leads to a world where there are no ideas.

I don’t want to talk about it because it runs alongside the path of ideas a-plenty. To speak of it is to acknowledge its existence and we all know that is a completely stupid idea!

4. How can I get a memory out of my head?

By using McHaggerty’s finest bluebird chopsticks. Extracting an un-wanted memory has to be done with the deftest touch otherwise you might leave any amount of mangled horror behind.

5. Where is Shallowland and what lives there?

Shallowland, lies on the edge of the Inane Lands just beyond the Superficial Swamp but before you get to the Lake of Triviality. I believe that Victoria Beckham has just bought a palace there.

6. Who is the man that lives inside the sun?

That would be Bernie.

7. When did you first know who you were?

When I told myself, just after I had woken up for the first time.

8. Why do gnats fly in spirals and never hit each other?

They attend gnat school for the first ten minutes of their lives (about two human years). After completing basic training they pass out, die, or continue on to get their gnat wings. Very few get to Captain but in 9.25am Gnigel Gnattington became the first gnat to complete the double helix tri-ombobulating back to front heinlich manoeuvre and was awarded the Gnobel Prize.

9. What is love?

Love is all that exists.

10. How can I capture a free spirit?

Don’t be silly, I am already free.

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Stir it up (little darlin')

We set off to The Lanhydrock Festival with enough kit to combat anything the weather could throw at us. We needn't have bothered because the righteous were out in force, and for one day only the rain buggered off and annoyed someone else!

With another fab line-up this year we lazed in festival good humour listening to some of Cornwall's finest and a sprinkling of international wow!

Cornish band Men of Splendor kicked off closely followed by The Wire Daisies.
The Wire Daisies (below) were discovered by Roger Taylor of Queen, in his local pub (useless fact - I know his sister). They were a highlight.
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Next came Zambula, another Cornish band with their own brand of African dance music. I have to admit to a small, well-needed nap here......


but did rouse myself in time to catch some of the usual festival sidelines.....
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...and of course The Levellers. Sorry no photo of the fabulous, stomping Levellers. I was up dancing without me camera!

The Wailers brought this fantastic day to a close with every member of the audience singing (and swaying) along with 'Exodus' , 'No woman, no cry' and 'Redemption Song'.

With Aston 'family man' Barrett still on bass, The Wailers took us through most of the classics and a few new ones to boot. They seemed as reluctant to leave the stage as we were to let the day end. Wow!

They eventually kicked us out with a massive firework display and a still singing crowd of 0-70 year-olds packed up the detritus of a day to remember.

pee ess - this was the first day for weeks where the rain held off, but just as we were leaving.......

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Favourite T-shirt slogan of the day:-

FAT PEOPLE ARE HARDER TO KIDNAP

as worn by my robust friend Ghurgan Smallpiece!

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Scorpion

You didn’t stand a chance I fear,

a will that was once was free

To think of what’s become of you

that now belongs to me

The barren rock sustained my gourd,

was filled with honest dew

You found me lacking sustenance, but

I was not expecting, you

Surprise in light , my rallied tail

Posed the fatal blow

I warned you,

Scorned you,

tried to turn you

Readied venom with malice learned

But you showed me something I

Didn’t know

Now you walk amid my desert and

tis only love that spills, from veins that

thumped with honest blood so

Who’s to say that

poison only kills

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Gimme back my stuff

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I had boys on purpose.
I could never see myself doing complicated girlything hairstyles, buying two lots of make-up, and I had no wish to share my shoes with anyone. I was not designed for girls and often got cross (after my second boy) when people inquired whether I was trying for a girl.
No. No. No. Girl's were not for me and I had absolute faith in my theory that you got what you were supposed to get. However, there is now a problem.

My jewelery box is half empty. A number of bracelets and necklaces have stupidly migrated past the door to the Pit Of Teenage Desires, and I am left with poor, lonely, odd earrings who will never be re-united with their twins. Beads and bangles have all left home and found new territory on a hairier wrist.

The perpetrator is Big Fecker, jewel thief extraordinaire, capable of stealing my goodies and flaunting them in his earlobe.
I turned a blind eye to my hair products disappearing overnight and laughed heartily when he could do nothing with his newly washed mop that had developed some curls where once there was none. I even ignored him stealing my hats because he had quite a healthy stock for me to pinch
But we do share a love of jewels. Not expensive gold, or precious stones, but trinkets to adorn the holes we have made (I wonder if piercing is genetic?).

I suppose I have to thank the Gods that I have no browbars to nick, or treasures to fill his labret, and I can only hope and pray that he never decides to have his nose pierced - I will be naked!

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And should you ask why.........

..... this is what I will tell you.


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(from my bedroom window at 9.30 tonight)

Wake up - this is important!

A little while ago I was invited to join a forum for bloggers with book deals. This forum has since grown and now has now become a brand new public site.

Welcome to

Bookarazzi

Please pop over and have a look. If you write, read, or have an interest in how a writer does things then this site could be really useful. Filled with writerish links, resources and author bios, this site also has an open blog for all those questions that might be bugging you!
Look out for some familiar names as well, you'll find Debi Alper lurking in there somewhere!

pee ess - If you get the page that says 'Bookarazzi coming soon just click on refresh and there she blows.

