The Inner Minx

2011-12-08T09:21:00.001Z

"Yoo hoo, gorgeous!" said Mr Zebediah Bullshittin "Four for a pound."

Mrs Minxalot pulled her hat further down to cover her perplexed countenance. Mr Bullshittin and his foreign coconuts were probably not to be trusted on such a morning and she clutched her list to her bosom and hurried on to the inner sanctum of the febrile market.

The smell of fried dead cow and doughnuts assaulted her sensitivities and the call of "Get 'em while they're hot" nearly stopped this small and fragile creature in her tracks. Not a moment could be lost and she neatly side stepped the bargain slippers with their jovial snowmen toes and the stall that held the delights of 'Mr Patel's London Fashions' (she was slightly distracted here here by the lure of a very gaudy, lacy undergarment) and hurried on to her goal.

"Yes, darlin?"

Mrs Minxalot ignored the overly familiar greeting and the overly large, bulbous nose that accompanied it and hurriedly fished in her carpet bag for her eyeglasses with which to decipher her list of purchasing.

"Umm, two genuine velvet flashing Santa Christmas stockings, please, and three of those luxury hats with the cross-eyed reindeer, thank you very kindly."

With her seasonal shopping done, Mrs Minxalot, wended her weary way back to the Gin House for a pint of Mr Gordons' finest and twenty televisual repeats of the X-Factor final.

It was the best of times.

The First,

2011-11-10T10:05:00.000Z

First,
hair that clouded any thought, the
skin that met upon this bed,
desired touch, slowly brought, to
hands that clasped and stroked and fed

First,
lips that met in sealing concert, then
grazed upon the flesh and heat.
Trembled breath so hot , so thieved,

on afternoon so sweet.

First,

for finding greenwood land,

from cliched lives that lost the core.

Spread a blanket on life's demand, in

hopes of finding something more.

Will you still love me tomorrow?

2011-10-15T10:49:00.001+01:00

You say you love me. Can you know what love is for one so young? Can youpossibly know what wars will be waged in the name of this love in the years tocome. A battle where neither of us knows if there should be a winner or aloser?
Should you think about this first, before you let those words pass your lips?

Will you love me even though your mother wishes that I would die young, or thatI run off with that man in the garage who is nearly as common as me? She canonly manage to speak my name through a small gap in her lips and I will neverbe as lovely as the last, or as good as the next.

Will you love me when Janie Jones points her magnificent nipples in yourdirection? She wants no unwritten contract of her own, only wanting your bodysqueezing her up against the photocopier on the third floor. Your mother won'tlike her either, but Janie Jones doesn't need to care about that.

Will you still love me when our baby rips through my body causing damage thatwill scar me for a lifetime. Will love hold out against the intruder that is ofour own making? An invader who will steal our bed, only leaving it undersufferance to make way for the next?

Will you love me when I am failing at life? When work, children, and running ahome have sapped me dry, leaving behind a slippered husk that cannot see pastthe next pile of ironing. When my idea of heaven is a cup of cocoa and an earlynight, and I have long replaced the satin with flannelette.

Will you still love and want me when my body is betraying me? Gone is the tightbum and firm breasts, replaced with a muddle that can only be sorted by somelycra scaffolding and an industrial strength bra. Will love remember what oncelay beneath?

Will you love me when there is only you and I again? When our only aim in lifeis to gain control of the remote control and to decide which micro-meal weshall eat? Will love carry us through as prescriptions fill the cupboard andexercise has become a gentle walk in the park?

So will you still love me tomorrow?

The Waiting Room

2011-10-04T09:59:00.000+01:00

The febrile dream was a constant.
She woke with the remains of a half-remembered passion sitting among the beads of sweat that adorned her top lip.
Pushing aside the damp sheets she found the bathroom mirror that told a story that was only half true.
The deep brown eyes still held the nights passion but the rest of her face had failed to catch it.

Water only made the fever worse, a cleansing that started a whole new day, but the same old story.

As the coffee stirred itself into action, small snapshots of the night invaded her thoughts.
"Was this really so difficult?"

The day passed in a heaviness of deft organisation, global conversation and more coffee. The business lay in her capable hands, nurtured by a life un-interrupted.
Lunch produced another perfume laden suit, crisply starched with facts and figures. Totally un-suitable.

The 'ping' indicating that supper was ready was wedged in between soft tones that calmed a client and shouting at Boston to get their finger out before the close of play.

Midnight sent the last of the emails hurtling into the ether and then it was time.

The ache often found her here before sleeping, the emptiness of her world, devoid of touch and grace and the intense pain of invisible love that covered the sheets in the waiting room.

Sir Ted of the Bed

2011-09-30T09:32:00.004+01:00

He is nearly bald, has an eye with a tendency to play home and away and his innards make a bid for freedom every now and again. He smells a bit as he and the washing machine don't get on - he would never survive the spin cycle.

He is Ted.

Sir Ted of the Bed.

He has outlasted all my bed partners (all?) and doesn't mind at all about my choices in scary bedtime wear. He doesn't mind the crumbs, sharing with the cat or ending up under the bed because I changed the duvet and forgot about him.

He is my friend, my confidant, my hankerchief when none are to hand. He has kept the monsters at bay since 1963.

Simply, I love him.

No one made you do it

2011-09-27T21:35:00.003+01:00

Go on, admit it. you didn't mean to but it just slipped out. There you were minding your own business and you clicked in here, looked at the picture above and.........smiled!

I love that, don't you?

Life is full of the mundane, the dull, stuff that unknowingly furrows the brow. Full of trolls, munchkins, clowns and fuckwits that you can't avoid. They pull you down (yes, you, you miserable bitch of a nurse) and they spit you out with a grump that you didn't even know were doing.
Looking for the positive is, well, let's face, bleddy hard work sometimes, like squeezing that pimple that you can't quite get at, like reaching for the last tin of beans on the shelf and finding that they out of date. Grrrrr.

How simple it is to smile, and yet sometimes so elusive. It raises the seratonin levels and makes us feel a little bit good but we rarely put it to good use.

I therefore demand that we devote ourselves to....

Randoms acts of smiling

Let me know how you get on!

Absolutely yes

2011-09-25T22:20:00.003+01:00

So, yes, where was I?
Oh, yes,
I have been wrestling with the munchkins, bitch slapping the trolls, hot wiring demons on the dark side of the wardrobe and for a little while they were on the winning side.
Life has a funny way of sorting itself out without you having a hand in it. It dishes out the sennakot when you can't get past something and offers a kick up the backside as a reminder that you are not superwoman, that you are fallible, and that it was about time you started looking at those neon signposts that are flashing in front of your eyes..

It took a health issue to re-start the engine. After surviving the best attempts of the local hospital to rid themselves of me, I am now home with idle time on my hands and very itchy fingers. I have purchased a brand new shiny laptop as I cannot move off my increasingly spreading ass for a couple of weeks and I am here, waiting for some breathtakingly, divine interference to pass over the keys to opening the floodgates to blogdom.
I wait.
In the meantime, I content myself that Steve (above) is managing my household.

Do I mind the wait?

Absolutely not!

Rubbish poem

2010-10-19T09:23:00.002+01:00

Crow sat above fields of corn
A black knight of local kin
Surveyed his kingdom all alone
Bereft of crowish, larking din
I sat and watched his bi-valved form

Crow dipped his head to spy a thing
Cornfed cricket, or fieldmouse, husk
Carriage bent with beaded eye
Feathers mussed by a sailing gust
Caught his mizzen masted wing

I smiled to see his Fagin rags
tatty head and spoiler beak
He turned, caught me, laughed aloud
at glasses, lost, and ego piqued
The crowing was a plastic bag

Knight out at the Meadery

2010-09-22T11:08:00.006+01:00

In a world of fast-food outlets and expensive restaurants it took some time (well, up until now actually) to realise that the chain of 'Meaderies' in my part of world are a little unusual.

They are no-frills eateries, mostly set in old church buildings, with a basic menu of chicken-in-the-rough plonked on a wooden platter and brought to your long wooden table by wenches. The menu does stretch a little further to fish and a standard veg platter but a night at a meadery is not really about the food!

A Meadery = mead, and most local people will give you a hundred stories (none of them clean) after drinking the local honey based brew. It comes in different flavours, blackberry (me fav), elderberry, strawberry and original, err, mead.

Half a flagon (a half litre) will cost you your legs and after that it is advisable not to expect to be coherent, or manage to reach your bed without the help of a close friend.

So if you are down in Cornwall with a bunch of friends, a bus and a teetotal driver, please give me a shout as by next month I may just have got over last weekend!!

Ibiza - more than just dancin'

2010-07-17T12:48:00.018+01:00

Mermaid me!

Old town

Waiting for the sun to go down

Sunrise - Es Cana

Pujols - Formentera

Spanish steps!

Portside - 3am
Cala Nova

Jacaranda Lounge - strawberry daquiri por favor

Day hits the beach

Portinatx

From Dalt Vila looking over the newer town

Sunset - San Antonio

Pool days

6am - Cala Nova

Rob Chambers

2010-05-27T18:08:00.002+01:00

Many people would sniff at the idea of making friends via the interweb. How can you possibly get close to someone that you haven't met in the flesh?

Well, you can, and I have proved it to myself on many occasions.

I first came across Mutley in 2006. I loved his blog at the first read. It was right up my street - the 'fictional' town of Birdpot was crammed with the oddities that fell out of Mutley's brain regularly. He was saucy in the cleanest way and never failed to answer all of his commentors.

He mailed me with some questions about writing and sent me some of his more serious 'Allotted Span' stories to 'tell him what a pile of crap they were (they weren't).

I sent him a copy of my book and a couple of cheer-up cards and in turn he sent me an ancient copy of Ballads which I loved and checked in on me in my own time of crisis. We talked about our children (whom he loved deeply) and how shitty life could be sometimes.

He was a good man. We shared an age but not politics (you Tory dingbat) and we shared a love of writing. I nagged him about getting his short stories out there, and he just nagged!

I was delighted when he found love , sad when he lost Mutley, his crazy asbo dog, and loved popping in to his continuing mad blog.

At the beginning of the week I opened my comments to find a message from Merryweather (his love) to say that he had died in his sleep last Friday.

I am devastated.

The blogworld has lost a talent and Merry and his children have lost a true soul - my heart goes out to them.

