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Between the posts

Well, Writing 101 is finished (boo…)

But hey….Blogging 201 is just starting (yay!!)

First challenge is to post at least three goals for my blog.  Hmm… that’s dead hard that is.

They’re asking me things like ‘why do you blog?’ and crikey, I don’t know.  I just do.  I like it, I like writing, I like interacting, I like reading other people’s blogs and pinching their ideas (not really, just getting inspiration, honest!), and I like seeing my stuff looking pretty. I like my friends and family to see how I’m keeping myself busy, and making them laugh, and wince sometimes (hehee).

Sooo…that’s why I blog.  Now I know.

The blogging 201 pixies are also asking me to set myself three goals for my blog.

So, what might they be…?

Ooh.. I’d like some more followers please.  It’s so lovely to see the dubree in the corner light up with likes or comments, but it really makes my day when I get an email saying ‘so and so is now following your blog’.  That’s splendid.  Yep, lets have some more of those, say reach 220 by end of November. Sitting at 180 as of this morning, so doable I hope.

Of course, to get more followers I’m going to have to do some work.  Have been publishing daily through the course of writing 101, so I’m going to give myself a break here, and just endeavour to post something at least three times a week.  Perfectly doable I think.

Thirdly, for your delight and entertainment, I’m going to establish a new feature.  No idea what.  I could do with your help if I’m honest.  Have come up with one or two ideas:

  • Madness on Monday – plenty of madness in the world to talk about methinks
  • Terrible joke Tuesday – hmm… know plenty of those too…
  • Wordy Wednesday – my ‘word of the day’. Today, by the way (ok I know it’s Monday, smarty pants… I’m just sayin’), it’s Balter, which apparently means ‘to dance gracelessly, without particular art or skill, but with some enjoyment’ – I do it all the time!
  • Thirsty Thursday – actually this one already exists in our house, but not in a bloggy way, more in a ‘time for a glass of wine’ way.
  • Fabulous Friday – well, I’m fabulous every day of course but not blingy, more sophisticated and genteel (hmm..!) but there is plenty of bling out there that catches my eye and makes me gasp with wonder at what people are prepared to wear.

What do you think? Any of ‘em any good? Well, I’ll leave it for now, and surprise you!

Anyhoo…there you are.  Three, perfectly achievable goals.  Better get off and start doing something now then.

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Would I lie? – a short story

Hi I’m Robert.  You can call me Bob.

Before I start, there’s one thing you should know.  I’m a liar.  I can’t help it, it’s compulsive. It’s cool, because once you’re a known liar you can do what you like and nobody believes it.  The only drawback is that, these days, I’m never quite sure whether or not I’m lying either.  Weird as it might seem to you, the truth and lies are as one to me now.  My life certainly seems fantastical when I relate it, but hey, some of it must be true. Mustn’t it?

Well, let’s start with a bit about myself.  I’m tall, taller than average anyway. Six feet three at last measurement, what some people might call lanky.  Long arms and legs, you know the sort.  I was blessed with fair hair that has never faded and blue eyes that have been described as ‘icy’ before now.  I’m not what you might call a ‘mans man’, no football or anything like that, I’m more genteel. I like my tea from china cups, that sort, if you know what I mean.  I have been called ‘theatrical’ which could mean I have a star-like quality.

I live in a small flat, with all my things around me.  It’s nice, in a bohemian way. Flowers grow naturally in the crevices around the windows, they occasionally even creep indoors through the cracks. I don’t discourage them.

My mother lives nearby in an old folks home.  She’s mad. Potty.  Has got worse since she moved in. She claims not to know who I am, but I can see in her eyes she recognises me.  She was always disdainful of me, after all she was a success, an artist whose works sold for thousands, ‘til she went potty.  Mother used to use me as her muse, and there are many paintings of me out there, the recognisable ones are mostly of when I was a child, she leant more to abstract as she got older.

