Phone-A-Friend.

Or, Why did I start this? And why can't I stop?

We may have to re-think. If the story's tone is more suited to an older child or teen, I may have to re-write it. The thing is, I like it now, the way it is, and I do not want to lose the tone of it. But I don't know many teens who might be interested in the travel of a teddy-rat. And besides, the aim of the thing was to raise an interest in kids, not older folks.

Does it matter if kids don't understand the words, or sentences in part? I mean, I don't think it ever put me off (and how else do kids learn, if not from exposure?) but would it discourage any kids less used to reading than I was? And if it's ok, up to a certain point, what portion do you think should be safe, easy language? And will it make any difference if the kids are read to, not reading independantly? In fact, does this still happen, at 9 or 10 these days?
---
I am slightly worried about the portrayal of Ginger. Those of you who know me will figure out why as you read. I hope it's not sickening or cliched, or too far off the mark.
---
how do you get accented characters on this thing?

Eureka!

By jove, she's got it! Nearly, anyway.

He can only communicate directly with His Person (although I don't know yet whether this will be vocally or through the power of thought). However he understands the feelings of every creature around him. He may possibly develop a communicative relationship with others, if, and only if, he meets some very special individuals. But, what about the bears and dolls and other faithful companions whom he meets along the way?

Penny For 'Em.

Kids, that is. Seriously, anyone have any 9/10 year olds I could borrow/ kidnap/ purchase (from afar, even!) in order to take the Alex tales for a test drive.

A Question Of Climate.

walking the dog today, the meagre sun not half-awake, the light snow coated everything once more, and every step was set off with the harsh plastic crinkle of re-frozen flakes. Stink-Dog inevitably raced to the beck at the bottom of the road. It must've been cold - there was no rolling over in the middle of the flow, and only some bounding after sinking sticks. For the rest of our stroll, the tiny, perfect icicles queued along his underside tinkled as he walked. And he had the smartest christmas beard I've ever seen.

I have a question. Should Alex have a voice, or telepathic powers, or should he be a silent, solo type. Initially, I didn't want him to have a voice; so many parents get pissed when reading 'make believe' so obviously not grounded in fact or possibility, and some kids nowadays don't seem to buy it either. But everyone knows about the power of a person's teddy, surely, and for there to be no connection would be, well, wrong. On the other hand, uniform telepathy isn't exactly true to form either; have you ever known a bear who's understood by everyone he meets? Selective telepathy, then? But then it gets complicated, and would the readers understand and empathise with this part-time communication skill?

It's Such A Perfect Day, I'm Glad I Spent It With You!

Dec 25th shall be the stuff of legend in our house; a Christmas free of argument and filled with family joy as any normal household must get every year. But that's another story which, actually, will be immortalised in Alex. Chapter 3.

Parts of this will too, but I wanted to share the festive cheer with my one (on a good day) reader.

Dec 27th (yes, I know the camera's calender needs fixing) started out like this...

a wonderful half an hour, utilising the 1mm dusting of snow. This quickly led to the perfect kind of drive; out in the country with my dad, the snow clotting as it whisked round our coocoon, the beach boys on the stereo, and an excitable black monster leaning over my shoulder. This in turn led to a walk with Stink-Dog, the Best Dog in the World, and Dad at a local wood, with snow and mulch, mud, sunshine, moss and trees all rolled into a cookie-dough ball of joy. We messed about trying to climb the crag with ice-numbed fingers and mulch-caked hiking boots for a while, to no avail. And when we hiked round to the top, watched the motionless sheep and busy helicopters through binoculars, as you do. This was, of course, interspersed with stick-throwing for HRH Stink-Dog. I'd almost forgotten how adorable he is with his half-puppy, half-pony canter of elation.

In Which a Small Rat Takes the World By Storm.

Alex made his debut yesterday; and very well recieved he was, too. We’ve decided to share his story; an ongoing project for children everywhere. You can request the first part of his tale through the comments section here, or via e-mail.

Writing and Roaming. A new-found friend.

I found my Travel-buddy yesterday. A small guy, who'll stow away comfortably in my rucksack, and who seems as inclined towards Freedom and the Stories as I...

Alex.

Floundering in Parenthood, and Other Musings of the Day.

My Precious Tale is writhing in agony, desperate to shed its skin for the fuller, magnificent pelt of adulthood. I keep seeing glimpses of the things it could become, but I cannot seem to give it the tools it needs to do so; there’s so much to impart upon it that I don’t know where to start.

---
Foreboding Reality:

I'm going to miss Borders' Meetings when I leave, perhaps more than any other single regular activity.

I'll miss the face-to-face honest feedback and ideas. I'll miss the sense that there are others out there who value that spark which makes us show up at the page/screen. And I'll miss being exposed to a myriad of works, in styles I'd barely read in any other place.

Most of all, I think, I'll miss the discussions, where the writing and the writers rub against one another until a spark, a flame, a rumbling fire ensues. Every week the differing experiences and topics lead to a new hoard of tangents. And you always learn something, without setting out with that in mind.

Santa's feeling rather odd tonight.

As Rachel has kindly pointed out, I have been neglecting this blog (again). In fact, I have been neglecting writing all together, making me feel like the snow-fed grit beside the roads. There simply has not been the time to put the words together, but I feel all the worse for it.
---
Guilt:

Feels like quicksand, syrupy against your fingertips as you flounder, cold as it oozes in between the folds of cloth you wear.

Sounds like a pin dropping to a kitchen floor for all eternity.

Tastes like strong black tea, etched upon your taste-buds for hours after the fact, its remnants bitter and harsh.

Smells like fresh cut grass on a frosted morning, the air damp and clean enough to carry the green aroma for miles, a smell so pungently beautiful that you’ll always feel inadequate, as though you don’t deserve to be there in the moment.

Looks like an inkblot, spidery as it expands even beyond the page, indelible and irrevocable no matter how hard and long you stare in horror.
---

I do have reasons (as usual) for not turning up at the page. I now have tickets for word-wide exploration, and with my passage suddenly reality, I have to get organised. Admittedly, this has been stunted somewhat by the realisation that I’m going Out There, for a Very Long Time; a mix of elated, inspired freezing terror.

I have been writing tiny pieces, in a search for the Christmas Tales that make the grade this year. So far, 98% of it is shit, and I’m running out of time.

In other news (I’m sure there was more than this to write about, before I sat down to actually do it) I went to my first football match today, with a lad I have been working with; Leeds vs. Leicester City at Elland Road. Leeds won 2:1. And I surprised myself by quite enjoying it; I thank The Boy for making the transition pain-free and entertaining, despite his frequent pleas for alcohol.

Oh, and I bought one of these today; fascinating, in an Eeyore’s-Pot kind of a way. It’s my new favourite piece of travel-kit.

The View of the Nac Mac Feegle.

I promised a couple of budding writers a starting place. Here's a couple I used recently, just to get things going. Both of the following explore perception and description; try them out and see how far you go, and leave them here for all to see, if you feel so inclined. Good Luck. Xx


The View of the Nac Mac Feegle: Pick three everyday objects, and zoom in on them. A shower head becomes a UFO, a weed becomes a shrubbery.

Blind-Man's Bluff: Pick up three everyday objects and describe them using only touch for stimuli.

Lord Of The Flies: A Rather Average Evening.

"No Problem." I concede, not realising what I’m signing up for as I head for the kitchen with three teenage boys in tow.

2 minutes in, as we assemble the ingredients on the worktop, I have to pull apart two rampant, angered youths.

"’s true!" Number Three growls indignantly. "Y’ do have to use a different knife for meat."

"Well, yes, but that doesn’t mean you threaten to knife him, does it, Three?"

The knives themselves, ridiculously blunt through necessity, cause quite a ruckus as they are produced. Forbidden fruits!

They snipe at each other silently behind my back, until some ancient instinct flares within the them at the sight of flame as I ignite the hob.

"Whadawe do then?" grumbles Number One, unable to avert his gaze.

"Well, if you take the green board and cut the chicken into cubes, about so big..." I gesture with my thumb and index finger, "Two, if you could chop the onions and pepper, and Three, could you do the mushrooms and the chilli? Both of you use the white boards. I’ll heat up the oil. Three, throw out the chilli seeds, unless you want it really hot, and make sure you wash your hands when you’re done!"

All goes quiet, and I cannot help sense the calm, against the full-on fights of not an hour ago.

"Done." They mutter, almost simultaneously, as the oil begins to hiss aggressively.

"Fabulous! Right. Onions 1st, then chicken after a minute or so, then the vegetables. Then, if One adds that spice sachet, and stirs the food to stop it sticking, Two can take charge of the wraps, and Three can do the cheese, Salsa and Sour Cream; and the two you can set the table."

"Wha’ about you?" Number Two protests.

"Nu-uh. It’s your meal, guys. I’m just here if things go wrong."

They stare at me for a moment as power shifts. No-one’s ever trusted them before.

"Well? Come on, or it’ll be nine o-clock before you eat." I’m hopelessly aware that one blunted knife could slip through someone’s ribs its holder turns around, and if malice erupts, there’s little space to step between them.

"Wha' d’we do?"