Letters to the World

Dear Mrs Shop Assistant,
I am sure that Margaret's leg will get better and I'm very sorry for that bit of trouble that Carol had with next door's cat but we really need to have a little discussion about .....

Oh, okay, you haven't finished telling Sandra about Mrs Penberthy down the road. No, it's fine I'll wait because as we know it's only my lunch time and I HAVE ALL THE TIME IN THE WORLD!

Right, have I got your attention? What? Yes, that's right, I was next. You have already served two people before me because they go to your church and I didn't even bat an eyelid when you punched on the wrong number into the credit machine - five times more than is normally expected!

You see, this is very difficult for me. I was not blessed with the patience of Job, the God of Endless Patience while waiting in Queues unfortunately suffered a mild seizure the day I was born. Underneath this smiling, calm exterior lies a raging killing machine that is intent on ripping off your 'How can I help you?' badge and ramming it down your throat if you don't serve me now!

It is not asking much. By the time I have battled my way through the hoards of pensioners getting off their freebie bus and the thousand other lunchtime shoppers I arrive at your shop to change a pair of trousers with a broken zip.
Unfortunately for me, your manager sees lunchtime as a quiet time and he has left you and Sandra in charge of a queue that now resembles Selfridges January sales. I would feel sorry for you, those uniforms do nothing for you, but it appears that one of you forgot to push the urgency emergency button and one look at my face will tell you that I am a woman on the edge.

So please, if you see me coming, could you possible make a little effort to at least notice my existence.

What? No, it's okay, I don't want my money back, I'll just change the trousers for another pair. Oh I see, your feet don't work and we'll have to wait for Sandra who is now on her mobile to her boyfriend.
Pardon? No, blue trousers, size ten. If I had wanted a pair of brown in a size twenty I would have bought them in the first place. Wouldn't I?

Not very sincerely
Mrs Minx

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Who am I?

I am many things to many people - mum, partner, sister, friend and a host of other good and bad things. Propriety suggests that when I meet you I should tell you my name, rank and number, but a moniker, an address and a job doesn't tell you a thing about me. You could make assumptions about me from my accent and my appearance but if you got past those what else would you know?
People have assumed a lot of things about me in the past, and probably about you. We are judged, daily, by a need to put people into boxes, correctly labeled. Expected to conform to what is considered to be normal in a society that deals so very badly with non-conformity.
I have no wish to tell you that I have blue eyes and I am five feet and five inches tall - what does that mean to you. What makes me different from any other Minx in the world? What makes me me and you you?

Anyway, here is a tin of condensed Minx - make of it what you will.

You already know about the shoes and the chocolate and the gin

I am mostly purple with hints of black, no shades of grey.
I am venom and candyfloss.
I put enamel pots in the rain.
I try to live positively.
I loathe the way spiders move.
I am mostly content.
My tongue could flay the skin from your back or soothe your headache.
I laugh for bad reasons.
I cry for good reasons
I would rather be awake all night.
I cannot live without music, writing or love.
I sing.
I would prefer a world with candles.
I don't do jealousy.
I live in the moment.
I don't like to be the same.
My love is unconditional (I think)
I love reading aloud
I adore my cat
I hate the presents he gives me.
I am a bad smoker.
I follow pagan values.
I am crap at numbers.
I swear regularly.
I know who I am and
I don't own anything living.


This was a fairly narcissistic exercise, I apologise but it was one that was inspired by Absolute Vanilla who has re-invented herself and is back where she belongs! Thanks, Aty!

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And look - I'm a Rockin' Bloggy Girl!

Thanks Scarlett.

Le Camping

I have just returned from braving the great outdoors. Four days of hiking across the beach, yomping through dense vegetation, abseiling down cliffs and braving the pounding surf in search of the perfect wave.

Lies, lies, lies!

Someone in the last post suggested that I may be staying in a tent so I thought I had better set the record straight.
Many years ago I stayed in a tent for one night. When we got home I said to the MD "If you ever make me do that again I am going to kill you, or leave you, or both". The feckers were small, we hated hotels, so we bought a caravan instead.

Don't get me wrong, I really do like the outdoors as long as it doesn't interfere with the indoors. When I'm on holiday I like all the comforts of home - oven, a microwave, shower, central heating and somewhere to plug in me laptop. If the weather is bad then there is nothing I like better than curling up on a sprung mattress with a good book while the storm rages around me. I don't see the point in sitting in the rain waiting for a kettle that takes three hours to boil.

Strangely we are not thought of as real campers. Without the morning trip to the launderette to dry the sleeping bags (ugh) and the smell of wet grass permeating everything (double ugh) we are treated with disdain by those hardy souls who are getting back to nature. If the weather is good then I spend just as much time outside as they do and have even been known to walk about a bit!
Anyway, I say 'nuts' to all of them, 'fire up the barbecue and get me another beer from the fridge!'

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(We were parked about 100yds from this. Wild and stormy Mexico Beach near Gwithian.)

No, not that holiday!

Off on a jolly holiday - back in a few days.........


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