Rob, wherever you are, please have a pint of Old Lesbian No6 for me and know that you were loved and adored by hundreds of people who had never met you but knew that you were a true friend.

2010-05-11T06:57:00.002+01:00

Waking at dawn, a primal time,

little death, then the rise and shine.

Bellicose barking, blackbird alarms the

sun, who rips you from my arms.

Milk train rattles, postman swings,

The gate against the bin – again.

Eyes stay shut to daily trial,

Willing the darkness to stay - awhile.

Were you here, were you now,

did I feel you at all?

Your body inside me,

embrace like a shawl?

Breath on my neck?

Pulling me close,

‘gainst fear of losing

What I want the most.

You are the night , stolen to here,

kidnapped by dawn, a constant fear.

Dreams mislaid, to wake with dread, where

nothing is left but your heat in my bed.

(painting by Susan Strand)

The Magickal Woo

2010-05-01T09:30:00.003+01:00

Reading a few Merkan blogs lately has renewed my fascination with their state of religious being (or not). Their argument for and against organised religion reminds me that England has become very laid back about your God/Goddess and you can worship at the altar of Small Pixies as long as you don't interfere with Sunday lunch! Labels don't matter much any more - you be be who you want to be as long as you leave the gun at home!

I feel the same. You have a free mind - you can think/do/say what you like especially if you are at peace with who you are.

So, my personal woo, my belief system - it frightens the shit out of some people. When you mention Paganism (especially to the two sweet little Mormons at me door) they imagine spells, magick, nekkid dancing and sex with horny devils. Are they wrong?

Yes, and a definite no!

I don't like labels, let alone false ones, but Paganism is so misunderstood - so can I put you straight?

Right from our cave days men went out and bonked the meat on the head and the women (generally) looked after the brood. Women had the knowledge of herbs and healing and were revered as the mothers of all life.

Life was hard and revolved around the seasons building into a belief system based on what they could see around them - sun, stars, weather etc.

The Sabbats mark eight festivals through the year, four that mark each solstice and four that celebrate the land.

For instance Litha (21st June) is summer solstice, the middle of the year when night and day are equal and Imbolg (pronounced 'imolk') on the 2nd of Feb celebrates the coming of new life after winter - a sort of 'thank fuck we survived' kind of thing!

Paganism celebrates the male and female in all of us, interpreted as a God and Goddess, and the Calender of Being also represents the death and renewed life in the land each year.

When Christianity came into being it was male based replacing the sabbats to fit with the teachings in the bible.

No one is right, no one is wrong - the bible fitted its time and was a good manual for living peacefully (what happened there then?) but like all ancient documents it was open for interpretation.

Propaganda attacked the roots of Paganism - the male side of paganism is often depicted as a stag and he became a 'horned devil' . The female side (Hecate) is depicted at the end of the year before winter as an old woman, a hag, and it was easy to use this image as typical of a witch (wise woman).

Some terms explained...

Spells = wishes= prayers

Magick = a meditation to focus on your prayer

Ritual = symbolic focus to meditation

Witch = a wise woman with knowledge of herbs and healing

Pentacle - a five side star representing 'never ending light and good'

So, in essence, Paganism is as natural as it gets. Based in love and light and getting on with your fellow humans. We like eating, dancing, getting together and a bit of drinking!

Paganism is not stuck in the past or glued to some ancient manual - it is fluid and it is NOT a religion - it is a way of living.

Hope that explains a bit - any other questions can be fought over in The Inner Sanctum below!

St Mawes - castles and coastline

2010-04-28T18:30:00.011+01:00

St Mawes lies on a funny little spit of land that, along with its sister castle across the bay, used to defend Cornwall from the invading foreign hoards!

It is about 20 miles from where I live but the journey is shortened by taking a ferry across the very deep, deeper than deep River Fal.

A beautiful day only served to enhance this rather expensive boat owners paradise but you can have a nice meal in the Rising Sun pub and the walk up the coast is only disturbed by a sheep that should have reported to the noise abatement council!

Busy water traffic

The coastguard is hiding!

St Mawes harbour

The King Harry Ferry (costs an arm and a leg!!)

The dinky canon protecting the bay

The massive St Mawes castle

Lil bit of beach

Ships waiting for work

The ferry cottage - I want it!!

Shoot em up

2010-04-17T09:07:00.004+01:00

I suppose I shall have pull up the duvet now while the children fight it out for the future of my country.

My letterbox is already moaning under the onslaught of paper akin to a small rainforest (but thank you Mr Cameron and Mr Brown for your 'personal' letters to me. Mr Clegg, I am awaiting yours with anticipation - lazy git!).

After the first major TV debate, I am already sick of the posturing, the puffed chests and the thinly veiled insults. The political devotees are throwing meaningless figures at me, showing me graphs and charts that have more work done on them than a plastic surgeon would ever admit to.

With the Three Horsemen of the Apocalyse trading more and more pathetic insults I am beginning to wonder if we should just chuck them in a ring and let them punch it out - that would sort the men from the boys.

Perhaps a Political Deathmatch?

Gun fight at the Westminster Corral?

So, boys, come on. Stop fannying around with the 'my knob is bigger than yours' quotes - lets see some blood!

Gordon Brown refused to show his hand until the last possible moment!

Four years old

2010-04-11T09:12:00.003+01:00

I work with children aged 2- 12 years - I provide out of school care which means the school holidays provide me with a working week of about 40 hours and enough paperwork to take down a small forest.

Exhaustion, funding issues and a bunch of kids with more problems than is necessary make my job a constant, hair-pulling headache but with an Ofsted inspection looming I had to send out questionnaires to parents and also get some feedback from the children.

I meanly picked on the four-year-olds. They are more amenable than most ages and you can bribe them easily (so shallow).

It's not long, is it? I mean, to have only been alive for four years (48 months), so can I trust a four-year-olds opinion?

They have limited life experience (obviously), no political views, atrocious social skills and poor table manners. They leak all over the place, pick fights with inappropriate opponents, sleep when it suits them and make unreasonable demands all day long!

Ideal candidates!

"So tell me what you like about Holiday Club" I said, leaving them with another member of staff armed with pens/paint/pencils and paper as I ran off to deal with the outbreak of World War III in the sand.

A while later I came back for the results...

A painting of a green fire engine
Two sharks and a princess (apparently)
Daddy in the garden
A study in black felt pen

and then there was this.....

Four-year-olds are completely rubbish at writing but this one may just get presented to HM Inspectors in a gold frame.

It says: "I HAD FUN I DON'T WANT TODAY TO END"

You can always trust a four-year-old to remind you why you like your job!

Birdy

2010-04-04T14:12:00.004+01:00

It has been quite a while since I have done this but this morning I perched.

The gulls grakked their annoyance at my intrusion but I glared at them and let them get on with their flying practice.

A couple of walkers (the strange tribe who reckon that walking along the cliffs involves Himalayan strength boots and 20 layers of waterproof, breathable clothing, not to mention the weird sticks!) were patrolling my spot so I glared at them as well until they moved off and continued their 50 mile hike along the coast.

I was armed with a t-shirt, a pair of jeans, oh, and a camera, and I settled down to have a half hour perch.

And that's about it really.

Perch = an elevated place to sit and rest.

Where is yours?

Family portrait

2010-03-23T08:37:00.003Z

Dear Mum and Dad,

it's been nearly ten years since you both hopped off this mortal coil.

I know I wasn't always a conventional daughter, shunning the marriage/house/children order of things in favour of doing it my own way, but you adored the Feckers.

Todd is now 19 and Dale is 16, and if you have a computer in the next world I just thought you might like to print off this picture because we love it.

I know it looks as if Big Fecker is punching Small Fecker in the head, he probably was, but I just wanted you to know that we're doing slightly better than just a conventional okay!

Love and light

Kate

Dirty Rotten Scoundrels

2010-03-20T09:04:00.006Z

In the Gin House there is me, and two Feckers, Big Fecker and a slightly smaller one. The is an Owen cat as well but he is not involved in this particular grunt.

As a good mum I have a mental calculator. I can calculate when a bedroom will be tidied (when a girlfriend is coming over) and I can also calculate the distance between the teabag sitting on the worktop to its rightful grave in the bin. Three steps to the bin but five steps to where the little, used teabag now sits in its small puddle of teajuice.

I can also calculate the number of shoes that die at the bottom of the stairs and the number of spoons that have taken residence upstairs in lairs that I have not entered since they were 10.

I suppose this is my fault - I forgot to put this rule on the list that clings to the fridge. SEE HERE

But hey, is it worth making a war about it? Am I as rotten as them for not going ape shit about the two million socks that have just appeared in the washing basket? Or should I string them up by their man-bits for leaving another wet towel on the bathroom floor?

Tonight they having a small gathering (read party of the century) so maybe I will just calculate the time it takes me to drive as far away as possible and leave my jam sodden piece of toast that has just done a backflip onto the carpet. I wonder if it will still be there when I get back - go figure.

Nets of Safety

2010-03-13T11:52:00.003Z

They,

grow in nets of safety.

Cocooned in wired homes,

Lost the need,

To fight and bleed,

For rights a child owns

We,

grew in those nests of safety

Danger never seen.

We swung the bat,

To kill a rat,

And balanced on the beam, that

That stretched across,

The russet barn,

Its floor a rotten mess,

Hide and seek, reality,

Left us with a guess,

of who was up the apple tree.

Its branches kiddling scored.

With broken limbs collected,

from children who weren’t bored.

Battle of Peanut - 2010

2010-03-10T08:24:00.003Z

It had been a faithful molar but of late its armour had taken a few knocks, rocks and those nice hobnob biscuits with chocolate on one side. It could take no more.

The battle plan had been simple. An innocent meal with my sister, lubricated by some Tiger beer and sweet chilli sauce but lurking somewhere in the pak choi the enemy lay quietly until the last possible moment before revealing itself.

The first strike led to an "ouch, oh bugger!", but like all adrenalin filled battles the peanut damage was not revealed until the next day. Over a morning cup of tea the molar shed its little gold helmut and exposed the devastation underneath.

The voice on the end of a frantic phone call said that help was not at hand until Tuesday morning but the little molar was not going quietly.

After the discovery that the toothfairy was held up in Bratislava and that no strong painkiller, whiskey or illegal substance was going to put the wounded tooth out of its misery, a string and a door knob were considered.

"You have fractured the root, it must come out. That will be £54, do you have a credit card?" the Evil Dentist smirked.