"Onions first, Fuck-brains."

"Guys." I warn.

In go the onions, with whoops of delight as the oil protests. And I stand back and watch.
Number One, the eldest, held authority over the other two, and quickly took charge of the task in hand.

As they haphazardly hurl food into the pan, he tosses it with flair, and barks instruction out across the room.

Exultant screams fill the room as I melt into the work-top and let the tale unfold, half amused, and half afraid of the creatures I have made.

It doesn’t take a moment for the shirts to fly across the room, but then, it’s hot in here with the hob on full. Seconds later, abetted by a wooden spoon, the barbecue-war-sauce is spread ceremoniously across each boy, with a heart-shuddering cackle of manhood. They dance around the flame in the tiny kitchen, a tangled mass of activity as they go about their separate tasks, the fire’s potency reflected in their eyes. I can’t quite grasp what’s going on.

The noise level rises, with an evil tribal note. I glance towards the door, but Number Two hovers nearby, one sharp eye on me.

I can almost hear the heathen-tongues spurt forth with instruction to ‘bind and boil the care-worker’. I forcibly remind myself that this is real life, and that that could never happen.

"Man Prevails!" Wails Number One, as he stirs the pot one last time, and the flame dies down.
Two and Three step in, plates in hand, to capture the raw spirit of the thing in tiny doughy parcels.

"Hope yer ‘ungry!"

Through the serving hatch, we see Number Four appearing from nowhere, and thudding onto a dining chair.

"Phwoooar!" his eyes light up as a plate is placed in front of him.

The other staff quickly follow suit, passing the plates through until the table’s full.

"Nice going, guys!" I congratulate, as everyone tucks in. "Now, who’s washing up?"

Apology

I thought I should apologise to anyone who has come to either this site, or Progressions in search of updated work. I'm not posting it, because I have developed an irrational fear that, despite no one ever reading them, someone may steal it for their own. If any of The Group were looking for it, leave me a comment or an e-mail, and I'll forward it to you.

There was or there was not, in the oldness of time...

Once more, the wanderlust has taken hold, atop a kind of deflated misery of unknown source. Usually the season grips me, pushing me through the months in a kind of grinning trance, but now, I cannot find the slightest smile.

I have not written a word all week. My fingertips and muse feel fat, and lazy. I have ideas aplenty, but not the inclination to spit them out onto the page. I’ve worked less than I should have, and my bank account is feeling it, but I have no energy spare to work the extra hours. And I’ve spent far too much money in the last few weeks, but I just can’t seem to stop.
But, it’s Biz’s birthday on Tuesday, which, oddly, feels more of a milestone for me than either of my ‘key birthdays’ ever felt for me. Perhaps this, and the childish traditions that we hold so dear shall shake me from this indolent state and set me free. Or, perhaps if I force myself to write, and work, I'll find my groove again. Whatever; I’m letting it all go for the party, anyway.

I have a new itinerary for travel, which I shall disclose another day. Suffice it to say for now, that I shall be delving into fewer places, but leave a deeper groove in each. I bought a new book; my favourite book all year, I think - ‘PALESTINE, A Guide’, which looks at every facet of this fascinating culture. I think I’m going to try to write a folk-tale that fits the Palestinian style. Perhaps I’ll alter Homecoming to fit.

Changing of the Seasons.

There’s a definite excitable hint of winter in the air; the buzz of Halloween, Guy Falkes and Christmas all rolled into one as your feet snap along the pavement or swoosh through fallen leaves. This is the best time of the year, despite the rain and wind, and ice. I cannot help but bounce through daily chores. Unfortunately, it doesn’t help me write gut-wrenching grieving scenes for Blood Omen. It is going well though, hence a much neglected blog, again.

I have reverted to winter listenings, such as John Williams’ Harry Potter scores, which feed my mood and fit the weather perfectly. There’s just something about it.

A little over a week ago, I stayed at Mark's, for another 2 days writing, which was, as always, a great success. And we rewarded ourselves with a trip to the cinema to see David Cronenberg’s A History of Violence, staring Viggo Mortensen and Maria Bello. If you have not seen it, then you must. It’s the first movie in a long long time to treat violence as the serious creature that she is. The cast was perfect, the script clever and poignant, and Howard Shore’s score as snug a fit as you'd expect. A lot of people seemed irritated by the ending, but… well, go see it. It’s amazing. I went to see it twice.

I have yet to see Howl’s moving castle, Domino, Lord of War, and the impatiently awaited Corpse Bride. That’s just the beginning of my list. It’s no wonder I am always skint.

The Ultimate Question

"How do you know how many words?"

She laughed. "I count them all… no, I use the automatic word count on my word processor."

"But… It is not accurate. It contains not real words."

"No, it doesn’t count symbols."

"But… like ‘a’.

"‘A’ is a word."

"Not real word. I never count."

"But," she huffed "you can’t say ‘a’ is not a word? How is it not a word?"

"It makes nonsense. It has no… no meaning ."

"Of course it has meaning - the English language doesn’t function without it."

"What then, what it mean?"

" it signifies an indefinite object. It’s an indefinite article."

"Like what?"

"Well, you can say ‘the mouse’ if you are talking about a specific one, but if it is not a particular mouse, it’s ‘a mouse’."

"So, it means, ‘any’?"

"No. ‘any’ is different. It can be used for one, some, or all of something. ‘A’ is more specific. It talks about one unspecified thing."

"but, it does not mean anything, really."

"It does!"

"But, it is only one letter. It’s not proper word."

"You can’t say that! That’s discriminatory! If you can’t have one letter words, can you decide not to have long words one day? Besides, there are some scripts where one character is interpreted as a whole phrase. They’re necessary!"

"No. I am talking only of the English language. It means nothing."

"But… if ‘a’ is not a proper word, what about ‘an’. That’s got two letters!" she smirked triumphantly. "and it means the same thing."

"So you can just use it instead."

"No, you use ‘a’ with words that start audibly – the way you hear it – with consonants, like the letter ‘c’, and you use ‘an’ with words which start with vowels, or sound as though they do. Although there are exceptions."

"Still, in my head, is not a word!"

"Look, I spend half my time writing, and reading, and editing people’s work. I love semantics. I work with the English language every day; it is my tool! You will not win this one!"

"It’s not word!"

Stolen Moments: A Tale of Autumnal Bliss.

The morning was hazed with frost and cold wet air, but the mist broke away before the shock of orange streaks across the sky.

The bus was heaped with bodies fighting equally for seats and oxygen; damp clothes steamed, their musty odour leaking from the bus at every stop. Finally, flustered, I stepped into the icy outside world once more, with time to spare. Beside Place Around The Corner, is a beautifully quiet neighbourhood, and the forested park of a stately home.

Most people, with 25 minutes to spare, would hurry to the comfort of a conversation and a mug of tea. Not I. Meandering between the trees, into golden light-filled spaces, and cool pine-needle shady spots, I look up at the canopy. The light paints highlights on the leaves, turning steadily into their autumn shades. It’s beautiful. So, breathing freely for the first time in a week, I carry on, the fellowship of the Ring drifting to my ears. It’s so serene and awe inspiring. And I wish that it could last.

Foremost, Writer.

Isn’t it strange how single moments can change you, change the way you think, or pull back into line a purpose which, though hidden from view, has been apparent through all of your remembered life.

There were several of these moments, for me, in the last week; ‘The Week that They Were Writers’.

The first, came at the climax of our 12 hour drive, where, sitting at the end of the garden, by the tumultuous loch, shadowed by the ridge of the escarpment, we stretched, and breathed, and laughed.
Picture the frolicsome writers, here, as they realise that they are free to be themselves. This manifested itself in a peculiar way, even for us:

“I spy… Something beginning with ‘S’.”

“Seaweed?”

“Nope.”

“Swimming seagull?”

“Nope.” After several minutes of this, Rachel sighed. “It’s everywhere. Look up!”

Sarah bounced in triumphant inspiration “Clouds?”

(It was at this point, amidst the peals of laughter, that I thought ‘Fuck! There’s no hope for the world if a writer cannot even recognise the phonetics of her alphabet’, and suddenly, I relaxed, more than I have done since Borneo)

--
The following morning, awaking to perfect Scottish rain, and the sea lapping at the window (almost), I looked out of the window and I knew. I am the luckiest person alive.

--
Writing was slow, to start, as I was ashamedly rusty at actually responding to the muse with more than scribbled notes. But then, I constructed a mini-tale entirely on the act of eating cake, entitled: Don’t mess with the Crazies, You Never Know What They Might Do, Or, The cake is evil as well as masochistic, it forces us to eat it with its domineering frown. And I saw that it was good. I may post it at Progressions.

--

The Day they Let the Writers Loose.

The day they let the writers loose was a dark, and dismal day. The wind did howl, and trees did bend, and small sheep blew away. The writers they did gambol, exultant as they breathed fresh air, and stories rested for a while; though their fingers found it rather odd that the laptop keyboards were not there. And as they gazed out through the trees, at choppy waters far below, the locals spied them standing there and longed for them to go. For the crazy writers were a sight they did not wish to see; with wild hair, dishevelled looks and crazed expressions in the eye. The locals hid behind their doors, until the writers passed them by.