Mother was always alone, I didn’t have a dad.  Well I suppose someone out there must have contributed to my being, but she would never confirm who that was.  I can see a resemblance to a certain actor, but I won’t say his name, I wouldn’t want to cause any embarrassment.  Besides, you’ll know straight away when you see me.  The likeness is striking.

The first girl I kissed threw herself at me.  She was twelve and I was nine. Her name was Barbara something or other, and she had brown curly hair and skin dotted with freckles. She tasted of aniseed, and I’ve never liked it since.  In my teens there were a few more conquests, Jilly M being the most notable. She was a model, though I never saw any of her work, long-limbed and cat-like. She prowled around stalking me for a month or more before I gave in and took her out for dinner.  Never let them think you’re keen.  That’s my advice.

We saw each other regularly for about six months before she disappeared off the scene.  It was ok, I was ready to move on.  I don’t like people getting too close.

Now, in my thirty’s, though I still go on the odd date, I like to stay free. After all, my job keeps me busy.  I procure precious stones for a living, which sounds quite glamourous, though I can assure you, I more often than not end up in god-forsaken places around dusty ill-kempt mining offices, manned by dusty ill-kempt men, where I feel thoroughly out of place. However, it is lucrative, so it’s worth the trouble, and I always have plenty of spare cash handy with which to treat myself to some of life’s little luxuries.

For instance, I recently bought a car.  It’s quite a fancy one.  Attracts looks, if you know what I mean.  I would never take it up to its full speed of course (I am a law abiding citizen), but do like to zoom off down the motorway with the roof down just to explore.  I love the coastline so often end up by the sea.  The window here is quite high up, and I can’t see out, but I’m sure I can hear the swish of waves nearby.

Once I was lucky enough to be invited on to a friend’s yacht for a sail around the Caribbean. It was a big old yacht (he is a multi-millionaire) and each berth was nearly as big as my entire flat.  Oh, I shall never forget it. The sun and champagne, the laughter and swimming in the clear waters around the islands. I came back brown as a berry, and my hair was bleached almost white. I looked fabulous, though I say so myself.

I didn’t see him, or any of the others for that matter, again after that trip.  But it was my choice. He was a bit nouveau riche for my liking really.  I preferred staying at the big old house up near Edinburgh, you know, with the gentry.  Much more my style. We rode every morning.  I loved the horses, the feel of their strength and muscles working, the smell of the leather, the steam coming off their coats after a gallop through the mist hidden heather.  My favourite was called Warrior, he was (is still probably) a magnificent chestnut.  The stable lads brushed him so that his coat shone as though he was carved from polished wood.  He was a full 16’ 3 hands, and it was lucky that I am such an experienced rider, because he could be extremely feisty at times. Never got me off though!

The trouble is it is cold in Scotland, and there are midges. Millions of midges. I was bitten to death nearly, and that old house was so cold.  Rattley windows, drafty doors.  They might have been used to it, but you would have thought they’d have got at least the guest quarters sorted out.  So I’ve not been back.  I like my cosy little flat better.

I wish I was there now. Cooking tea. I liked to cook. Watching the steak sizzling in its juices, or seeing the beans bubble in theirs.  I don’t have much facility for cooking in the flat though, just a small stove.  Not like my mother’s big old range.  She’d always have pies and cakes cooking inside and stews and soups on the hob.

‘Nothing wrong with good English food’ she’d say as she chopped up greens and potatoes that she’d grown with her own hands in the vegetable patch up in the west corner of the garden ‘a growing boy needs a hearty meal!’

Don’t get that these days.  Don’t each much of that mush at all. Seem to be existing on the pills.

I ought to explain.

I was telling my sister about my latest venture.  Did I not mention I had a sister? Oh yes.  A busy body. Two years younger than me and she thinks she knows best. Anyway, she’d turned up at the old folks home to visit mother at the same time as me.  Mother recognised her straight away.

‘I’m off to Botswana on Friday, to one of the diamond mines’ I’d told her.

‘No you’re not Bob’ she said, not even looking at me.

‘Now why do you say that? Do you have to be so cynical?’ I asked her, affronted.