The little molar battled against the pliers for half an hour - how brave it was! The empty grave is still reminding me of its struggle.

RIP little toothypeg - you served me well but would you please have a word with your neighbours and inform them that there is no need to put up quite such a struggle as modern medicine, and a loan big enough for a new house, will allow the Evil Dentist to fill the graveyard with a fake tooth that will last until 3010!

World Book Day

2010-03-04T09:16:00.002Z

Today is World Book Day so if you haven't read any books I would move on and read something more interesting on another blog.

I like books. I like the feel, and the smell, and sometimes I quite like a good yarn.

When I was young I became every hero and heroine I read...no, no, no, strike that - things haven't changed! I have just finished lounging around on the French Riviera with Francoise Sagan in Bonjour Trieste. Not my most favourite characters but true to their time.

As it's WBD, and bookish types need to produce something a bit booky I followed some links and found this...

The Independent has made a list (aren't they just so good at lists?) about author's (the famous types) favourite fictional characters -

Find it HERE

I have many characters who have stayed with me for years but my enduring love is Granny Weatherwax, created by Terry Pratchett. She appears in a number of his Disc World novels and never fails to delight me with her insane sanity!

With a hundred or more seconds and thirds I feel I am a complete failure at making choices and will say that I love all rounded, juicy, misbegotten characters as long as they are well written.

I am a hopeless character slut!

Hurrah for me

2010-03-02T08:09:00.004Z

Phew! It seems I haven't lost the the will to write.

I am drowning in words and my fingers are aching from nights of misuse.

WHOOPEEE!

So bye-bye real world and hello fantasy of my own making......

2010-02-21T16:09:00.000Z

Nope, still here.....

September in France

2009-09-19T15:07:00.013+01:00

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

2009-08-20T13:12:00.008+01:00

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

2009-08-10T20:35:00.003+01:00

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!)

2009-07-28T18:15:00.000+01:00

I really must learn not to smile so much!

2009-07-24T10:49:00.010+01:00

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)

2009-07-16T20:44:00.013+01:00

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

2009-05-10T14:01:00.003+01:00

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!

2009-04-27T09:23:00.001+01:00

The tanning conspiricy and other unlikely theories

2009-04-20T19:31:00.004+01:00

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,

2009-04-08T09:56:00.009+01:00

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

2009-03-29T20:06:00.004+01:00

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

2009-03-26T12:52:00.004Z

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

2009-03-24T13:20:00.003Z

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

2009-03-04T13:43:00.005Z

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

2009-01-19T21:40:00.007Z

Presenting......

The GIN CLUB!

Happy me

Gazza rocking us up with wicked tunes

Party on

Glamour girls

Big Fecker

Happy birthday me

2009-01-17T08:53:00.002Z

Today I shall be sensible. Today I shall wash up the dishes in the sink, clean the house, do some shopping, organise the Feckers and be the epitome of a sensible, newly 46, mature lady but tonight, oh yes, tonight....

...tonight I am going to put on my highest heels, my sauciest dress and throw the wickedest party in the universe!

Son of Bast

2009-01-14T18:11:00.003Z

He has many names, some are too rude to mention and some are just plain silly. He was named 'Owen' after my dad but after that there is no real resemblance.

His demanding ways drive us all mad and his desperate cries can be heard from one end of the house to the other. He is a cat that thinks he is human (or is it the other way around?).
Over the last five years he has acquired his own furniture, soft furnishings, beds and bowls. If we ever got divorced I have no doubt he would sue me for catimony.

Should a pet be a pet, should he know his place and live around us? He cries and we answer with tasty dishes and a ready warmed lap. He is arrogant, lazy and keeps his nails manicured on the best chairs. He sits on people who don't like cats, turns his nose up at fresh chicken and would not be seen dead without the latest designer collar. When he's in he wants to be out and when he's out he will cry at every window until someone lets him in and he can spoil a dinner party with one lick of his balls.

Has this creature any redeeming features? Are we giving house room to Beelzebub's son, a feline usurper, a cat burglar?
No. This son of Bast has chosen us to be his family and he loves us. I could not imagine a cold night without him warming my toes, a sunny day when he stretches perfectly in the sun or a time when he has not known when I am upset and need some fur to cry into.
Strangely we belong together.

And yes, of course he is black - did you expect any other?

Year of the Minx!

2009-01-05T07:29:00.005Z

I would like to tell you that I have been skiing in Austria, cruising around the Med or sipping champagne in the south of France - but I haven't. It would also be exciting to say that I have been cold turkey-ing, trying to rid myself of one of my more revolting habits - but I haven't (I like my horrible habits anyway). I took a break from everything over the holiday and now I am a bit late in wishing you a happy new year.

My crystal balls are a little cloudy about the coming year - how exciting! I have no wish to make predictions and can only predict that this year is going to be a hell of a lot better than the last one.
My one and only resolution is going to be to seize the moment and have fun. I am too old to stop and think and certainly too old to make resolutions that I can only keep for twenty-four hours.

The Minx almanac for 2009 says that the future is going to be unpredictably and resolutely exciting. Gin anyone?

Welcome to my world!

2008-12-23T09:29:00.002Z

But naughty is so much nicer.

Have a wonderful Christmas and I'll see you when we have collected all that coal.

Yule

2008-12-21T10:26:00.012Z

Today light and dark are balanced. Night and day are in equal measure, but from now on daylight gets longer as we look towards spring.

Today is Yule.

(my winter tree)

In times past Yule, not only celebrated the winter solstice but was also a way to give thanks for getting half way through the cold months of winter. A sort of 'thank fuck for that, we survived this far'.

The Yule log (not the chocolate one, although this is where it originates from) represents heat and light for the winter months - basic human needs that are all but forgotten in our modern, overindulgent society.

So if you don't do anything else to mark this day then light a candle for someone who is still living in darkness.

Happy, happy Yule to you!

... if light turned to darkness,

stars faded one by one,
and if all was dark and quiet,
you would be my private sun.

*

A tale of two markets

2008-12-15T07:57:00.004Z

It was the best of places and the worst of places, a place of light and dark, hope and despair and a place where no lady should be seen.
It was the market road that lay, on a Saturday morning in mid December, before coffee but after a hearty breakfast with Mrs Crapshot. The mired road lay before her in its usual genial position, winding through the indoor and outdoor markets that held all the promise of the coming season.

"Yoo hoo, gorgeous!" said Mr Zebediah Bullshittin "Four for a pound."

Mrs Minxalot pulled her hat further down to cover her perplexed countenance. Mr Bullshittin and his foreign coconuts were probably not to be trusted on such a morning and she clutched her list to her bosom and hurried on to the inner sanctum of the febrile market.

The smell of fried dead cow and doughnuts assaulted her sensitivities and the call of "Get 'em while they're hot" nearly stopped this small and fragile creature in her tracks. Not a moment could be lost and she neatly side stepped the bargain slippers with their jovial snowmen toes and the stall that held the delights of 'Mr Patel's London Fashions' (she was slightly distracted here here by the lure of a very gaudy, lacy undergarment) and hurried on to her goal.

"Yes, darlin?"

Mrs Minxalot ignored the overly familiar greeting and the overly large, bulbous nose that accompanied it and hurriedly fished in her carpet bag for her eyeglasses with which to decipher her list of purchasing.

"Umm, two genuine velvet flashing Santa Christmas stockings, please, and three of those luxury hats with the cross-eyed reindeer, thank you very kindly."

With her seasonal shopping done, Mrs Minxalot, wended her weary way back to the Gin House for a pint of Mr Gordons' finest and twenty televisual repeats of the X-Factor final.

It was the best of times.

pee ess

2008-12-12T10:43:00.003Z

Better late than never.
Here is a picture of my screwdrivers. A girl should never be seen without the very latest in screwdriving accessories!

I am not around at the moment because Big Fecker has very kindly shared his ghastly flu disease with me - he is no longer in my will and I won't be washing his socks for the next month.

Please help yourself to a drink while I am quietly dying and leave me a stupid comment to cheer me up!

A bit of a girl

2008-12-07T20:37:00.004Z

It could be generally agreed that I like shopping.
I also like soft things, shiny things and sometimes fluffy things. I like getting my nails done and wearing nice smells and I can suffer a near apoplectic fit if I can't keep my body hair under control. I wouldn't dream of going out without mascara, matching underthings (apologies - we have trod this path before), or a bag to hold the 101 vital items that I need to carry with me every day.

It could be generally agreed that I am a vain witch, vain in the sense of bothering about what I look like and vain in the sense of "I would rather pluck my eyes out with chopsticks than wear that tracksuit".

I adore watching a soppy film with chocolate and tissues to keep me company but a horror film requires all the lights on and, preferably, a man to check under the bed. I hate spiders, plumbing and anything that smells like engine oil.

Some of you might have come to the consensus that I am a bit of a girl. So why the fuck have I got a set of screwdrivers in me handbag?

.

Well done me

2008-12-02T14:23:00.003Z

Being English we are not very well known for blowing our own trumpets when we have achieved something. Even if we have not done something that requires a podium and a glitzy certificate we are still a bit crap at acknowledging the small victories and insignificant achievements that we do every day.
I suspect that this goes for everyone because no one throws a party when they have managed to change the bedding, feed the cat and clean the bloody house from top to bottom in under an hour.
So, I am awarding myself a certificate of the day and here are ten things to be proud of today...

I didn't lose my temper when a work colleague was being a twat over a stapler
Remembered to give Small Fecker his lunch money
Hand washed a sweater and it didn't shrink
I only swore once when I got my scarf caught in the car door
And only swore twice when I realised that I had forgotten to buy hair conditioner this week
I answered five emails the day I got them
I found a long lost beloved sock
Wrote half a crappy poem in the night
wrote the other crappy half this morning
and didn't even mind the crappiness of the whole thing when I can't seem to write a bean at the moment.

Now you.....

Winter - fuck, it's cold

2008-11-27T07:14:00.004Z

The romantic idea of being holed up in a log cabin until spring comes has always appealed to to me. The trouble is that I don't function terribly well in the winter - the drop in temperature seems to have a detrimental effect on my brain and body (what's new?).

We are never prepared for a cold snap in this part of the world and all through the winter I am haunted by my dad saying - "Have you got your vest on?". No dad, I haven't worn a vest since I was three, I am 45 and you are in the land beyond vests so leave me alone.