The writers, as they walked, they talked their cares away, barely noticing the clouds, which barraged them with drops of grey. The day they let the writers loose, they had a lot of fun; all singing and all dancing until their walk was done. The day they let the writers loose, was a dark, and dismal day; but to them it didn’t matter, as they wandered out, to play.

--
Upon this escapade, I heard this tale. (Credit goes to Joe Knowler, in his infinite wisdom, and to Rachel for passing it on.) It is, quite possibly, the best story known to humankind…

Mum collected Rachel and Ed from school, with Joe in the buggy beside them, and the two excited children began swapping stories as they walked home.

Suddenly, a voice sprang from the buggy.
“Once ‘Pon Time.”

This hopeful, solemn voice was met with joyous wails. “The baby’s telling us a story: Tell us a story, Joe!”

“Once ‘Pon Time…” Joe began, in his best storytelling tone, “was a mummy, an’ a baby, an’ a monster…” long pause. “Munch. Crunch.”
--
I rediscovered, during our return, that Rachel and I, when together, can make a joke of anything. For instance… Where are the houses? Why, where the houses are, of course. It was also on this day of adventure, that I decided I must return, for a much longer period of writing, somehow. Ardaneaskan’s good for me, and even better for my concentration and my style.

--
It was not all fun and games however,(although much of it was: we even provided Pythonesque Comedy Hour for the Waterside café in Lochcarron) and we did do serious writing, honestly. I doubled the length of Blood Omen, and made plans to further it, thanks to helpful criticism from my fellow yarn-weavers. And I made Rachel cry. I do feel slightly guilty that, upon realising this, I did a victory-jig in my head, whilst chanting ‘I made my best friend cry. Woohoo!’ (Sorry, Rach!).

Markulon, Prolific Writing Superhero that he is, wrote, 36,000 words, nearly all of them brilliant, and all from reputable sources. He scratched off several short stories, one of which forced a lump to my throat as I read. And he tactfully avoided working on his novel.

And Rachel: She Who Could Not Write, produced from nowhere an onslaught of 50 word story-cards, each with the week’s theme… eaten, and then proceeded to write an awesome creepy tale; the longest(twice as long as the previous longest piece), best thing she has ever spawned. It has everything! I still have to pen it for her.

--
It occurred to me during the week, that I am, first and foremost, a writer. And perhaps, the stressful job I hold in order to save for my travels, is not worth it. I may have to find a boring, undemanding job and take the longer route to gaining money, just so that I can concentrate upon my work.

--

There was plenty more, but it shall remain undisclosed, for the sake of you, the reader’s sanity. Suffice it to say that it was the best week in a long time. Due thanks must go to both Rachel and Mark, who made it what it was. And, more so, to Mark, who single-handedly drove us there and back,(thanks, Mark, for all the effort and stiffness and pain!).

The House of Muse: Safe Under Lock and Key.

I got a new desk yesterday, unexpectedly. Actually, it’s a shelving unit with a bureau. It’s only small, but it’s increased my working space and re-alighted the muse which faded with hum-drum working weeks. What can I say, I’m a sucker for furniture as much as I am for stationary.

It’s really beautiful though, with its understated form; it’s smooth grain reaching up to caress the thoughts as they flow from pen with ease. And it locks, keeping scraps of inspiration free from prying eyes.

Good Things Come.

Before I give way to the un-blogged occurrences of the past 3 weeks, let us concentrate on the 3 points of the day:

My writing (Blood Omen, to be exact) was dubbed ‘mind-blowingly fucking excellent’, and likened to that of Tennessee Williams by a non-writing fast-becoming-friend at work. I did not pay him any money for this statement. He also took the first part away, adamant that he would be really pissed off when he reached the end of it, gagging for more. I now have ANOTHER person expecting me to finish the damn thing when The Pest, Mark, Myself and potentially Mystery Being escape to Rowanlea.

The same fast-becoming-friend discovered that I am ‘ripe for poaching’(I love his phrases!) from the Tom Havocs and, having decided to form a group of ‘elite’ performers to record his own stuff, hinted that maybe I should switch allegiance. I think he’s right.

Lastly, I cycled home from work this evening, along the darkest of lamp-dwelling streets , having done no exercise whatsoever for a long, long time. I’m still alive, and I’ll do it again.

---
For a small, embarrassing portion of time (an entire unforgettable evening) I was flayed alive in a Pop Idol ps2 contest. Totally slaughtered. This was only a slightly gentler fate than re-enacting, complete with words and actions, a Barney song-time video no less than 11 times in one day.
---

I noticed the other day (though I’m sure not for the first time) that no matter where I have to settle for the night, as soon as I pull off my shoes, I feel that I belong, and a comfortable sensation overtakes all else. It never seems to matter whether I’m tired, or even if I’m settling straight away or doing further work, this simple act has the effect of several hours rest, completely relaxing every part of me. I wondered for quite a while what the deeper meaning to this revelation is. It also crossed my mind that, perhaps, there is a link to the no-shoes-indoors etiquette of much of S.E Asia.

---

I was going to write about the ironic falling of responsibility, but I don’t think I shall as the persons involved may come across this blog. I’ve become rather fond of them. Perhaps another day, cleverly disguised as a fairy tale (please, don’t anyone ask how it would go, for I’d see it as a challenge, and there’s too much content acting out inside my head as it is).

They Nameth it Fool.

I’m resigned to the fact that I may never get some of my beginnings and ideas, and completed stories back – not to mention all the photos and other crap which I may or may not find stored on CD somewhere. MOST of my work is backed up – several times I might add. It’s just that, some of my scanned photos/ picture adaptations and, the less important mini-scraps of work, didn’t always seem worth the effort. And now my pc is being weird, so I can’t log on as me, and since I didn’t want to share the progeny of my mind, it seems I cannot reach them. Fuck!

Wondering: Should I continue with Blood Omen until I reach the end, and then revise, or should I revise what I've got and then write/ perfect piece by piece. Decisions, decisions...

Also, why is it that when you're ill, all you want to do is get up and go to work, go out, be on the move, and yet, the rest of the time, you'd give anything for a day in bed with movies or book, or your imagination. Just a thought.

Neglected:

I’ve meant to post several entries. I shall file them here, now, in chronological order:

The Tales that Never Reached the Page

Up bright and early, I reached the city by 9am, and settled with a hazelnut latte in the muse-house Borders, poring over ready-written text and slowly digging deeper into the tales as I awaited Mark’s arrival. We planned to write, all day, until the writing group met, two floors below, at 7. The day, so bright and warm, was full of promise as only a day of creation can be. I happily wallowed in words, alone, until 11, where I left my velvet armchair for the office of The Agency by whom I’m now employed. Things moved quickly here, finding work in 2 establishments which I already know. Soon, I was back in borders with a redeye, to shake Madame Muse to her most attentive state.

Still no Mark, though, so I teased and provoked the words alone.

At almost 3, Mark joined me, and we spent a joyous hour and a half with Blood Omen; Mark ripping conscientious wounds into its flesh, and me intermittently defending its choices as any parent should. Thanks, Mark, if you read this.

Mark went off to listen to speakers for a while, and I had a trauma with my mobile phone, and then, when he returned I returned the favour with Marco’s Spanish Diaries, talons caressing the body of it. By the time we’d finished, we had barely time to eat and read over a couple of older pieces in the group’s joint story-in-the-making. And then it was Group Time. A successful session where, with unneeded apologies, Mike also added flesh-wounds to the first 5 pages of Blood Omen (Thanks!) and Mark replayed his attack. It’s harder to defend your work in front of larger groups, as you often get top-heavy opinions.
We revisited the To Read or Not To Read dispute, and other people shared their tales; which were great, by the way. I love being around my clan.

The Day Of Reckoning

Tuesday commenced with a pleasant shift at the Place Around The Corner, and the arrival of French Family, and an oddly optimistic request for a weekend of shifts at Place Up The Road.

Bizarrely, I cannot remember what happened that evening, although we must have done SOMETHING, and I reckon it was fun. Oh, I remember – Charlie and The Chocolate Factory – how could I forget?! The girls, had a choice between Charlie, which they’d seen in French, and Madagascar, which they hadn’t, and naturally, they disagreed. A coin toss ensured that Boo won out, and Yonkers-Bonkers had to make do. I don’t know whether I was more disturbed by the evident lack of understanding at adult humour in the audience, or at the unfazed expressions of the twins, age 5, at scenes such as burning, melting puppets accompanied by happy-elf music. I think, at 5, that I’d have run out of the theatre. It was however, a clever, kick-ass adaptation of the book.

I know that the Place Around The Corner was impressed, as I have a further week and a half of work with them, after just one shift.

Woeless Wednesday

My morning was filled with the CBeebies website, and dress up cut outs of Little One from The Fimbles; of energetic piggybacks, and tickling matches. Then, off to work whilst the rest of them had fun at a barn dance party, at which I should have been playing.

The Singer, The Clown, and Daddy Toothpaste

Thursday began with a hectic, indecisive start, but by 11:40 we were off, two almost-vans chocked full of Essential Gear, in convoy, journeying to Whitby for the day.