‘Because you wouldn’t know a diamond if you saw one’ she said ‘and besides, not a single word you have ever said has been true.’

Well, I’ve already mentioned I am a liar, so it’s no secret, but she didn’t have to be quite so blunt.

‘Are you having an episode?’ she asked, looking at me a bit peculiarly with a raised eyebrow and patting mum’s hand gently.

Well, that put me in a spin. ‘An episode? What the hell do you mean by that?’

‘Look, fine.  You’re going to Botswana. Fine. Why don’t you go and pack?’

Sarcastic sort she is.

‘I wanted to see mother before I go.  It’s dangerous out there. They’ve told me I’ll need to carry a gun. I might not come back.’

‘You’re ridiculous.  And besides, I don’t think mum would be that bothered.  You know she doesn’t recognise you anyway. A gun?  Really? Good grief, you are getting madder by the day.’

Well I had to prove myself.  Had to. So I pulled the pistol out from my trouser pocket to show her. It was only a small one, for protection, but she screamed like a demon, and ran behind mothers chair.

The orderlies called the police.  The police took my gun and called social services. Social services brought me here. To the ‘hospital’.

It’s not all bad.  Some of the other people have had similar experiences.  One or two have friends in high places, like me, so sooner or later, my situation will improve.  I understand my sister, against my wishes, has cleared out the flat.  She bought me one or two mementos which she said were of my former life, though I don’t remember picking up a pebble and writing ‘agate’ on it. It does look like my handwriting though.  Nor do I remember buying the little plastic pony, or the foot long wooden yacht with the broken mast and holey cotton sails. It has the name ‘wisp o’ the wind’ written on the side.

She tells me she has sold my car.  Got less than a thousand for it, and the money has gone to the care home for repairs (the gun went off…accidently, of course, and mother was only grazed) and to paying off one or two of the outstanding debts I’d accumulated.

Sounds like I might be in here for a while. In the meantime, the nurse, who looks remarkably like Jilly M, is sashaying up the corridor, coming to give me some more sedation no doubt.  Seems like they’re not interested in my protestations in here.

Or maybe, just maybe, none of this is true.

Good night.

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Masks

Meg was feeling slightly sick as the little dinghy bobbed about on the swell. There were seven of them all crowded on to the little rubber boat, sleek in their wetsuits, unnaturally pressed up against each other, tanks propped between their knees.

She had got most of her kit on on-shore, heaving the heavy weight-belt on with fingers numb from the cold Atlantic breeze, and strapping the big bladed knife to her thigh in case of trouble. Then, with no dispensations for age or gender, she helped carry the dinghy down the pebbled beach from the car park to float it on to the matching grey ocean.

This was her first open water dive. A virgin diver, the lads called her with a nudge and a wink. She was the only woman on this trip, although there were one or two other, younger girls, who came to the weekly meetings at the echoey old Victorian pool back in London. That was where she’d trained and suffered, and very nearly drowned on many occasions, in the months since she’d joined the club. She remembered the first lesson, when she was told she would have to swim 10 lengths with the weight belt on before they’d consider teaching her anything else. Grim determination got her there, her arms pulling the water out of the way and legs kicking frantically, just managing to keep afloat. It had taken four attempts, but she finally succeeded and progressed on to the next stage.

Clearing your mask.

Doesn’t sound very difficult she had thought at the time, but it proved to be another stumbling block, that still she struggled with sometimes. The trick was to grasp the bottom of the mask and lift it up at the same time as blowing through your nose.  Theoretically it should empty any water out of it. But no, usually Meg ended up feeling more like a goldfish peering through a bowlful of water at the world beyond.

Nevertheless, as the weeks passed, she became more confident and was eventually able to take the final hurdle, which was to put all the equipment on at the bottom of the pool. Again, it took several attempts. More often than not she just didn’t have enough air in her lungs to blow the water from the mouthpiece before taking a breath, and resurfaced gasping and spluttering, giving the men good reason to tease her mercilessly when she joined them at the pub after the session.