I do like winter though. I love to walk on a stormy coastline in the depths of winter and love those days when the sky is lead and the rain is beating against the window. The cosiness of a soppy film, hot chocolate and central heating doesn't have the same appeal on the balmy nights we enjoy in the summer.

Anyway, winter is here. Autumn buggered off fairly early and we are suffering the pre-Christmas doom and gloom of constant drizzle and high winds. I am longing for some snow this year (rare in Cornball) and someone to share a log cabin. Better buy some vests then.

The Gin House Rules

2008-11-22T15:45:00.004Z

I hate rules. Rules usually tell you something that you can't do but occasionally a set of rules are required to keep an establishment running smoothly.
Six months ago the dynamics of our house changed and the Feckers and I have just decided that we need a new set of rules to abide by.

Together we made ten new rules for living in the Gin House and they are stuck to the fridge....

1. Please make an effort to have as much fun as possible.

2. Only laughter will be tolerated.

3. Do not be selfish with your music - turn it up so that we can all hear it.

4. Sing at least twice a day.

5. Make mem a cup of tea, now!

6. No giggling after 4am and not before 10am.

7. Friends should be confined to 20 decibels and can only come in if they have brought goodies with them.

8. The chocolate in the cupboard is always mem's.

9. This house is yours so always be yourself.

10. There will only ever be LOVE in this house.

I would be interested to know what your own Gin House Rules are and whether they work or not -rule number 8 seems to be failing miserably!

.

The Allowance

2008-11-17T13:44:00.006Z

I could let you hold my hand,
if I so choose.
More than a childish cling
the start of a joining.
This I would allow

I would let you,
pull me in,
wrapping your arms around me,
vine-like and safe,
this I would allow.

I may let you kiss me.
A gentle kiss,
no more and no less,
soft and exploratory, this
I may allow.

And I would let you
hold my face
as you kissed my neck
little by little.
This I could allow.

I might then let you look
into my eyes.
Just a glimpse,
a brief encounter that
will let you know
just how much more
I would allow.

The Noo Noo

2008-11-13T00:27:00.003Z

When I am upset, crying over a soppy film, missing someone, pissed off with the world or just plain cold, I dig out my noo noo.

I have heard that some people call their noo noo's something else (very silly, a noo noo is a noo noo) but essentially they all do the same job. Whether they are a raggy old pair of slippers, a holey blanket, a favourite pair of socks or flanelette pajamas with a rip in the crutch they all give us a bit of comfort when there is no one else around for a hug.

Mine takes the form of a rather eccentric cardigan that I knitted about ten years ago. Not fit for public consumption because of its tendency to grow larger every year, I throw it on when I feel that I need a cuddle, or some comfort.

I'm sitting here now wearing my noo noo because the rain is pounding outside and I can't get to sleep and was just wondering what your noo noo is and don't tell me you haven't got one.

.

Pin money

2008-11-09T16:31:00.005Z

My fingers are sore and my nails are now non-existent but sometimes making a bit of extra money can be fun....

A long time ago I used to make jewellery for gifts. With a bit of persuasion a friend suggested that we do the same again only on a bigger scale.
We have raided bead boxes and button tins to make our recycled jewelery and there is something very satisfying from turning something old into something new.

Apart from more holes in my fingers than a strainer we haven't got enough hours in the day to keep up with demand. Whoo hoo!

(This was a vague attempt to tell you why I have been awol from your blog - did it work?)

Merka shouts its answer

2008-11-05T11:12:00.005Z

Every newspaper and discussion program has been talking about it 24/7 for weeks and this morning I am almost sick of the phrase 'an historical event' but America has yelled its answer.

I stayed up until I was sure, a couple of matchsticks propping open my eyes until the first declarations came in. The predicted landslide was coming to fruition and it wasn't long before McCain admitted defeat.

I am not a political creature but this election seemed to be calling out to the rest of the world. America was no longer prepared to be duped by shiny teeth and lies and maybe we are all ready for Mr Obama's 'change'.
Election promises have often been found to be lacking in the following years of term but if America's new head honcho gets off to such a resoundingly positive start then maybe the petty squabbling, scandals and back biting can be put to one side for the good of a nation that definitely needed a kick up the ass! I am just hoping that the one wearing the big boot can stretch across the Atlantic and give us a poke as well.

pee ess - Debi has highlighted a global message board at Avaaz, go HERE.

Ghost

2008-11-02T19:17:00.005Z

It was Halloween but we didn't see it at first. The kids all walked by the window and none of them saw it.

And then the sun started shining - and we looked.....

Was there something there, or were we imagining it? Was this some kind of ghostly impression or did the window just need a good clean?

If you moved around a bit, it looked like a feather-like impression on the glass, a breath of something that had only been there for a micro second.

It was only when one of us held a black piece of paper up behind it that all became clear....

The poor pigeon had been captured at the moment of death, its last flight etched on the glass and it lay not far away.
We made it a shoebox coffin and thanked it for the wonder it had left behind. I expect it will be gone by tomorrow.

Elf poo and other educational things

2008-10-29T14:35:00.005Z

I suppose you always thought that your children were safe in a holiday club. Nice safe activities with nice safe staff. Oh dear.

With the run up to Samhain (Halloween) at the end of the week this holiday club has been more than educational. The kids have excelled themselves this year and along with jars of Coffin Larvae, Toenail Jam, Spider Ear Wax and Leaking Boils they have taught me the art of making Elf Poo...

In case Ofsted pop in I can safely say that setting up our 'Good Witch Company' has covered all aspects of the curriculum. Making our own labels, printing them and staining them with strong coffee to age them had English, IT, design and technology covered and our careful scientific experiments with a number of household ingredients took science to a new level.

The results were ghastly, stinky and mostly revolting (cooking oil, Angel Delight and handwash do not mix very well) - but our witchy kitchen is full and I am just wondering if we can get away with boiling a few kids tomorrow!

Wave yer knickers in the air (or not)

2008-10-25T07:33:00.002+01:00

I went shopping yesterday. I was just debating over the twenty items that I had tried on when a woman came into the changing room (it was one of those communal thingies). On the outside she looked more than smart but as she got down to the last layer it became apparent that she did not worship at the altar of respectable underwear.

Eeeeeek!

The revolting black bra looked as if it had been chewed by the cat, the hamster, and the budgie and was only marginally better than the knickers that had turned from original white to washing machine baggy bummed yurk.
I am not given to staring at womens underwear in public but my mother is responsible for my OCD about underwear. Her rules were simple...

a) Underwear should match.
b) It should not contain safety pins - ever.
c) Jeans and t-shirt are not an excuse to dress down underneath.
d) Clean knickers are essential - you may get run over by a bus (I spent a lot of my youth looking out for rogue buses).

So, I am holding the hope that women still want to look like women underneath....

...until the day that I find someone to share these with...

pee ess - the rules apply to men as well. Don't think you can get away with those revolting items just because they are comfortable!

Oh, and in case you were wondering I was buying more underwear!

Caption me

2008-10-22T07:39:00.002+01:00

"They said we had to look retired"

Your turn...

Life of Pie

2008-10-19T16:24:00.004+01:00

I spent some time last week working with a young womens group in my local community. These nearly women are streetsmart and mouthwise and have probably lived more of life on the edge than I care to imagine.
In a conversation that wove in and out of their teenage pregnancies, violent fathers, drinking problems and the joys of vodka and red bull, we got around to talking about what they wanted out of life.

"It's all right for you, Kate, you're always fuckin' happy." Louise said.

"Yeah, when you're fucking sorted you can be fucking happy." Tasha added.

I said that I wasn't always sorted, or happy, and that I'd had quite a bad year so far, but trying to explain the breakup of a twenty-six year year relationship when the girls around you can't keep a boyfriend for more than twenty-six hours was more than a little difficult!

"You need to put good things in your life pie." I said.

"Wassat?" they asked.

I told them that their life should be like a really good pie but it can only be good if the things that go into it are good.

"So if you use crap ingredients then your pie will be fucking horrible?" Tia said.

"Exactly!"

After discussing the more unsavoury items in their pies they then went on to compile a recipe for a good life pie...

1lb of happy
1 lb of love
8oz of joy
4oz of money
1oz of fucking lovely sex (thanks for that one, Louise)

These women will probably turn out to be better cooks than me!

.

BLOG ACTION DAY - POVERTY

2008-10-15T07:33:00.007+01:00

The Happy Meal

I watched a documentary a while ago - it was about a morbidly obese family who were living off takeaways. A steady diet of processed meat, too much salt, an abundance of fat, enhanced flour, refined sugar had eventually led to the father being cut out out his house and carted off for a gastric bypass to try and stop him dying before his time.
Thousands of dollars were ploughed into this family to try and educate them that overeating was possibly dangerous to their health. In the meantime they were still feeding burgers to the four-month-old baby.
When it was announced that it was cheaper to feed a family on takeouts than it was to prepare the mega abundance of local fresh food I was nearly physically sick.

What kind of twisted world am I living in where poverty can kill you with overeating, or kill you with undereating?

Isn't it about time we looked at the difference and started to redress the balance? Aren't we all entitled to a well balanced happy meal that isn't going to kill us?
Somehow I don't think the mother of the child below would understand that concept either.

Today is BLOG ACTION DAY - POVERTY (see the link on the top right for more details).
Over 11 million people are going to read blog posts on the subject of poverty - please read some of them because it applies to all of us.

Marble musing

2008-10-14T13:38:00.006+01:00

These photos for Phoctober (HERE) brought to mind a poem by fellow blogger, John Ahearn, from his book Pomes, Younger and Older.
Hope you don't mind, John.

Marble muse

Carver loved her before she’d shed the last
eighth-inch of measured marble, when she
was still a blurred cousin of the plaster
posed in quarter-scale beside her knee.

Her left hand offered him the skylight,
her right the rubble scattered on the floor;
her gaze, declining from heroic height,
became an invitation to adore.

Smoke streaked the pointed frost-gray
as the edge searched out her real skin,
chirping the last layer of gauze away
to reveal the flawless being poised within.

Smoothed, she gloried in her Belgian black,
gleamed under the circular slow strokes
of pumice and oil, stood in herself, exact,
monumental, realized. And spoke:

“Get rid of that one there. Impertinent scut.”
Carver, mute, understood stone
for the first time as his heart slammed shut.
The creature didn’t know it was alone.