I went with Nick and the twins, in an attempt to make up for working through their stay. Half and hour in, we had drained a small bottle of flat coke, and the rest of the 2 hour journey was spent with the girls sharing its two components – bottle and lid – utilising them as a clown nose and singer’s mic, and enacting high-pitched dramas as such. At rough five minute intervals they’d swap. And every 15 or so, these costumes would be cast aside, in unison and the girls would turn gleefully towards me with the request “You can tickle me, please, Daddy Toothpaste?” and erupt in peals of laughter, to which Nick would retort wearily “It’s can you, not you can, little girls.” Only twice did they bother to correct themselves.

They were not interested in the gorgeous countryside through which we travelled, unlike Nick and I, who marvelled at the sight.

On a quiet, twisty road there was an offshooting track, labelled “Local traffic Only” and I could not help but chuckle, recounting this later to Biz… “This is a Local road, for Local people, there’s nothing for YOU here.”

Whitby was full of the usual sea-side childhood pleasures of wave-jumping, sand castles, fish and chips and gothic content, but the adventure here is far too long to spout forth – I have to work today, as well.

The Weekend of Almost Gloom.

Here, I must apologise to The Pest, as for a myriad of reasons, our weekend did not go to plan. I’m sorry, babe!

As the French Invaders departed, and I went off to work, So came Rachel from Southern Lands. By this point, I was exhausted from hauling children through the waves and other such healthily active endeavours, and mentally wiped from working in New Places. So, when she arrived all plans of midnight feast story-creating vanished from sight, though we still had hopeful plans for Saturday.

Saturday morning arrived and nothing much happened for a while, which was almost entirely my fault; I could hardly will myself to move. And though I do think it’s fantastic that despite our infrequent meetings, we can just as easily do nothing in each others company as if we were at each other’s houses every week, I feel rather guilty that we didn’t get to complete anything we’d planned. I have this bizarre image in my head, and indeed in reality with Other Friends, where, instead of enjoying being together, we rush about cramming activity and excitement in. Kind of like some parental visitation rights trauma. Odd, I know.

So, things just about got moving and I had to go to work, so Rachel went exploring in Leeds, miraculously returning in one piece, unaided by the natives. So Proud! Yet again, an evening of well, awakedness (I’m sure that’s not really a word) failed to be, as although not as tired as I should have been, a before 6 rising summoned me to bed, and I’d left before Rachel stirred the next day.

As I returned at 3pm, I struggled to stay awake, but we did manage at least to start a shared story. Then all too soon it was time for Rachel to leave.

But Rachel, in a Cambridge-moment (similar to a blonde one, but almost always relating to a real-world common sense event (her words, not mine)) got on the Wrong Train, something she will never live down. Her headstone may well read “Here lies Rachel. Genius. Got the Wrong Train.”

Anyway, despite me falling asleep, she got to watch the 1st episode of The L word, and we had more wonderful nothingness this morning.
And now, I’m off to work.

Sentimentality - doesn't it suck

Starting to move in the right direction to execute The Plan is doing nothing to quell the somewhat distracting yearning for the feelings only Being There can stir. Every other thought is of the jungle, of strange skies and unknown lurking beasts; of foods I’ve never tasted but can almost feel dissolving on my tongue, and a host of other things I have not time to share.

Fern Gully, a movie I haven’t seen for years, was on TV today and in the name of memory, my mom and I settled to watch it, complete with tea and toast. Just like we used to. I started out thinking, ‘Fuck, it’s SO well drawn, and so well put together. I love this thing’. But it was not long before the depiction of droplets of rain bouncing from the leaves, the sound of rain and of rainforest fauna, the mingling greens and browns, and the ‘hearing the forest’ energy of the film was all I heard and saw, and I longed to jump right in, like in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. If only.

Fresh pineapple butchery in my kitchen made me long to walk the streets of Kuching for the best pineapple in the world, served in smiling hunks by grinning elders outside every temple.

Yesterday, Lenny Henry battled on the screen with inhabiting the Amazon rainforest, fearful of nocturnal senses that I loved – the noises in the enveloping darkness thicker than anything you’ve ever known, and not knowing what’s sharing space with you. And speaking to a friend who thinks I’m crazy, but indomitable, I realised how wrong she was; far from being afraid of travel, a sense which I would have to conquer, naturally, I am truly comforted by the very act of going.

It’s strange to realise with certainty that you feel safest, feel most real, when unsettled in unfamiliar plains.

Ugh, Laundry! (The finer things in life.)

I need to come up with something to take to Borders - it’s rolled around far quicker than it should, and I have no time to write. Need a quick fix, or a time machine.

Mark’s course this weekend. Before I whinge, it has to be said that I am really, really looking forward to this; I’ve been trying to weasel my way onto it for ages, but have always been unavailable when they’re run nearby.

It’s just that, 2 full days language heaven are followed by writing all day Monday, followed by the borders group (both of which I need, and crave as much as ever) and, well, that doesn’t leave much time to destabilise Mt Laundry, or clean out the Kitchen Swamp and kid-proof everywhere, before Nick and the girls arrive for Tuesday lunch.

It worries me just a little that despite this knowledge, I cannot help but sit at my computer, fiddling with words and tales, which swim around my head as frantic as if it were infested with Candirú.

In The Name Of The Saw Doctors (Oh God, Will It Ever Stop Raining?)

The cool breeze which floats around the house carries with it the playful rousing smell of heavy rain; the sort in which droplets beat an incessant pulse into your skin and makes you glad to be there.

Small pools are forming restlessly at doors and windows, and the cat-flap’s easy access has allowed a virtual lake into our kitchen.

The others stomp around, moaning bitterly about lost summers and should-be heatwaves, but I, standing so that 3 opposing draughts must reroute around my form, simply inhale the scent of a thousand happy memories, and am instantly content.

***

Though absent from blogger, I have not neglected creativity, I swear. Although a weekend of Mini-Wars on The Priory left no time to write. It was a brilliant weekend which I’ve sworn I shall repeat. 23 kids, 3 days; well-run outdoor pursuits activities, and a giant heap of chaotic fun. Group 1 was entrusted into my care; the best group, obviously, 7 characters aged 7-9. Some of the fun included sibling rivalry, as you’d expect, injury on the ropes course (though we all escaped unscathed from the climbing abseiling session. Weird.) and 45 minutes to get 13 girls to get up, showered and dressed; since a narrow L-shaped room meant 2 children could not pass without one clambering into a bunk-bed or the other child, this was rather like checkers, only with early-morning tempers waiting to explode. There were 3 working showers, reverting to cold water every 3 minutes. Fun! And I haven’t started on the camp fire, where BoyX fell asleep, or the midnight feast leader-meetings, where my Dad found a strawberry in his ear.

Back to creative happenings; I’ve almost re-written Homecoming, a sci-fi folk tale, accounting the long awaited return of the village Men. I’ll post it at Volatile Progressions when I’m done.

Also, I’ve been pasting into my head several gruesome fairy tales, in full and in part, to twist at whim for an eager up and coming audience. The twins are here this week!

Writing Saves My Life In Stillframes. (A Summary).

So, I set off for Borders, with prose for later, and two old poems which I know that no one’s seen, as yet; at least, no one there. One of them’s already on this blog; they may both be, I cannot recollect.

Sitting on the bus, then in the café with my 5-shot as I wait for clock to move, emotion and memory stirred. It’s weird, starting the group again (good weird, though, I have to clarify). It’s like walking through a park where you roamed so long ago, and sitting on the swings with a couple of your grown-up friends; betting on who can swing the highest. And as you come to a heel-digging halt, you see yourself, a child, the first time you made it all the way across the monkey bars. And you see the pivotal game of Pirates; the first time that you, the Merchant Sailor, ever won the fight. The time you fell and your skirt rose above pant-line; the way you stumbled home coated gravel, humiliated by the blunder, even though you knew they would forget. And the last time you wandered across the tarmac, reluctantly knowing that you weren’t coming back. You can picture playmate’s faces, hear their words both harsh and good as they passed their judgement, which you valued greatly, then. You glance across at your newfound adult friends, and realise that nothing’s changed, except the world.

*

You know that feeling you get when you’re with people you appreciate; people you admire. Well, Tuesday was like that. It’s great to have people I can trust to give honest, thorough feedback on the way I’m heading (even if it’s only fiction). Thanks, guys, if you’re reading this! It would be nice if a few other Old Faces joined the troupe again, to see how much has changed for all of us.

And, as it used to do, the group rouses something deep within, enforces the desire to write; the one so strong that I can think of nothing else, and if I try, it causes pain, as every muscle protests in electro-spasm. You think I’m joking?

So, Mark and I head back to Royston, accidentally watching Law and Order, before calling it a night. I wrote in bed for half an hour; nothing huge, but I couldn’t stop the flow, until the heaviness of sleep extracted the ability to move.

7:30, I’m up, and as soon as I stretch, I’m reaching for the pen. A few jotted concepts, and I head downstairs. Breakfast, then we get to work.