She had seen the advert for the diving club in the local paper. She had never been sporty or adventurous, but now she was on her own she felt she needed to prove herself, and it would be good to have an unusual distraction that took her away from the daily grind at the surgery, where she had to fix her smile in place to cover her almost constant irritation with both the patients and doctors. The other receptionists seem to cope all right, and she thought she did too until the episode with old Tom Burns, who had always been difficult and abusive, but this time he’d actually slapped her. Sandra, the junior, had been quick to call the police and they took the poor old soul away.

Try as she might, she couldn’t really remember what had happened. She might very well have been sharp with him. She often was prickly since the divorce, and sometimes said things she regretted later.  She suspected, that that was why Dan had decided to leave her and go and live with his dad instead. A 15 year old boy only has so much understanding to give his mum.

Anyway, he had thought her new hobby ‘cool’, and she was hoping that he might even start to join her at the pool every week, even if it was only with the foolish and unrealistic promise of warm waters in exotic locations to come. At least it would be regular contact. Not like now, when he often seemed too busy to even talk to her on the phone. She’d tried texting too, but somehow her texts didn’t seem as urgent as those from his fan club of girls.

Now, though, it was her time. The virgin diver. She sat on the edge of the dinghy pulling on the big black flippers, accepting help with the tank, and tightening the mask, pulling out wisps of hair, knowing that there would be unattractive ridges on her face when she took it off. Someone turned the air on and she put the mouthpiece in and blew out as had become natural now.

She tipped backwards into the uninviting water. Hearing the now familiar mechanical sound of her breathing, she sent an ok signal to her companion and headed off into unknown waters.

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Reading Revolution

I love to read, I really do.  Anything.  Everything.  I read every day. Emails, newspapers, other peoples blogs, posts on facebook.  Do you know, I sometimes even read books.

In fact, these days I’m reading a lot more books than I used to.

One of my favourite things about our holidays is the bit at the airport when we go to Waterstones or Smiths and choose three books each to take with us. Just light stuff, nothing deep and meaningful like you’re supposed to read. Even, dare I say it, chicklit sometimes.  In the past though, this would be the one time of the year when I allowed myself to fork out for the luxury of books.

If ever I had any money given to me for birthdays or Christmas, it would usually go on books too. Better ones.  ‘Literary fiction’ that requires some time and thought rather than the throwaway holiday reads.

But often there would be a lean period where I was half-heartedly perusing our bulging bookshelves for something worth reading a second time, or to search for one that I’d half read but didn’t enjoy, to find out if it was any better second time around.

So yes, often I have been without an open book for months at a time.  But things have changed.  Oh yes sirree!

I got myself a Kindle. (other ereaders are available!!)

Now, I know ebooks are not everyone’s cup of tea.  You’ll hear loads of people sniffily say

‘I prefer the heft of a real book’.

Well so do I, except when I’m in bed trying to hold a heavy tome up with a tired arm, or trying to fit it in my handbag to read on the train, or carting it about while it takes up valuable space in my hand luggage.

The ebook is a revelation to me.  The choice is wide and varied and I can peruse the ‘book shop’ at my leisure.  There are some free ones (which frankly, I’ve learned to avoid, since on the whole, they seem to be a load of tosh, even to me), but even the ones you pay for are cheaper than the paper variety.

So now, I read a chapter or two every day.  I’ve read things I wouldn’t have dreamed of buying if I’d seen them in a conventional bookshop.  In fact, I probably wouldn’t have discovered them since I tend to only go to the shelves loaded with my preferred authors or genres.  I’ve been re-reading, or discovering for the first time, some of the classics too.  At the moment I’m reading ‘Cider with Rosie’ and I’ve got half a dozen other books already downloaded and waiting in the wings.  With its built in backlight I can even read at night without disturbing my husband, who lies right beside me snoring in the depths of dreams.