“And get this place cleaned up, you filthy man.
Get a haircut. Shave. Show some spark.”
Carver lay at her feet, beyond command.
She chittered like a grackle in the dark.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

2008-10-10T07:43:00.009+01:00

I had my Personal Development interview (interrogation) at work this week.
After establishing that I had very neatly avoided all the targets from last year we got to the bit where I start to look like a rabbit caught in a stewpot.

"Where do you see yourself in five years time?"

I am never prepared. It catches me out every time. Haven't they learned that I have enough trouble remembering to get up for work every day let alone where I should be. I rely on auto-pilot, my inner GPS system to get me there, along with a rather clever system of colour coded knickers that tell me what day it is.

I tell her that there isn't a crystal ball made that can predict what I shall be doing in five years time. I can hardly predict what I shall be having for supper this evening and even that is subject to change at the last minute.

I blame my maths teacher - she was never going to drum predictive skills into my disorganised brain even though she hit me over the head with the book that held the key to my future. Funny how I can organise a bunch of crappy words into a legible sentence but stay resolutely 'in the moment' for anything that requires more than two brain cells being rubbed together.

Anyway, I want to be a ballerina - wonder if she'll pay for the lessons and the pretty dress?

pee ess - Phoctober - "keep off the growing thingies"

and "disorganised but less moody"....

The moody cow does Phoctober

2008-10-07T13:04:00.008+01:00

Last year, Maht, at Moon Topples, did a lovely project called Phoctober (Photo's in October). He doesn't really deserve anyone to join in because he keeps going awol but I am (usually) a nice person (see below). Click on the link for details.

Anyway, here's my first effort....

POND

.

.

..(Can you tell which way up this one is?)

I thought it might be fun to follow it up with a Phoctober Photo Diary only the trouble is my (as we like to say on that irritating social Facebook thingy) ...

My mood is - 'pissed right off'....

.

Don't

2008-10-04T09:10:00.003+01:00

Don’t kiss me on the cheek like a maiden aunt, or

bear hug me within an inch of my life.

Don’t peck me, pat me, pet me

or give me the beer slap

Don’t hold me at arms length,

or slobber in my ear.

And please,

don’t rub me like a magic lamp

or knead me like dough

Can you learn not to chew me like a toffee,

or lick me like the dog?

Remember,

do as you would be done by.

The returns will be worth it.

I am not your mother.

Don’t turn from me

Don't negate my passion

I am am unbreakable china, so

kiss me like a lover.

Kiss me like you mean it.

Kiss me to my soul.

Honour my lips

I am worth learning

Just Lily

2008-10-01T13:32:00.006+01:00

This is a short fiction from a while back, posted because I met another 'Lily' yesterday...

In later years Lily would say that her legs looked like two pieces of string, dangling down from a dress that was too inadequate for the weather. At the time the legs didn’t notice and continued hanging loosely from the swing that she had not quite grown into, and probably never would.

The adults were whispering again, standing in the kitchen making those large-mouthed silent words in the hopes that she wouldn’t understand. They were also drinking grainy coffee and smoking the fags that made Julie, from next door, sound like Marge Simpson’s sister. Julie only appeared when there was oh-my-God trouble.

Lily stretched out her toe with every swing, trying to reach the stone that was embedded in the middle of the worn patch of grass below her. She knew that if she caught that iceberg rock it would mean blood. Blood, a plaster and a certain hanky produced from a pocket of mentholated sweets.

“You never cry. Brave girl.” grandma said once, dabbing at the nailess horror that appeared from under the bloodied white sock.

“I am saving them.” Lily said “Someone else needs them more than me”.

“You’re an odd one.” grandma said, with a sort of smile “You need a brother or sister, you spend too much time on your own.”

Grandma was funny, but a brother, or sister, would be nice. Lily dreamed of having a 'Stella' of her own, or an 'Alice', or even a 'heaven-forbid-a-Michael'. Someone who could share her days and someone to keep her company behind the sofa when the shouting got louder than the television.

A 'Stella' would be round and plump and look like aunty Mary’s fat Louise. Mum said that fat Louise had a head that was too big for her body but that she would grow into it. Lily didn’t quite understand, but she liked Louise's biscuit stuffed cheeks and the little girl was always smiling. That would be nice.

An 'Alice' would read her stories. Lily liked stories. They took you to other places and let you play around without getting dirty. Mum fussed about the dirt, and bloody socks and messy books. Lily knew that she couldn’t have an older sister. That would be silly, but an 'Alice' would be a clever thing and she would be able to reach those books that Lily wasn’t supposed to touch. Alice would be smarter than a smart thing, unlike heaven-forbid-a-Michael, who would, in fact, be thicker than shit.

Mum said that all men were thicker than shit, but that was before dad had broken her jaw again, because up until today mum hadn’t said much at all.

“And now it will be much better.” mum said, while the kitchen gang smoked another fag.

Lily had listened to the words that removed dad, the shouting and the broken body bits from her life, but the only words that counted were the ones that had stolen the dream.
Now there was never going to be a Stella, or an Alice, or heaven-forbid-a-Michael. It would always be just her.
.

Just Lily.

.

The dressing up box

2008-09-28T20:23:00.005+01:00

I went to a party last night. My sweet friend Karin had hit the big five-oh and was celebrating with a fancy dress party with the theme of 'F'. Staying true to my nature, and the fact that I probably had enough kit lying around the house, I decided on a 'fallen fairy'.

Yesterday afternoon I made an excursion up to the attic to retrieve some black wings and a raggy skirt. Just as I was fishing around I spotted a box that hasn't been opened for a long time. Inside there was a collection of clothes that I used to wear years ago, clothes that meant a lot and I couldn't be parted from.
At the bottom was a beloved dress that brought me to tears. It was an original fifties dress that was once my mum's and I think I last wore it when I was about nineteen or twenty. I tried it on.

Not only did it fit but I couldn't take it off again, so with the addition of matching vintage shoes, gloves, and a kelly bag, I backcombed my hair into a modest beehive and then shocked the Feckers into stunned silence!

"Women should dress like that all the time." Big Fecker said.

I should have argued for the rights of the emancipated woman but I tend to agree with him. When did being a bright, intelligent, strong woman mean that you have to wear ugly clothes? My only problem would be the hour it took to get my eyeliner right!

And yes, the party was great and I kept company with some fish fingers, flamenco dancers, a couple of dodgy 'fathers', other fifties, forties and flower powers and a friend who after a few drinks kept falling out of her 'femme fatale' dress. Twas an effing good night!

(So shocked by his mother's appearance, Little Fecker forgets where 'up' is on the camera)

(Big Fecker, if you don't take those ridiculous glasses off I am going to stab you with one of the twenty-eight kirby pins that are holding my hair up)

.

Here....

2008-09-25T23:44:00.001+01:00

...is a magick bean.

What are you going to do with it?

.

The Womb Chair

2008-09-22T07:40:00.004+01:00

So, I witnessed what Katy did, and I also know what she did next because I was there.I was on that island when the Robinson family got shipwrecked and I watched from up a tree as those children in the New Forest struggled to remain hidden.
I watched in wonder as the secret garden was revealed, shared tears with the little women, followed Heidi up a mountain with that grumpy son of a bitch and helped Charlotte the spider with her innovative web design.

All this and more I saw from my reading chair, curled in comfort, except when they let out the Baskerville hounds and then I was most definitely under it and I was probably behind it when Shere Khan was on the prowl. But safe. In my chair, but not in this world, sampling the thoughts, ideas and experiences of some great writers even before I was ten.
I exposed myself to magick, ghosts and rotten real life people. I learned about love, hate, integrity, cheating, killing pigs, survival and the trick of finding doors at the back of ancient wardrobes. From this protective womb chair I learned about heartbreak before I had tasted my own and enhanced the morals that my parents had gifted to me. Can there be anything more powerful to help a child over the threshold to adulthood?

I return to my womb chair almost daily. Many books still deliver a lasting education and a lingering need to escape the world, feeding an imagination that still believes that I was once Anne of Green Gables.

Just so.

.

Her majesty the Queen of Marbles

2008-09-18T11:18:00.007+01:00

"So what are they?" he asked, looking at me as if I had gone mad. What could I possibly be offering that would take his mind away from the Playstation or the latest violence infested DVD?

"A game from the ancient times, a game of stealth and cunning, order out of chaos and look, no electricity needed."

"Didn't you have a TV?" he asked after I had peeled him away from the modern world with a box of small spears.

I resisted the urge to smack him across the head (illegal and not very pleasant) and proceeded to show him my rusty skills with a box of Spillikins.
An hour later we were still playing and he was beating me. We moved on to marbles...

.

and then to a game of Jacks where I found I still reigned supreme in the playground!

.
For two hours I had painfully extracted an eight-year-old from the confines of modern entertainment - I was feeling a bit smug and pleased that I still had mastery over some the games from my childhood.
When did we stop playing all these wonderful games and where did we get the idea that the isolated modern games that kids play are good for them?

Tomorrow he wants to learn Chinese Chequers. I think I shall be staying up all night to practice.

.

Sitting on the dock of the bay

2008-09-14T23:24:00.017+01:00

Some very tall ships, some decaying metal and some arty farty shots of dock stuff.....

.

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.
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.
.
.
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Perfection?

2008-09-10T07:23:00.000+01:00

I wish that I were perfect,

that my boobs stayed where they were,

and didn’t need the scaffolding,

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 muffin flow.

I wish I had a bikini line,

that didn’t try to be,

a part of something other,

that started at my knee.

I know that I’m not perfect,

when I look at 'mirror me',

but my brain is still functioning (just),

and I know my soul is free, so

the only thing I should be interested in,

is the inside ‘perfect’ me

Shouldn’t I?

Art appreciation ( part one)

2008-09-05T05:58:00.008+01:00

One in a short series looking at the stories behind some of our great works of art.