The day was a success, for both of us I think (the first hour producing 997 words; completing the scene which lay stagnant for months). A day of ceaseless words, half written, half reviewed, both of us appraising the works of the other, then running through our scribbled notes. Yet, we remained relaxed, as we always do; mixing things with film scores to push the mind along, without the spiked tendrils of distraction that always come with lyrics. And we talked of all the things the other has missed within our lives, through our apathetic view of contact.

We watched Final Fantasy, too, and I spent the whole film wishing I could draw like that, and wishing that Aki were real. And marvelling at detail. Wow.

In other notes, there’s a piece of Mark’s that nobody has seen, and I’m promised the privilege of butchering it lovingly for him; as I know he’ll do for me (All’s fair) with other works.

We’re doing this again next week.

*

On the way to the station, a pastel pink moon encapsulates the vision of other travellers too, as they stop beside the road to stare. It almost takes up half the sky. A solitary streak of turquoise cloud breaks this perfect image, and somehow makes it something more; a contrast to the powder blue of backdrop sky.

Approaching Leeds, this same moon, still a low hung show-stealer, has deepened to the yellow-green of edam, set against the deepest navy blue you’ve ever seen.

On Request.

I will write a proper post in a moment, but first; I've had requests to share my writing instead of merely waffling about it. You'll find some of it here. And there's more to come.

Hogwarts, Here I Come!

So, I post the Muse Summoning Spell, and Mark's on MSN, proposing a writeathon period, kicked off by a creative group I thought to be long dead, complete with original, marvellous host, Mike, and continued at Mark's thorughout the night and following day. Looks like the magic's back, now I just have to dig out something (or create a new entity, since I'm feeling brave) by tomorrow afternoon.

In other news:

My Father and the Ringtones.

My Dad, Technophobe Extraordinaire, has a mobile phone, and he’s only slightly afraid to use it! He’s figuring it out, all for himself, and he and I spent an enjoyable hour or so last night browsing ringtone possibilities upon the interweb, in heaps of laughter at the pitiable content of most. It’s sweet and random and amusing, and I am so proud!

Moving on, yet stationary.

My prompt here was 'half an hour before sunrise', and in its transference to the page, I realised once more, my deep-seated obsession. It says a lot that even the meagre act which follows sends my mind on journeys far and varied, and my pulse rocketing towards the stars:

Half an hour before the sun awakes, she rises out of bed, digits tingling with half-asleep anticipation. The half open window permits the scent and sounds of the street below to permeate her thoughts. The gentle hush of resolute pedestrians, completing the routines of daily grind; hauling produce from street to stall; traipsing to work, or school, or home. The slight but pungent smell of undiscarded garbage, of freshly frying breakfast noodles and roti, donuts dipped in oily sugar grains, and coffee, thick and sweet. In her air-con deprived room, the airing-cupboard stench of fresh-made bed fuses with dry perspiration; it already coats her skin.

She pads across the floor with graceful ease, noting the rough-worn carpet beneath her feet as she slides into en-suite. Forcing the anticipation from her lungs in concentrated exhalation, she steadies her slightly shaking self against the sink.

Yanking the shower taps to their fullest flow, the small room fills with the fresh tang of an icy flow, and as she steps beneath it, its’ constant rhythm bouncing off her skin, the heaviness of slumber drains away, and a clarity slots into place.

Quickly, she halts the flow, and envelopes her skin in towelling. Returning to the hot, damp room, she sits upon the bed to dress; long, thin-fabric pants, and a cotton tee, the sleeves of which teased her elbows as she moved. Pulling on thick socks, which gave her comfort even now, despite the heat, she stood, and hastily gathered her things from bedside cabinet and floor, onto the bed beside her sack. Catching her pulse race once more with the importance, she pushes the excitement past her tongue into the air, almost expecting steam and fire to gush from deep inside. Dizzy for a moment, she’s released as she inhales, deliberately slow. Glancing around the room, before she moves, she makes a mental tally. No need to check the drawers, or wardrobe; they were never used.

On her knees for confirmation; nothing beneath the bed, save her trusted boots.

Her watch announces pre-determined time, incessantly, until she subdues it with her other hand. Consciously unflustered, she lurches back into the bathroom for a final check, and snatches with a laugh, a wayward toothbrush; she’d have missed it later.

With vigilance, she unbuckled the lid of her sack, and straightened the top, ruffled contents before loading last night’s clothes, and toiletries inside. Guidebook, pad, pens and camera slotted into the lower, easy access art, and wallet into hood pocket, hidden from view but easy to reach. Bearing down with outstretched palm, the clothes compressed an inch or so, and she deftly pulled the straps to keep it so. Once again, her life was held in canvas, right before her eyes.

A second hail from the watch upon her wrist came right on queue as she pulled her lightly mudded boots out from their hideaway, appreciating their companionship as she encased her woollen feet in the gentle leather.

Standing in her fresh-protected feet, a new excitement welled from thighs, all the way to the woozy portion of her forehead; this time she did not catch it, for there was no need. Skimming the room once more, categorising memory inside her head, she all but closed the window, leaving just a crack of air. Hoisting sack onto one shoulder – giving only slightly ‘neath it’s weight, she pulled the door behind her, sighing at its final click.

Trotting down the seeming-endless stairs, she allowed part of her mind to wander through the memories, in great sad joy, whilst watching each uneven step pass beneath her feet. Sun blazed welcomingly through the slightly open door which led onto the quiet street, but she paused, handing in her key, and exchanging hearty words of credit. They, too, offered suggestion and encouragement, which she knew, in purposeful uncertainty, that she didn’t need.

Stepping out from air-conned lobby into the fresh, cool breeze and skin-worshipping sun, and waving her goodbye, she breathed in the joy of all that was then, and now, and all that was to come, and headed down the hill.

Summoning the muse.

I miss Mark. I just can't seem to just sit and write the way I used to, and I miss the way his magic spread across the room, whether we sat in idle talk over breakfast, or a drink or three; silent keyboard-tapping productivity, or talking plot and grammar. It doesn't matter what we do, we spark that concentrated urge within each other, and it works.

The product of 3 days work - the final pencil-draft of my sister's new tattoo. I have never, ever, until this point, created a successful colour piece, preferring instead the complex simplicity of graphite shading.

I have to say, though she's not the only successful creation (although some of the harlots before her, were born beautifully disfigured). There were several works throughout the search for Her, which I shall lend my pride, though most were too adult for this site, and all but one other remained in simple greys.

Anyway, here she lays, awaiting her release, whence she can work her ways upon the world.

The Short Fat Sugar Hobbit and the Scary Movie

‘Short Fat Sugar Hobbit’ was the laughing insult my sister threw at me in the hospital with mum last night. It fits, strangely, since, well, I'm fairly short, in need of a gym, and at the time we were all ODing on pick-and-mix; then there's my odd hobbit features, the laughing, soulful eyes inset in hobbit face, the sometimes curly hobbit hair, and stupidly hairy feet. Seriously.

In contrast, H looks like she strode straight out of Rivendell.

When Elven-Sis grew bored, later in the evening, she came to snag a movie, and I, with boredom of equal measure, suggested joining forces and watching one together. Not just any movie though, folks. A Scary Movie. One of the few which tighten an invisible vice until I can barely breathe, and my burning heart threatens to burst, thus erupting in full gore from my chest.

Elven-Sis immediately latches on to my ill-developed thought, asking “is it really scary?”

Knowing full well that we are level on the whimp-o-meter, I explain that, yes, it’s fucking terrifying, because a well-prepped imagination knows how plausible the concept running through the tale could be. And, by the way, we’ll be watching with the lights on. With piles of chocolate at our sides.

I don’t want to fucking watch, and yet, the thing is brilliant, and I really, really do. It’s just that – aaargh! So, anyway, we gather chocolate-orange cookies and the fun begins.

Now, I’ve been drinking coffee by the gallon all day, and 20 minutes and a couple of ‘how freaky would that be’ and ‘oh my god – horrible’ comments into the thing, I can feel the contents of my bladder reaching to wards the escape button.

“I have to pee.” I say
“Don’t pause it and leave me.”
“I’ll leave it on then – back in a sec.”
“No!”
“But I really have to pee.”
“Ok, pause it, but be quick.”

When I get back, I sit at the computer ready to press play.
“I don’t want to watch anymore.” I say, half of me dead sure, the other half abhorring my cowardice, desperate to release the Endorphins Of Fear.
“Really?”
“I don’t know.” I can see her eyeing the screen, uncertainly. “It gets worse.”
But we both want to see it through, so after stalling for a while, in the happy, bright confines of The Real World, I press play and leap over to the comfort of pillows and blankets.

The Plot edges forwards. Elven-Sis flexes through complacency and tensed mind, as do I, at the thought of what’s to come. Still, we fixate upon the screen, and for 15 minutes more, we’re carried through. The second scene of gore appears. Elven-Sis squeals subconsciously and brings us both back to the room. Silently staring at the screen, neither wanting to ruin it for the other.

Relaxing simultaneously, each of us catches the other’s eye.

“Let’s watch Harry Potter.”

Making History.

02/07/05
Trivial Observations of the day.