It’s not only me either.  My mother (whom, if you’ve been reading my blog, you’re well acquainted with by now) has her own kindle which she loves.   She is an avid reader, but since having a stroke was finding holding large books, and their varying type sizes, difficult.  With the ereader she can enjoy any sized book, and change the font quickly and easily.

Ereaders will never replace real books, nor should they.  If (when) electricity does finally run out, and the internet fizzes to a halt, this wonderful, sharing and illuminating world we’re enjoying will no longer exist, it will be the libraries full of dusty books that will remain to tell the stories.

In the meantime, come on everybody, lets just appreciate the words however we choose to read them!

Written in response to the daily post ‘Readers block’

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It’s Magic

In response to the writing 101 challenge to write a longform piece about ‘your most treasured possession’.

I used to think that the first thing I would rescue, if there was a fire in the house, would be photographs.  They are irreplaceable reminders of the good times.  Weddings, births, holidays, Christmas’s, days out.  The past is all there, carefully arranged in photo albums, or stored higgledy piggledy in dusty shoeboxes.  Now, however, I’ve scanned the best of the older ones, and all the more recent ones are digital anyway, so they are all safely waiting on the cloud ready for me to look at whenever, and wherever I please.

So I had to think hard about what my most treasured possession is now.  At one time it might have been some jewellery that had belonged to my nan.  I wore the necklace on my wedding day.  It was just costume jewellery, not even gold, but it was a row of mother of pearl circles that she wore often, and when I looked at it I was reminded of cuddles and lavender smells.  That’s gone now though. Stolen the first time we were burgled, along with every other piece of jewellery I possessed at the time.

Not only did they take my stuff, but they ransacked the kids rooms and took all the plastic, and even homemade, bits and pieces that they had collected, every bit of electrical equipment (even the phone – no mobiles at the time so I couldn’t ring the police even). I was devastated, and the sense of injustice remains.  I’ve also been left with a feeling of insecurity in my own home which will never go away, or even recede, despite all the double locks and alarms in the world.  Thanks for that burglers.

However, I do have something to thank the miserable toadys for. I no longer invest such emotional attachment to things. I have realised that life goes on even if you’re favourite trinket goes missing. Despite my insecurities, my fear these days is not of losing goods and chattels, but of the house being trashed, or being bopped over the head, or the dog’s (and the fishes – please don’t wee in the pond) wellbeing.  Whilst I don’t want them to pinch my stuff, after all, we’ve worked hard for that and those lowlifes don’t deserve it, it really is all about my family’s personal safety these days.

My love of technology is well documented.  I am gadget woman.  Many years ago now, my husband bought me an ipod for Christmas.  I cried with excitement and joy.  Likewise, when my company presented me with my first iphone, I got embarrassingly over-excited and yes, a bit blubbery. I am one of those saddos that likes shiny new toys.  I know, it’s undignified, what can I say?

I was the first amongst my friends and family to own a tablet (Ipad of course! p.s. Dear Apple, do I get a free upgrade for the advertising??).  Again, it was my husband who forked out for it as a Christmas present.  I had to order it myself though because he is a technophobe.  Hates it all.  Mind you, he’s a bit better now and I think secretly enjoys using his ipad (course I eventually bought him one – gave me something new to play with).  When I ordered mine the Apple store was offering free engraving so I chose for him to write something gooey and lovey dovey on the back as well as ‘Christmas 2011’.

You’d think from all this I would be about to say ‘my most treasured possession is my ipad’.  Well, those that know me might very well think that is the case. My ipad and my phone go everywhere with me.  I’ve often tried to explain to unbelievers why I love it so much

‘What do you use it for’ they ask

And I set off on a list as long as your arm; l listen to music; I keep up to date with the news; I look at the weather forecast; I play games; I use online banking; I keep in touch with my friends and family; I read books and blogs;  I shop; It’s a dictionary and theasaurus; a compass; it tells me about the traffic when I’m travelling; I can visit other places using google earth; there’s a map of the stars; a calculator; my address book; my calendar; a camera; my photos…. Well that’s for starters, you get the picture, and I always forget something or other anyway.