The Night of the Long Pea Shooter - by Rembrandt, 1642

Although often referred to as a 'night' scene, it is obvious (note the giveaway digital clock in the corner) that Rembrandt painted this just around tea time.
His painting of Captain Frans Banning Cocq (painters were not very imaginative with their names in those days) and his stylish sidekick, depicts not only the dawn of the innovative long range pea shooter but also captures a moment in time when the cummerbund could not decide where it was supposed to be.
This disparate scene shows the supporters and dissenters of the newly introduced 'Dutchy' pea shooter. Rembrandt shows us that the fashion conscious have embraced this new weaponry but has not forgotten to remind us of the 'stick-in-the-canals' to the left who are fiercely holding on to their pointy sticks.
An early version of camouflage is shown with the 'dutchy' roughly draped in a pair of curtains (the man in green has co-ordinated perfectly). We are also shown that ignorance was rife - note the man in red trying to wedge his peas down the barrel of his gun.
To the right, Rembrandt shows us the evolution of the mobile pea barrel and also the forerunner to an army uniform dress code, although only the use of identical moustaches can be detected.

History is alive and peashooting from the hip!

Not the lotus position

2008-09-01T18:59:00.002+01:00

Right, if you don't mind just stopping what you are doing I'd like some help.

I have a new life, a new path, so I need a new hobby. I don't want to do anything creative (got that covered) and neither do I want to do anything dangerous as I'd like to live a bit longer and please don't suggest anything like yoga....

...as apparently it makes yer clothes fall off.

I am very keen to try something completely different that doesn't involve pain and suffering and I would like to meet new people (Small Fecker suggested getting a boyfriend but the Boyfriend Shop is closed until next year).

As I view you all as intelligent, worldly people I know you will place your more than qualified suggestions in my inner sanctum and by this time next week my life will be enriched beyond my dreams!

pee ess - John G, I am not taking up mud wrestling, okay?

Confessions of a tea addict

2008-08-29T06:54:00.003+01:00

My feet walk the same path every morning. I am more predictable than rain in summer.
As soon as my feet have hit the bedroom floor I only have one thought in my head, one goal, and nothing else will satisfy.

The object of my desire lies in the kitchen and I don't think flood, fire or famine would keep me from my morning ritual.
I need tea.

I know I am an addict. We can run run out of bread, potatoes and other important staples but I NEVER run out of tea. Without at least two cups to get me going I am nothing, less than nothing - a heap, a useless lump. There is no point in speaking to me until I have filled me tanks.

Although coffee takes over a couple of times a day, it is tea I rely upon to get me through a phone call, a friend's confession, a hard day at work or just because I fancy one.

I have to face it, I am an addict and I shall be buried in a teapot.

Culcher

2008-08-23T08:38:00.001+01:00

When I was younger I used to moan about living in a county that was so far away from what I considered the nearest hive of trendy culture. Cornwall (the pointy bit hanging off the end of England) was not only the butt of numerous local yokel accent jokes but was also considered to be the epitome of a cultural desert.

It is not until we have visitors (Debi and co, among others) that I begin to wonder what they make of the very individual local culcher that lies between the public face of pasties and clotted cream (local delicacies laden with lard and fat).
Better known for our sleepy villages and dramatic coastline (HERE) , Cornball is also known for the high percentage of artists who migrate here to soak in the clear light and churn out numerous paintings of boats in picturesque harbours. But up-to-the-minute, cutting edge culture - err, maybe not....

We have theatres (if you don't mind sitting out in the weather on the edge of a very dodgy cliff).

and the Tate St Ives is, yes, you guessed, overlooking white sand and sea...

As Debi found out (heh heh - when she was 'funked up' for the night), local bands (HERE) have a huge, age defying following.
Living in a far flung part of the kingdom may have its disadvantages but I don't think we can be accused of not making up the bits that we lack. We may not be trendy but we are enthusiastic!

Dearly beloved...and the rest of you as well

2008-08-18T18:28:00.003+01:00

A post over at Bullets in the Mailbox reminded me of something that happened last week...

One of the children I work with was kneeling down in front of the window.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"Praying for the rain to stop." she said.
"Good idea." I said, hoping that one small child's prayer would halt a whole summer of torrential rain.
I sat with her and added my own prayer for a giant hair dryer.
"Does it matter who I pray to?" she asked.
"Err, no, I don't suppose it does." I said, thinking that maybe Roger the window cleaner wouldn't be much help "Did you have someone in mind?"
"Well, no, not really" she said "but I wondered if I had worn God out because I keep asking him for a Nintendo DS."

After hiding a smile we went on to discuss prayers and like Bullets we came up with a few that were unsuitable for the occasion but it got me thinking about express praying. If prayers are small wishes then here are my five...

Dear Deity of Choice, please could you...

fix the leak in the bathroom
get rid of me overdraft
leave one biscuit
find all the lost socks
oh, and find a bit of love for me

Thank you.

Over to you....

The witch and the vicar – a tale a blinkered perceptions.

2008-08-13T16:38:00.003+01:00

“But I’m a witch” said the witch.

“I know that” said the constant friend “but it will be all right.”

It wasn’t going to be all right, it was never all right. People with titles like that had attitudes they had no right to possess. Titles led to trouble – it was the law.

The witch bit her lip. Biting lips was a hazard of an occupation that involved avoiding anything to do with dog collars, smells, bells, heaven and hell. As far as the witch was concerned there were far too many blinkered donkeys in the world who failed to see even one side of the coin let alone the five brilliant points of a misinterpreted star.

“My friends are not like that.” said the smilingly smug constant friend.

The witch raised a practised eyebrow and treated her knowing friend to a smirk and said “I know but all the same I will leave my heathen symbols at home and won’t mention stuff that could cause fights that involve hospital visits – promise.”

It was always best to keep your head down when the spiritual bullets were flying – less wounds, less blood all round.

The last time the witch had encountered a man of the cloth there had been much teeth gnashing, fist clenching and general discomfort. The cloth man had gone a weird shade of puce and removed the biscuit tin so as not to prolong the visit. The witch had raised both practised eyebrows and consigned the man from the God Squad to the same place that the biscuits had gone. Once again, the refusal to acknowledge that the world was full of paths, many paths, had rattled her belief in her own humanity. He had failed miserably to see that her pointy boots could possibly share the same road as his be-socked, be-sandaled feet. Yes, really, not only a blind donkey but also a bad dresser - just another reason to remain resolutely pagan when all around there were the blue flashing lights of the fashion police. Vanity was a failing that she had long since come to love.

So, surprises were not on the agenda. The witch would play the game by their rules and everything would be lovely but unfortunately the Gods and Goddesses were having a party in the kitchen along with the biscuits and had decided that ‘Boo!’ was the word of the moment. The witch raised more than just her cynically poised eyebrows, matching her mouth to the shape of someone who had just been shot in the ass with the surprise bullet.

“But?” she spluttered “I am a witch of the world. My stripy socks know exactly where the ground is and my pointy pagan hat is shock absorbingly shockproof.

“Mmm hmm” the constant friend said “I did tell you.”

Being told was different to experiencing. This man of the cloth was a man of all worlds. His eyes were so open that they were positively lidless. Not only was he smiling openly when the ‘p’ word was mentioned but his was also adding, not only his ten penneth, but the rest of the index linked inflation since the dawn of the groat. Acknowledgement and understanding from this mono-god follower was definitely hitting an itch that the witch had not been able to scratch for quite some years.

Funny really, lessons came in the most surprising bottles of potions and the taste of this particular medicine was all together the sweetest that she had tasted for a very, very long time.

***

Moral - never judge a man by his collar and never judge a witch by the height of her very nice new pointy boots.

For Jo

2008-08-09T11:57:00.004+01:00

When we are old, have lost our minds,
and too much history lurks behind,
the tea we share instead of gin,
and going out means staying in.

We'll laugh still, at our beige adventures,
and help each other find our dentures,
that fill our aging, sagging cheeks,
and the glasses, missing for weeks,
that lurk beneath your spreading ass,
lost in chintzy, cushioned gas.

You and I will face the end,
knowing that we had a friend,
who once danced naked in the rain,
when life was running down the drain.

So, we'll reminisce over spent seasons,
and piss our pants for other reasons,
because friendship stands when love falls down,
and red will still be our painted town,
but I bagsy that lacy dressing gown.

.

The economy of truth

2008-08-05T18:38:00.004+01:00

I waved madly as Big Fecker's plane disappeared into the fog and made my way out of our local 'international' airport with a scowl on my face.

I AM NOT A LIAR. No, no, I was just not elaborating on certain facts.

"I just hope it goes smoothly." he said earlier, as we waited at the check-in.
I desisted from pointing out the meccano sets that are used to fix the darling little planes and made no mention of the rope burns he would sustain in order to get the plane aloft.
"You'll be fine." I said, employing my best mum-knows-best voice, but the truth is that I am not terribly well travelled. I've hopped about Europe a bit and explored many different modes of transport but have never done what my fecker has done.
I have flown - plane, helicopter, hot air balloon, into a rage, but I have never done it on my own and here I was convincing him that 'firsts' are always exciting. Liar, liar, drawers on fire!

The phone call from my eighteen-year-old tonight in deepest Germany, let me know in a very confident voice that flying was amazing and that everything was cool and what was I worried about?
So was omitting the facts a good idea, or should I have confessed that his mother is a chicken shit?

Ah well, I haven't told him about the bargain ticket I managed to get for the return journey. What do you think? More lies?

.

Don't it feel good?

2008-08-01T07:09:00.001+01:00

To sometimes stick yer ass to the wind and refuse to conform!

Petrified Intestinal Gas and other stories

2008-07-28T07:01:00.007+01:00

Why do we pick up a book in the bookshop in the first place? Is it the cover? The colour (if you're a bit girly)? Or do do we find the title irresistible?
I have looked through my own bookshelves and wondered how on earth I chose certain books because the titles are enough to comatose even the most persistent amphetamine user. I must have peeked inside because they were all perfectly readable (mostly).
When writing my own novels the title has come fairly early on but what on earth was going on with these people....

The Big Book of Lesbian Horse Stories by Alsia Surkis

The Stray Shopping Carts of Eastern North America: A Guide to Field Identification by Julian Montague

Warping all by Yourself by Cay Garrett

How I Cured Deadly Toenail Fungus by Mike Tecton

God, Why Did Dad Lose His Job? by Katherine Marko

I found all these HERE and I am definitely going to review my title choosing from now on but for an up to the moment choice of reading....

I Try to Take One Day at a Time but Sometimes Several Days Attack me at Once by Ashleigh Brilliant

...looks like a winner, but I don't think that I can beat this one...

If You Want Closure in Your Relationship then Start With Your Legs: A Guide to Understanding Men by Big Boom

I have ordered a copy!