03:00: In pre-dawn light, the cool, moist air lifts honeysuckle scent up to my room, to mingle with the coffee aroma which swirls within my hands. It’s good.

04:30. It’s raining. A solid, light blanket of rain. It’s good, too, but it threatens to continue, adding resolute gravity to the day. Nothing would stop the thousands in their plea.

05:10 The pigeons above the university steps sure know how to scream. Though not as loudly as the woman who hollers from her window opposite, in sleep-ridden, or drunken slurs “Get on the Bus!” and “Where you going?” repeatedly, until one of the coach-load yells back “We’re off to make history” at which pint, her skylight shuts and all is quiet. Except for the pigeons.

11:08 We’re late, the coach has nowhere to park.

14:00-ish After an hour’s wait, the crowd wanting to march are getting bored. Beneath the shade of sycamore, is a Spanish-singing dude, and his enthusiastic companion, whistling through his teeth, and slapping his thighs as makeshift drums until he had to stop, in pain. At which point, he merely bounced and clapped as the tempo grew. A small crowd formed. They were great.

14:45 There’s a weird little dance production, with orange t-shirts, labelled as poverty stricken countries, and a grey sheet-covered Bush-alike, with an inflatable globe and money on a stick. Each person clambers after the thing, falling over each other to the beat of samba drums. I’m confused.

15:55 Finally, things surge through the temporary gates. Wish for a moment that I’d taken my camera, if only for the banner hanging from the castle, and the giant sea of indistinguishable white.

16:50 with coaches everywhere and no Edinburgh Police or wardens, we’re going to be late for the coach. Our coach driver and a pub landlord give us the WRONG DIRECTIONS. Fuck. We’re lost.

23:20 Millennium square is hosting a live8 viewing. Think about heading there for the final 40 minutes. Head for taxi rank instead.

23:25 Am torn between amusement at, and wanting to sever flesh from the guy behind us in the queue, who’s friends described him as being a pissed wanker. Accurate ananlysis. After a few moments, he’s seen my MPH shirt, and is rambling about Making The Poor History, because they’re stinky. Fuckwit.

23:47 listen to the final 13 minutes of London’s Live8, followed by Toronto’s, on radio, on the way home. One bucket of tea later, the TV provides more coverage, well into the early hours. All is good.

In The Sack... Out The Sack. Tiddley Pom.

All geek radars must be switched off, before you read.

This lunchtime, I spent an enjoyable hour in Cotswold Outdoors with my father, browsing through the books and clothes, and gear, and, specifically, looking for my surrogate-closet for the duration of my trip. My rucksack. With the help of Mr. Luggage, the store’s rucksack/ travel pack expert, and a 15k weighting system, I’ve been paired up with the 65l destined to contain my life. The Macpac Esprit. A sack sturdy enough to withstand being slung onto a bus roof with little care, to travel in the dust storms alongside folk who couldn't fit inside; sturdy enough, in fact, to take whatever abuse I care to dole out in 3 years on the road. And comfortable enough to brave the Annapurna with full load if I so choose.

So now, obviously, I’m going to have to spend a happy evening stuffing items inside it, to see how much it holds.

Brilliant, huh?

The Spirals, They Move Downwards.

The more I do, the more I see. Things are, for the most part, fundamentally clean now. Most of you won't fully understand what that means. It's level on the scale with World Peace. Seriously. But, now that 5 years of crap has gone, the furniture and walls are visable, and, well, everything that once gleamed is now that tacky grey that you get when people leave their greasy dust deposits with their touch. Everything. It's ruining my sparkling glory, and despite the Ressurection Of Deity unbelievability of tidiness, I cannot revel in it whilst my word is tarnished.

Someone help me, please!

Won't You Help Me Break This Thing?

I want to write. That’s an understatement. Metallic desire bubbles through my veins, the inspiration burners jammed on ‘high’. Every ounce of me is yearning for the words to be released. Trouble is, I only have 3 days to finish Project House, and I can’t allow this one to rest as incomplete. One The Parents have returned, I will get nothing done without a barrage of belittlement and guilt-trips.

Simple, right? Complete Project House and reign in The Urge until the building shines. And once They return, take coffee and food, barricade oneself into a space empty of distraction, and cut the chains of inspiration.

But what if I told you that my willpower is weakened by a lack of sleep and too many waking nightmares involving other people’s laundry, parent dust, and the Giant Green Slugs I share my house with. What if I told you that I cannot prevent my fingers from tapping at the keyboard and setting stories free, but that with every letter comes an onslaught of guilt and a desire to clean instead, so that after 10 minutes I am reeling away from my PC. But then, as I tidy, my mind stretched towards the tales left untold, and neither can I clean. It’s a vicious cycle, and I can’t seem to get out of it.

This Girl's Got Issues - Let Them Be.

For years I’ve hated birthdays with a passion far exceeding that of those approaching some socially-directed milestone. Everyone around me knows it, and up to now they have respected this, albeit with reluctance.

What they don’t seem to understand though, is that, said milestone approaching does not eradicate this loathing. This year is no exception; I don’t want to know. I don’t want expensive things, and I sure as hell don’t want a party – so stop fucking asking (!), I don’t want a ‘celebratory dinner’ or a ‘drink or two’ with friends. I don’t even want a cake. I hate the fuss – it just makes me uncomfortable. What I really, really want, is for the day to go unnoticed. Completely. This means no birthday-song awakenings, no gift-unwrapping rituals, not even a verbal congratulation. Please, guys, leave it alone.

It’s not the aging thing, getting older’s not an issue. And I’m sure 21 is as pleasant an age as any other. In fact, it means that when I visit friends and family in the good ole USA, I can occupy liquor stores, bars, clubs, and the haven of Oneida, completely legally, and I won’t have to fabricate at all. Hooray!

It’s simply that events surrounding my birthday have a tendency to suffer some acidic curse, and on the rare occasions that they don’t, there’s always going be residual horror overcastting any joy. So, if you do plan anything, it’ll either go horribly wrong, or my heart won’t be in it anyway, so your efforts are completely wasted.

Besides, They paint a picture of 21 as the quintessence of ecstasy and irresponsibility. It’s just so not me. I’m way too young for it, and yet, akin to this, I’m far too old.

So, let it float by, unassuming as any other day. And, if you must do something, lets go out, on any other day. It’ll be fun. But for Deity’s sake, don’t mention the B word.

There's a Screw Loose Somewhere.

My Body clock's all screwy. I wake up at a civilised hour, say 8 o'clock. I can't get back to sleep, but am completely exhausted and can do nothing but stare into space or eat, until by 3-ish, as I start to feel really fat and lazy, I suddenly spring to life and become a productive whirlwind. And I can't snap out of it until maybe 3am, if I'm lucky. So, then I crash, and it begins again.

My Mother - Weather Woman

Last night, at 11:20, my Mother called, informing us of Their arrival at The House in Ardaneaskan. Fine. At 11:46, the following was left on the answerphone:

"Hi, it's me. We're here. It's eleven thirty." Pause. " It's only just got dark, and it'll probably be light by about 4am. Love you."

What?!? Firstly, you said already. Secondly, if the sun's arising bothers you ('coz it sure as fuck doesn't bother me here in the Southern Reigions. I don't care. Honestly.), close the sodding curtains!!!

Look around you, People!

Why is it, that every little thing intrigues you when you are away from home, yet you never see things when you’re on your own ground?

Out There, with everything coated in gleaming cellophane newness, you feel just like a child, carefully unwrapping the papers from the Gift of Life. Every little thing fills you with wonder. Each bed, or public loo, or grocers store is an adventure to be broached, even the most basic bite of food a symphony of angels on your tongue, each sight of nature the finding of the century, and every person that you meet a puzzle to be to be reckoned with, or a potential ally.

But here, you do not notice anything which might enrich you in similar ways. Instead, you burrow deep into some private self, denying access to the world’s infections. The world jogs by, muted and in grey-scale. You do not see the marvel in the buttery potato or exquisite cauliflower florette, The fields at arms length from your home seem inaccessible, a mere postcard of existence, as you rush through your routine, yet if you were there instead of here, you’d surely go out of your way to walk through each of them. And you'd revel in this newfound thing that you just don’t get at home.

So, I urge you all to set it aside, for an hour, or half, or if you can spare it, a day. Heck, a moment in your day will do. Look up from your desk, or glance across the street, or put yourself out there in amongst the trees, or fields of rapeseed yellow as a pre-school sun. Inhale your atmosphere; the scent and taste of it. Think about the food you eat, its grain and flavour, the weight of it as you chew. Take a moment to watch those all around you, what they wear and how they interact with their surroundings. Whatever, just really notice things in your domain, as though you’d never seen the place before.

And, in that time-honoured tourist way, think on your discovery, and what it tells you, wordlessly, about your world.

Your mission, if you should accept it:

Over the next 2 weeks, I'm gonna kick this horrid place back into shape: specifically, washing, scrubbing, sanding, waxing, building shelving, moving pianos,painting, and installing lighting and a host of useful keep-it-neat components. Of course, in this house just the cleaning part is 80% of the job. If you never hear from me again, you'll know I'm laying face down in a pool of floor-wax, having asphyxiated on the fumes, or I'm burried under crumbled plaster.

