Live long and popcorn

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

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

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

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



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

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

The tanning conspiricy and other unlikely theories

I met an acquaintance outside a shop.

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

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

"Skin cancer." she hissed.

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

(gravy browning will kill you one day!)

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

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

(No? Well, maybe you should be!)

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

Dear Madam,

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

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


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

Yours
Minx

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



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

Walking canvas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Master of the dance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, and he blogs HERE

News and stuff

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

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

SMASHWORDS

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

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

Opening Chapter Publishers

Go on, you know your are curious!!

An audience with the Pope

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

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

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

So remember....

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

And you did - thank you.

The wickedest party in the universe

Presenting......

The GIN CLUB!

Happy me


Gazza rocking us up with wicked tunes


Party on

Glamour girls

Big Fecker

Happy birthday me

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

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!

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!

But naughty is so much nicer.


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

Yule

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

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.