Just don't tell me it was real

2008-07-25T08:54:00.003+01:00

"Of course it's not real." said the knowledgeable friend "There is a severe lack of evidence."

I glanced around. She was right but it had seemed real enough to wake me up in a cold sweat and stay with me for the rest of the day.
Being pregnant at my age would be enough to make me slit me wrists and hang myself from the top of the stairs for good measure.
Strangely, the pregnant part of the dream was nice. I was in my comfort zone. When I had the Feckers I loved being pregnant and in my sleeping gestation I had experienced the same kind of feelings - lots of tummy rubbing and feeling rather smug. What came next was a horror above all horrors.

"It just means that you are hatching something, giving birth to something and besides, look at all the new stuff you are doing already." said the knowledgeable, dream deciphering friend.

She was right. For the last two months everything has been in the 'new' category. Every day sprinkled with mostly bad 'new' but a little helping of good as well. I'm aware that certain dreams reflect our state of mind but what I didn't need was a very realistic nightmare in which the end product was chasing me around the house demanding to be fed every five minutes.

After checking under the bed once again I now believe that it really was just a dream. The Feckers have been saved from an embarrassing coroners report and I am free to continue life without all the nasty leaky bits.
Which now only leaves me with the intriguing question - who exactly was the phantom father?

It's oh so quiet

2008-07-23T07:35:00.013+01:00

This has been my home for the last four days - the narrowboat 'Epiphany'. The wonderful John and Fiona, who live on the canal, gave me my own epiphany - how to lose time and not miss it!

I had to learn how locks worked fairly quickly. This is the Caen Flight - 15 consecutive locks going up a rather long hill.
Just over two hours later we were at the top - what a view!

Even though life didn't rise above 3 miles an hour (with a few stops it took us 7 hours to go 14 miles on Monday) there was a different view at every turn.

Apparently I was somewhere in deepest Wiltshire, where this hidden canal world wends its slow way through long barrow country, past the chalk etched hills with Salisbury Plain just to the south.

We could have been anywhere.

I mostly sat at the bow of the narrow boat, with the engine chugging gently and the only disturbance from the odd heron or having to get off for another lovely meal.

As the shadows lengthened at the end of each day I understood completely why John and Fiona had decided to step off the world and opt for this - peace, perfect peace. Thank you.

John and Fiona have recorded their journey from the building of Epiphany to their life on the canal. You can find them here - Epiphany

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Makin' babies with George

2008-07-19T08:12:00.005+01:00

Yeah, I know, I kept it under my hat. What can I say? Me and George got together and this is our love child...Scary, eh? The adoption papers are ready next week - phew!

Anyway, it's Saturday, stay in bed and indulge in a little weekend procreation courtesy of this site...

MAKE ME BABIES

I'm off for a few days to get over the birth - back soon.

I got me paints out

2008-07-17T07:14:00.002+01:00

Not finished yet - whaddya think?

The morning after a very good night before

2008-07-13T10:24:00.005+01:00

The morning after a Gin Club meeting always brings a smile; even before I have got out of bed, and way before my thumping head has registered that the alcohol tanks are still showing 'full'. My route to St Saviour of the Kettle takes me past what once could be described as my dining table. The detritus looks like someone actually managed a piss up in brewery. Demanda's earrings are perched tastefully next to a black olive on top of a dead wine bottle and there is half a punnet of raspberries that were destined for some exotic cocktail but never made it past the Pimms jug. A hoard of pistachio shells reminded me who won that particular competition and I spotted the paper bag I supplied when it appeared that Demoana couldn't breathe anymore.
Text messages on my soggy mobile ask where vital items of clothing and the odd body part might be located, Delilah also asked if I liked my present.
The tradition of presents to the host has developed like some mad un-planned ritual over the years. Mostly we bring gifts of bottled joy, varying snacks to keep up our energy levels and flowers for the one who moaned a lot at the last meeting. I scanned the table. My flowers were sitting askew in their temporary accommodation in the teapot but they were not from Delilah. I was puzzled.
Then I spotted it. Lying on the dresser with a very nice bow around it was a marrow. Why anyone would want to give a newly single, independent woman a marrow I don't know, but it is best not to dig too deeply into Delilah's mind as you never know what you are going to find?

Your suggestions on this subject are not welcome but I suppose you will have your say anyway!

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Red or dead

2008-07-10T23:49:00.008+01:00

They were, of course, 'fuck me' shoes, shoes to get laid in, shoes that could scream their lurid wantoness across a crowded room - and they were hers. Did she want them? Could she wear them? She hadn't decided, but they sure beat the sensible work clothes that she had originally gone to buy.
Six months ago she wouldn't have even known about 'fuck me' shoes let alone owned a pair. Things had changed and when the world changes you either hide in a very deep hole or go out and buy red shoes. She had surprised herself with the choice but the shoes were another thing to add to her ever growing list of worldly changes. The realisation that her world was now akin to an expensive shellfish was a revelation. No longer the duchess of the kitchen sink, princess of the toilet cleaner or queen of fucking everything in the whole house, she was quite simply, free to choose her own footwear.

The red devils grinned slyly from the mirror. With five inches of patent sexual come hitherment, the little black dress was transformed. She took a few death defying steps towards the safety of the wardrobe. Practice would make nearly perfect and that would do for the short distance to the post box on Market Street. It wasn't far but it was all she thought she could manage. At this time of night no one would see her but her soul would know that she had actually worn red shoes in public.

By the time she reached the post box her hips had done that innate female thing and developed a sway that Rita Heyworth would have been proud to call her own. She had done it, but here under the lamppost on Market Street the shoes winked at her.
"Click your heels." they said "I don't want to go home yet."
They were right, another worldly change, a step in the right direction towards the bar down the road and a chance to see if her new footwear would live up to their very saucy name.

Dear Americans (Merkans)

2008-07-08T16:56:00.003+01:00

As I have been blogging for over two years now I think I am just about getting the hang of your funny accent. What I can't get used to is your constant need to change perfectly good spellings, or your need to call something by a completely different name (I'm afraid to tell you that zucchini are really called courgettes).
I know that we probably gave you all our worst spellers in the beginning but this really isn't an excuse for mangling your original language (mangle = wringer - the thingy with the wooden rollers to get the juice out of washing, good for squishing worms as well).

I have noticed, during my extensive research, that English English has many words for the same thing and when we run out we just make some more up! I have also learned that your pants can go all the way down to your ankles whereas our just cover our bits and I now know that zip code does not mean deciphering a secret message before undressing. I am still a little confused by the jam/jelly/jello thingy but I do understand when you insist on calling chips 'fries' because you gave us McDonald's (thanks a lot).

I know that cookies are biscuits (except when they are choc chip cookies), diapers are nappies but what the hell is a moonpie? Twinkies look interesting but you can keep your Hershey bars (yuk), the dodgy looking super blow pops and will someone please explain hominy grits - it is beyond me? In return I will try my best to explain the intricacies of tea making, yorkshire pudding and umm, marmite (can anyone really explain marmite to the un-initiated?).

I believe that these cultural exchanges will cement our relationship with you merkans as long as we don't venture into any grey/gray areas.

Dangerous pursuits

2008-07-05T07:15:00.006+01:00

In the interests of my aging body I am forced to turn my attention to umm, tightening up the things that have become a little loose of late. I am not fat but some areas could be described as 'lying comfortably' rather than 'perky' (my right knee, for instance).

So here's the problem -I am lazy, I abhor violent sport and I do not wish to sweat. I don't want to join a gym (they smell) and have no wish to run anywhere (so inelegant).
A friend suggested getting a Wii, but after some half hearted reserch I have found that it is most definitely dangerous and apart from the completely crap name just take a look at the injuries one can sustain......

...why is the woman with the purple golf ball eye smiling? She should have a bag over her head!

I am not into competitive sport or anything that involves missiles (balls etc). I might fight you over a chocolate biscuit, but if you want it that bad then you can have it.
I am also a witch and so therefore vain so please don't suggest anything like yoga, pilates or breathing exercises because I may end up like this poor soul...

...and those shoes are just horrible.

So please could we discuss some sort of 'lying down' exercise programme that requires little or no movement for a lazy writer with very toned fingers and a flat ass, or we could just sit around and have a few gins?

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The Cleeshay Cops

2008-07-01T16:27:00.004+01:00

Cliches - are they much ado about nothing or are they the nuts and bolts of our writing?
Time is of the essence, but I'll make it plain and simple otherwise we'll add insult to injury and suffer the consequences.

In a word a cliche can line the pockets of gentlemen but a rotten apple can spoil the barrel. Beggars can be choosers and a carefully chosen old chestnut can make or break a book. I say, at the end of the day, a little of what you fancy makes the world go around.

I may be preaching to the converted and that you all have a cliche on the tip of your tongue but I suspect that the cliche that doesn't kill us makes us stronger. I may be barking up the wrong tree and a cliche is a whole new ball game to you but don't throw caution to the wind, or the baby out with the bathwater - think before you act. Too many cliches can spoil the broth leaving a piece of writing that is a packet of crisps short of a picnic.

So, in order not to teach your grandmother how to suck those eggs I suggest avoiding the red herrings and the rabbits that are pulled from hats. I don't want to rub salt into the wound but please choose your one and only cliche with care and do as I say not as I do. In this way you will live to write another day because a rose by any other name is still a cliche!

Dragons

2008-06-28T09:46:00.003+01:00

Sometimes our faith is rattled to the core. I don't mean our religious faith but our belief in the those intangibles that go to make up the people that we are, or the people we thought we knew.

A massive life event can make you re-evaluate everything that you held to be true, everything that you believed in, both in yourself and in other people. Over the last few weeks I have been surrounded by people with copious amounts of honour, trust and integrity, selfless giving and support and I am gradually restoring my battered faith in the positive power of human nature.

Love encompasses all of these intangibles (and more) and as I walk on my new path I can honestly say that I still believe in love - the love I held in the past, the love I have now and the love that is waiting somewhere on the horizon. I have faith.

Oh, and I also believe in dragons - do you?

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Eau de life

2008-06-24T08:28:00.005+01:00

I was in a queue yesterday and the woman in front was trying to kill me. She didn't know it, of course, she looked fairly nice, but her liberal use of personal stink juice overwhelmed my senses and brought on a coughing fit that a TB sufferer would have been proud of.