Um, yes: The reason for this post is simply this - I need a 2-week cleaning/fixing soundtrack! Any suggestions, please?

Multifaceted Obsession

On the bus to Ikea today (domestic waves of Genius are in the making here!) the almost banal thoughts of travel crept upon me. I really do love public transport; I even enjoy the waiting part, and traffic never bothers me. So, sitting on the top deck, I lounged in the back-of-bus breeze and watched the fields roll by in true English Summer glory – the stuff of childhood Middle-Earthen dreams, of baked school breaks, of strawberries and elderflowers and flasks of ginger beer. Gulping at my Cherry coke, the fresh-mixed cola syrups of the States flashed across my mind, truck-stop meals and vending machine breaks as clear as on road-trip day itself. For hours with every trip, I soared along the highway in the best of company. And always, even amidst the worst of times, the world intrinsically was right. Right there, on the 219 through Gildersome, I longed to travel back to that again; rolling each journey into one, so I could be with everyone again.

With typical impulsive thought as we rounded a corner, my beverage pulled me to another, separate thought, to the upstream Express Boat journey in Sarawak last year. A full day’s travel in a sort of floating, wingless plane, filled with those for whom, like me, it was a novel way to move, even though it was their own domain. The sun beat through our mini-windows and radiated from the metal walls, and although I longed to join the men up on the roof, I soon sank into prodigious bliss. It didn’t take long for the novelty of 10 farangs upon the boat to disappear, and the on-screen boxing match, or long-unseen relations’ tales to take precedence over this small invasion. Fading into comfortable imperceptibility, I swept from a conversation with my crew to a slightly comical exchange with a man of 50 (at a guess) sitting across the aisle. From introduction onwards, we waded through English, with whatever little Malay I could muster from my cowards memory, or find within my phrasebook before the moment passed. It took quite a lot of gestures, patient pauses, and much to the boat’s amusement, the help of a the gentleman’s companions, one of similar age, and a boy of 4 or 5. The man returned home after 9 months in the city, bringing back a prize worth more than the wages he’d sent back; a refrigerator and a crate of stout - further up the river, several such crates were hauled, without a passenger onto docking bays of other homes, for the express served also as carriage for important goods. At one stop, a crate slipped from the hands of the crew, and for one horrific moment, as the Express passengers watched and shouted, and the young man at the bay froze in shock, his long-awaited beer floated back from whence it came. Redemption sprang from a quick thinking man upon the roof, yanking a heavy switch from an overhanging tree, lunging clumsily towards the box, and by pure chance, catching the hole atop it, then dragging on it with just enough force to stay the current’s persuasive pull whilst the crew dashed in and hauled it out, applauded by spectators gripped by said events – and a warm reception awaited him, a 3 day party, for in his absence, a baby boy was born unto his eldest sister. This small exchange, along with obligatory sentences of my home (no, I didn’t live with my family, and no, I was not married), where the group was travelling, and how much I loved his homeland, took the best part of half an hour. I twisted in my seat to introduce him to H, but she was deep in slumber, and by the time she awoke, he had gone.

As we stopped at the final town along the way, switching our luggage from one Express to another, going our way, I was steeped in contentment. I know it was only surface conversation, but at the time, it was so real, so big. And as my companions stretched and groaned, flustered from their stationary state, I felt more alive and rested than I’d felt forever. And I knew, right then that I had to do it properly, to travel, using every means I can, to meet a thousand people and to know them as friends, to get lost in other cultures – really lost – emerging in a different place, perhaps no longer me.

Far more excited than I have the right to be.

Distracting myself from the delectable form of Jennifer Garner as Agent Bristow, I started browsing Lonely Planet pages.

I get the feeling from everyone I speak to, that talk of local’s hospitality should instil deep-seated fear as a solo female traveller, but it merely sets my digits on fire with longing to discover it. Can you imagine anyone here opening their doors as they see a stranger passing by, and welcoming them in to share a brew, a meal, a tale or two? Honestly?

Then, as the topic melded into that of local foods, my tongue began to dance.

In Syria “Arabic unleavened bread, or khoobz Arabi, is eaten with almost everything. The other staples are felafel, deep-fried chickpea balls; shwarma, spit-cooked sliced lamb; and foul, a paste of fava beans, garlic and lemon. Mensaf is a Bedouin speciality - a whole lamb, head included, on a bed of rice and pine nuts.” I don’t know why Mensaf doesn’t scare me, as a vegetarian it should, in light of rules of hospitality, for I know I’ll be unable to refuse at some point. But since I’ve resolved to do the whole Spider thing, I might as well go the whole hog (or, um, sheep), right? (Please, please understand that this does not mean I’ll be rushing for a big-mac, or trekking to the butchers, it simply means that for complete, positive, inoffensive experiences, I’m gonna have to swallow my principles, gristle and all).

A noiseless life, a sheltered life.

I can't imagine what it will be like to spend 3 years without my music; the constant soundtrack of my life.

I can't imagine not having latin jazz to propell me through the pavements of a city strange and new; not peaking that mountain at sunrise with the songs of Middle Earth to share my awe; not having Pink or Aerosmith or Simple Plan to slide the travel hours along like silk.

And nothing to sheild me at will, to alter my thoughts or cloud my view and hide the things I do not want to know.

To be frank, I'm dreading it. But I know how much I'd miss with my audio-blankie at my side.

For starters, I'd skim past it all completely unaware. I would hear nothing of the local life in which I was submerged; no street musicians, or the sounds of childrens' play, or desperate cries from living hell. The waves, the rain, the slapping of produce to slabs at the live market, would all be lost forever. And caught in the current of the familiar Western Me, I'd see and taste and smell selectively as well.

And the people Out There - potential allies in my quest - will never have such wealth. So, although with speakers I could share my world with them, it can only build a shiny techno-barrier of class, or wealth, or race; a negativity I do not want to fight against, for it holds no meaning in my mind.

It'd be one more thing to fuss over; to break, or lose, or for someone else to find. And I'd have to replace it on return, costing hours as well as cash.

So, I guess it's something I just have to live without. In its place, only local noise and self-made Irish tunes. Just for the record though - it sucks.

Freedom Has A Price.

So, I'm finally free from the clutches of U.B.U and it feels great; I don't miss it at all!

Ok, so that's not quite accurate. I've been officially unchained for a total of 36 minutes, and I hate it. I feel like I've lost a limb; like a huge slab of flesh has been severed from my body. My brain hurts from my almost-tearful state, and I already miss people insanely, despite assurances from everyone of contact.

Everything is suddenly - somehow unexpectedly - unnervingly uncertain. And yes, I know the uncertain's what I seek, but not here; not at home. Home should be a cetain, solid place, filled with the familiar; a stationary unchanging state providing the foundations for my private revolutions.

And now, now that work as a solid entity has gone from this ideal, now I'm all alone in a world I do not know at all.

Someone Pass The Muse, Please.

I've been waiting all week for some insightful piece to blast its way into my notebook, to flicker through my mind and challenge me to make it work, to float elegantly into my lap, just waiting to be tickled into blissful putty state. Nothing. Not even one mindblowing word to start the process off. Zip.

Ok, just to clarify, no matter what I will be going round the world. Not going is not an option.The blockade I'm up against is, I suppose, far less dramatic; although when, in all its colourful glory, I cannot see around or over it, it feels unconquerable. Simply, I cannot decide whether agency is the right way to go, or whether I should stay where I am for now.

Money aside, agency is far less deep in nature, and probably less fulfilling - You get no input into people's lives, and barely get to know anyone. But it would enable me to see a huge variety of places and meet a lot of people which would help with my appalling face-value people skills and give me a wider picture of the sector. Ok, so, money has to be an issue in the equasion, since I'm trying to save. I'd be looking at, on average £3/hour more & extra for uncivilised hours or holidays.

But if I stay, I can get my NVQ 2 (or 3, hopefully, with a little hard-talking to the area manager), get on the trainer's training which you, in theory need to do all the induction shit for new staff that I've done for 12 months. It looks far more impressive on paper. And Gerry wants to use me to develop staff skills, apparently, which would be great managerial experience. I'd be working with tenants I'm comfortable with, and a supportive, fabulous staff team I know and trust. And I'd miss 'em like hell if I leave. And the service is changing for the better, and I could be a frontline part of that as part of the senior team. It's easier to stay; I'm comfortable, and lately, it's felt all the time like I belong. But I don't know if that's a good thing. And I don't know whether re-committing will make it harder for me to leave later on.

Money isn't the most important thing, obviously. but since both choices would allow me to develop different skills in completely different ways, I can't help feeling that whatever I do, I'll be short-changing myself.

Oh for the power of the Magic 8!

So, I think I've got everything straight in the tangled web that is my life, and I'm pretty happy with it all. And then Gerry comes along, all full of enthusiasm and ideas, abundant with praise, and he asks me to stay. Armed with all the above and an extra helping of logical twists in argument, it's left me in a muddle.

A muddle with an ultimatum. It's my exit interview on Monday morning unless I retract my resignation. Why can you never find a coin when you need one.