‘it would drive me mad, all that stuff’ they say

‘Ah, but that’s the beauty of it, you can use it how you want to. You can download the apps that you want.  You don’t need all that stuff.’ Let’s face it, nobody needs Candy Crush Saga or Bejewelled Blitz.  And though it pains me to say it, I suppose nobody really actually needs Facebook.

So you see, my ipad is a treasured possession. But when I think about it, it’s not my most treasured possession.

Now, you might be thinking it’s my family.  But then you can’t call them possessions.

‘I have daughters’ doesn’t mean they belong to me. They are their own people. Even as children we shouldn’t view them as belongings, though undoubtedly some people do.  For instance, I had a colleague who told me that if she wanted anything in the evenings, a glass of wine, a sandwich etc, she always made her son get it for her rather than hauling herself from the sofa to go to the kitchen. She argued that she provided for him so the least he could do was to wait on her hand and foot, slavelike. It was not a happy relationship though, and quite rightly in my opinion, he rebelled.

Without a doubt, my children are the most treasured people in my life.  I am tempted to write something gooey about the happiness they bring me. How I would be nothing without them in my life, but I’ll spare you, and them.  Suffice it to say, even though they now live great distances from me they continue to make me smile every single time I think of them (unless I’m going through a worrying about them patch, in which case I get wrinkles in my forehead) and that is practically all the time.

I should of course mention my husband.  Can’t leave him out.  He is there, walking beside me, encouraging me, making me snort with laughter, making me cross occasionally, making me delicious food, making my world better.  Where would I be without him?

It is he who has encouraged me to write.  Pushes me in fact. Tells me when it’s good and when it’s a bit pants.  Tells me when it gets just a bit too ‘dark’ as it, bafflingly, so often does.  Tells me how proud he is that I’m putting it ‘out there’.

And now we come to the crux:  Out there.  The Internet. The World Wide Web.  The Cloud.

This is what I couldn’t do without. Having that connection is something I truly treasure.

You see, the internet was born quite late in my life, so I do remember the world without it. I remember life before Windows. I remember my first ever email. The beep beep beep of the dial up connection and frustration when you couldn’t get through. I can remember life before Google and Amazon, and Ebay, and Paypal.  Makes me feel old. (note to self…you are!)

What I mean is, I really appreciate it. The connectivity of it. I can manage without my ipad, or iphone, or laptop. There are always others. Upgrades even. New ones to buy or borrow. They would be nothing without the connectivity though. I know how I feel when we have a power cut (all too often) and there’s no wifi for a couple of hours.  It’s like my arm has been cut off.

Twenty one years ago we moved North, away from my family, and since my daughters left home, my husband and I are alone, apart from friends, in this neck of the woods.  The internet provides a means of keeping in touch that no postal or telephone system could.  Communication is instantaneous.  Now, I am even able to facetime with my mother, who at 92 is using her ipad to email and text, play soduku and word games, and play solitaire.  She lives alone and it has been a revelation to her. Given her a new lease of life (apart from when it goes pear shaped sometimes which knocks another couple of days off her I think!).  Facetimes with her are hilarious too. She keeps forgetting to hold the ipad up, so most of the time I can only see the top of her head, but it gives us both something to chuckle over.

Without the Internet I would never have been brave enough to try and publish anything. Now though, thanks to WordPress and PoetrySoup, my writing is reaching far corners of the world. Something I could never have envisaged when I started writing stories years ago.

I’m more intelligent too…well, appear more intelligent.  I see news as it happens. I feel well informed about current events, and can read opinions from all sides thanks to the likes of Twitter.  I read more because books are cheaper, free even, and appear on my devices instantly (yes, of course I’ve got a kindle). It’s modern day magic.

Yes, sad but true, this is the thing I’d be lost without. The ability to reach my family, friends and the rest of the big wide world from the sofa, and to see and share my documents, photos and projects wherever I might be.

So thank you all you clever people out there who know how it works.  I don’t need to know.  I am just a grateful user.