I have a catlike slavery to my nose and could probably follow a nice smell for a couple of miles but a bad one is enough to put me off something for life. I suspect most people are the same and like me find that the over use of any perfume/aftershave hides the essence of the real person underneath. I feel cheated.

In our bottle of personal smell we carry around a gentle concoction of the lives we lead, the food we eat and the regular products that we use. At the base of this is our very own parfum, mixed in our own skin and as individual as a fingerprint. As the eyes take a photograph so the nose seeks out the essence and decides whether the smell is attractive or repulsive (or somewhere in between).
I have found over the years that I must be able to store a thousand smells and each can bring back a memory - my dads starched, soapy collar, my grandmothers floury, cigarette smokey apron and the smell of my children moments after they were born. This sense of memory is so powerful that one dip into my mums powder box can transport me back to her bedroom in the late sixties.

So. Give me your smell, your personal pong, the essence that makes you you. By all means wear something that enhances it, subtly, but leave me with a sense of you and the life that you carry around with you. Nothing is more powerful than the effect of warm, clean skin so please stop hiding it under those nauseating, malodourous man-made scents that nearly kill off the sense of smell in one ghastly sniff.

Poised provocatively with scissors

2008-06-20T16:24:00.004+01:00

As my life is now under new management, I am horrified to discover that I am agreeing to the ridiculous suggestions that the Gin Club are making. Last night I was dragged off to see the film extravaganza 'Sex in the City' and I was supposed to enjoy it even though I have never given one second of my time to the series.

"You'll love it after a few drinks." they said

Surprisingly, I did, but possibly not on the level that my fellow covenites might have expected. You see, it was the psycology of the thing that fascinated me most. Despite of the fact that Demanda kept nudging me in the ribs and saying "Do you think I am like Samantha?", I was fascinated to see that the merkans have Gin Clubs too.

"They are just like us, except for all that long hair." Demoana said, tipping her her drink over the very posh leather seat.

I tentatively patted my own hair - fourteen inches of uncontrollable scruff. Are you supposed to have long hair after you are forty?
Sarah Jessica Parker obviously needed hers to cover some of her face, but the trollopy Samantha was wearing hers with sexually liberated, knob hunting freedom. I was confused.

What am I portraying? Sexual predator of less than spring chicken years or just a lazy cow who can't be bothered to find a decent hairdresser?

So here I stand, scissors poised provocatively - do I chop, or not?

Oh, and Happy Litha - health and healing to all

Wifey and the Warchildren

2008-06-18T12:52:00.006+01:00

Oh yes, that's right. I had forgotten that I was sort of about books and stuff. So, here's some news...

Judith Blimey O'Reilly has a new book out. Not only that but she has a very sleek promo video to go with it. It tickled my fancy and I thought you might like to see it, but the wotsit won't go in the thingiebob and make YouTube come to me (don't call me technotwit) so here's a straight link -

Wife in the North

Hah, good, eh? Now buy it.

Oh yes, and this one arrived....

I'm about halfway through this wonderful book (and yes, I did read my own, page 112 - cringe) and can honestly say that none have disappointed and quite a few have made me go 'wow'. Peacharse and co have good taste and this is a discerning collection of short, and really short, stories from all over the world.

Under the premise of 'Whatever you've been through, you're not the only one' - this book is helping to raise funds for Warchild.

66% of people who die in conflict are children
1.5 million children have died in wars in the last decade alone
4 million children have been disabled by war
10 million children have been traumatised by war

We can help in small ways and your coffee breaks will be brighter - so BUY A BOOK

Go HERE to purchase

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2008-06-15T19:29:00.002+01:00

It has come to my attention that some people feel that they can just walk right in to my comments box and do and say exactly what they please. So just like those wonderful signs at the swimming pool I think it is about time that I gave you the rules of engagement with the Inner Minx....

1) No spittin' - spitting is rude, un-hygenic and makes a mess in the archives. A spittoon will be placed at the door for those who need to hoik before entering.

2) No cussin' - poncy cussing will not be tolerated. If you wish to swear then please do it properly - I know all the words and use them regularly.

3) No heavy petting - heavy pets must be left in the lobby but a little light petting is indeed acceptable (except for Muts, and he knows why)

4) No sex - there isn't room, so please refer to the instruction on 1) - spittoon etc.

5) No loitering - if you are hanging about in my site meter then I want to know who you are. It is no good just leaving me a vague ISP address, I want an explanation. Whoever it is who comes in at 10.30am every morning - does your boss know that you are reading blogs at work? And the one from the Pentagon (4-5 pm) - get back to work, your country needs you!

6) No google searches - not unless you are really inventive and can think of something other than 'sexy minx' (true, but not very original).

7) No innuendo or lewdness - please get to the point and refrain from double entendre's, tell it like it is and we will all be happier. Smutty and lascivious comments are perfectly acceptable.

8) No stalking - I had one once before and they will not be tolerated. Anyone who hangs around for longer than half an hour will be locked in a room with Pundy (he saved me once before - hero).

9) No chatting amongst yourselves - comments should be directed at the blog host. Anyone would think that some of you are actually friends (which can't happen on the interweb obviously).
10) No parties - this blog has been subject to a number of parties, mostly held in my absence. Seeing as I was one of the founder members of "Oh look, he's on holiday, let's party in the comments box" I would like to encourage partying when the blog host is in residence.

11) No diving in the shallow end - is this applicable? I'm not sure.

12) No food or drink - except gin and chocolate, oh and bananas, which I seem to be eating a lot of lately.

13) No ball games - for obvious reasons (no balls).

Thank you for your attention. A well tended blog is a happy blog so maybe it is best to ignore most of the above and carry on as we were.

On motherhood

2008-06-13T07:50:00.002+01:00

She found that being a mother was not as natural as it sounded. Kids don’t come with an instruction book so she made it up as she went along. The rules were there to be manipulated and she tweaked them constantly, defining the moment and altering their small worlds to suit present conditions.
And they didn’t know any different, so she taught them the difference. She taught them about sameness as well, and about love, always about love, and how to piss your pants from laughing too much.

Can you make a good child out of a bad? She didn’t know and she didn’t want to have to try. She only knew, as only a mother can, that these two that she had grown, were real, live, thinking people. Two small life sponges that could either be filled with light or filled with stuff that could leave a nasty taste in later years.

Honesty and the art of idle chatter were the keys to unlock this mysterious cupboard. She read them stories and talked to them about things that she had no right to talk about, telling them about her own mistakes and listening to their valuable opinions.

When ‘finding yourself’ meant black nail varnish, peroxide and lager, she went shopping, supplied gloves and held the bucket. It was no good just giving advice when it wasn’t needed, they obviously needed to poke their fingers in the fire and it was her role to hand out the bandages until the lesson was learned. She allowed them to grow with a safety net that was full of holes – they would learn to land on the good bits.

And then, suddenly, they were there, these gems. Brilliant, multi-faceted nearly men, full of confident mistakes, full of bullshit and full of life. Her job was not done but there was hope that these gems will be free gems. Free to make honest choices, free to live without regret and free to shine and shine and shine. And they will.

First born feckers, fishballs and friends

2008-06-10T11:57:00.006+01:00

We maybe should have been daunted - two pagans and an undecided, barging in on a ceremony that goes back through the mists of time. Knowing Debi and her family, as I do, it was silly to think that we wouldn't be welcomed with open arms into their wonderful community.
With the feckers looking like two rejects from the Blues brothers....

..we set about girding our loins for the three hour service (yes, that's what I said) that would take FB into manhood.
FB was a testament to the strength of character that runs through his family. Coming down with measles a few days before his big day led to a very sick child walking into the synagogue but a real man walking out. There were tears all round.
The service was a bit like watching a play performed in a foreign language but there were people on hand to explain what was going on and they do at least feed you afterwards (mmm, fishballs, yummy).
There was also dancing, and drinking, and eating, lots of eating and more dancing- long into the night.....

FB's Bar Mitzvah was significant on so many levels - proving that there is nothing stronger than the love of family and friends.

These two friends are for life, proving once again the power of the internet and the possibility of finding a soul sister halfway across the country.

Book news

2008-06-09T07:55:00.005+01:00

Before I post some pics of our fabulous weekend I just need to promote something that I am proud to be a part of. I came home last night to find that my story has been included in this.....

...a fabulous new book and the proceeds are going to WARCHILD a very worthwhile charity.
The book is full of intimate stories from bloggers around the world. I am delighted and it is a great boost to my writing which is somewhat at a standstill at the moment.

Thanks to Peacharse and co for their hard work in putting it all together.

Go and take a look - details, who is in it, and how to purchase are here....

YOU ARE NOT THE ONLY ONE

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New experiences

2008-06-05T06:17:00.013+01:00

I always look forward to a new experience and tomorrow morning the feckers and I are off to London to sample something very, very new.
In case any of you haven't wandered over to Debi's blog lately then you will be unaware that it is her eldest son's Bar Mitzvah on Saturday (how could you not have noticed?).

New experiences often call for a little preparation so I have read up all about it so that we don't let ourselves down. I have been practicing balancing on chairs and refining the art of shoe flinging...
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I have bought a scarf so I don't offend anyone with my wanton hairy ways (do you think it is subtle enough?).....
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..and we have be learning how to do this bottle dancy thing although small fecker's efforts required an empty can of lager and some super glue.

..
There is also going to be a band and we have been practicing so that we can jam with them...
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So here we come, Debi, we are really excited and we haven't eaten for a week!

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In time

2008-06-01T19:11:00.003+01:00

Love stretched the years

a perished elastic band.

But trickling through the hourglass

was a finite stream of sand

A courtesan out of favour,

an empty shuttered room,

the untended garden,

where roses fail to bloom.

No one spoke the words that

no one wants to hear.

A tangled muted history,

cloaked in fluid fear

Forgotten was the joy,

like laughter in the rain,

hidden under blankets

as the years came round again

The layers peeled away

left an open sore

A moribund truth revealed

That love once lay at the core

Journeys are funny things

Eyes are often blind

to the tangled superhighway

Of the heart and the mind

As new ground is stepped upon,

lessons must be learned.

Love-blind eyes cover up,

the fingers that are burned.

Now a sadness sweeps the chess board,

where blame plays no part,

leaving just an echo,

of two broken hearts.

Time will do the telling

of what is wrong and

what is right

but hold fast that true love

was worth a monumental fight.

Focus on the rocky road

and carry the light,

to keep your path to happiness,

always within sight.