But it's beautiful outside. I think I'll go for a ponderous walk.

This is not about...

This is not about having a bad day -I'm stronger than that. This is not, I promise you, some personal vendetta dreamt up just to hurt you. This is not some childish, selfish dream, with little plan or purpose. It is not about a new beginning, or leaving everything behind, for that would be extracting part of me. It is not an abandonment of anyone, or anything - I will be back, when I am ready. And it is not about taking the easy road.

This is not about you. It is not about something you've done, or not, or said, or not. For if it was, there'd be no silence, and there are a hundred ways to let you know which are of little cost to me. No, this one is not about you.

This one is about me, outside of everything. This is about leaving it all behind - my life, my friends, my family, and mroe than anything, preconceptions put upon myself and others. This is about discovery and definition. It's about being me, for me and no-one else. This is about the risk - of putting myself out there in a way I never have. It's about not having those I trust to catch me when I fall - as I know you will. This is about proving I can do it, to no-one in particular.

This is about knowing nothing; about a thirst to drink the world into my soul. This is about confidence and affirmation; about a life without regret. It's something I must do - though why, I can't explain. This time, it's all about me.

Doorways.

I found this on my PC last night, and as it kinda summed up the last few months of Change Making, I thought I'd stick it here:

Leaning agaist the solid oak frame, and clutching coffee with both hands, I can feel the sun as it soaks my clothes and skin. The sky, blue as pre-school artholds dots of cartoon clouds, and further back a day-moon shines in mystical defiance. A glimmer of a rainbow forms across the dew-soaked earth. The springtime birds, and happy infant calls mingle with the traffic-noise of people's lives, but still, in view there's picture perfect fields, their flora swaying, calming and inviting, by the duckling stream and wisdom-laden copse. A cat meanders past, and the scent of its latest haystack romp rises up and mingles with the green rose smell of holidays.

And a part of me is longing to rush out, to touch and smell, and hear it all, to feel the burning heat of it until the very essence of the day is part of me, a tattoo in my mind.

Inside, the heat of sun is absent, and the air is still. A cat snoozes on the boiler, and coffee gurgles as it filters to the jug; it's heavy, fresh aroma mingling with that of buttered toast. The radio emits a gentle,, easy tune, and in the next room the T.V adds a deeper tone. Someone in the background tries to start a conversation; their tone riddled with urgency.

And suddenly I cannot leave, but am discontent to stay. So I stand and stare through the doorway as I try to find an answer.

Zis kitten, it is faulty, zis kitten, it no longer works!

After an ace weekend of nothing much with Rachel, people keep asking me if I'm ok, and telling me I'm not when I reply. Which is weird - I'm great, honestly. Ok, so I've been a little preoccupied with making sure I've made the right decision about moving on, and a few things have made that process really tough, but thanks to the honest aid of You Lot, it's all good. So, I handed in my resignation today. Am registering with an agency on Tuesday, and their CRB should be through by the time I finish work with U.B.U.

Current travel itinerary goes like this: Jordan, Syria, Israel. Back home for a week to sort next string of visas. Pakistan, India, Bangladesh, Back through India, Nepal, China, South Korea, Back through China, Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia, Southern Isles of Indonesia including Flores and Komodo, then Oz.

Quoted Happy

After a shit morning at work on my day off, I headed into town in search of a free pick-me-up. So, stopping downstairs in Borders, I flicked through Lonely Planets for an hour - it's honestly not as sad or boring as it sounds - and then headed for STA.

Had a retrospective laugh about delayed flights with the awesome guy who sorted Borneo for me, and then I threw a bunch of questions at him. 20mins of discussion later, I discover I can go to 7 extra places, for 1/2 of my original estimated price!

All I need is that job with the agency, and the world is my shellfish!

Changes

Belive it or not, before I actually get Out There, there are bigger, more gristly chunks to swallow than the concept of living from a 65l sack and befriending the unknown.

First, I have to quit my job - an obvious one perhaps, and not such a bad thing for the most part, though perhaps the hardest of them all, and it occurs a little sooner than it might've. The plus side - agency work, on top of part time retail should provide a wider experience and a healthier pocket (shifts at £7 - 21/ hour). And, well, the problems that drove me mad(der) will dissolve in moments.

I'm trading my scary all-impressive motorbike for a pushbike - it's cheaper, costs nothing to run, does no damage to my world, except perhaps an accident or several as I distract the small children - really, what IS the fascination when an adult goes by on a bike? I just don't get it! - I should get fitter pretty quickly, and along with public transport and walking, will be transport of choice throughout my adventures, so I should really get some practice in. Oh, and it hurts like hell on those badly paved stretches.

I've forbidden myself from an excess of spending - so it's the library not the bookstore; the outdoors, museums, the gym, and plain-old-writing replace the shopping sprees, starbucks and cinemas, and on occassions that I treat myself to Socialite status, more coke than beer and pubs instead of pay-in clubs. (Please understand this is NOT a complete ban - a girl needs Guinness, and will not abandon friends!). To help with this, I think I'm going to need a few inspiring pics of destinations - on my wall, and maybe in my wallet!

So, here's to a healthier, more determined me, and a happier wallet with a goal!

Armed and Dangerous

Armed with a plan that is!

So, the current, subject-to-change unpolished plan is as follows: Start off in Israel as a kibbutz volunteer for approx 6 months. From there, somehow get to India. You've probably heard of my incredible India plans already so I wont repeat myself; will be spending as long as possible here - at least 6months, possibly more if placements of up to 8 months dont count on 6-month visas. Will then go overland to China via Nepal, and down to Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia, spending approx a month in each, except Nepal which will be merely a stepping-stone for this particulr trip. Then on to Australia for 12months working holiday before I return. :-D

Escaping The Cheese.

Hi everyone, I'm back with another lousy set of excuses for my absence. This time, I've been way too busy plotting my escape from The Hell ofHere and Now. It dawned on me that if things continue the way they're headed, I'll be managing a service of my very own in a year or so. This really scared me, and I saw myself blurring into an embodiment of HeWho'sToBeObeyed. I don't want to be a retiree who's done the same things, n the same place, with the same people, forever. I want to be the one with stories of the time I headbutted a Great White, threw paint around for Holi, braved buses and street stalls, and spent 2 months in a gompa learning Buddhist ways from the best. I want to do it all.

And with images of stalemate in my 60's like an oncoming car, the natural response was, obviously to get away. So I've been planning a 2-3 year adventure.

I just want to thank all the Turtles and Jungle Bunnies who have helped me spot that path to the Cheeseless Regions!

Power and Perception.

Imagine, you're walking along with a pushchair, on the way home from the school run, and your 4-year-old, having presented elated babble on the essential elements of playdough fighting, bounds ahead of you along the pavement, whooping like a cowboy. Magic Parental Vision homes in on oncoming curb, and with it hideous images of little Diggory the Road-Kill Pizza. So, pace and heart rate stepping up a notch, you call "Watch out for the road. Don't step into that road! D'you hear me, DON'TGONEARTHATROADLAD!" and as your pitch raises in desperation, little Diggory skids to a halt at the roadside laughing hysterically. Catching your heart behind your teeth, you grasp your little soldier by the arm, and slapping a metronome across his legs, yell hard enough to shake the leaves above your head, "Don't You Ever, Ever Do That Again!"

A quivering Diggory sticks to you like a well-rubbed balloon until you reach your yard.

And tomorrow, when you yell ahead to warn him...

-----

Just a thought - Isn't it odd how everyone looks dodgy when you've got £500 in your pocket?

Is it a bird? No, it's a mutant!

Describe yourself using one band and song titles from that band
Created by naw5689 and taken 22166 times on bzoink!
Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band:	The Beautiful South
Are you male or female:	Girlfriend
Describe yourself:	You can call me leisure
How do some people feel about you:	The root of all evil
How do you feel about yourself:	I may be ugly
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend:	prettiest eyes
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:	I'll sail this ship alone
Describe where you want to be:	The mediterranean
Describe what you want to be:	look what I found in my beer/ mother's pride
Describe how you live:	Have Fun
Describe how you love:	hot on the heels of heartbreak
Share a few words of wisdom	don't marry her ( fuck me)
Create a Survey Search Surveys Go to bzoink!

Forbidden Activity

Supportive, optimistic lot that you are, somebody had to go and inject this into my dream-bubble: Homosexuality, the act of, is punishable by execution in so many of my desired destinations (although I’m not sure whether us women are excused, since it’s *ahem * not physically possible, and therefore widely unrecognised).

As you can imagine, there’ve been some interesting troubleshooting sessions going on. One suggestion was *lowers voice to whisper, glancing around the room nervously * ‘go straight’. Thanks, but no thanks.

Celibacy between all-action home visits leaves a lot to be desired, not to mention what The Family would say when I go home to ‘see them’ and then, umm, don’t. Several suggestions involved magazines, photos or web cams and self-appreciation. And somebody suggested taking my very own sex goddess in my rucksack - actually, I've had several offers of obliging companionship, in exchange for free tickets.

After several pints, the suggestion ‘just go for it, you might not get caught anyway’ seemed like the sensible choice. However, since I’ve promised folks that I won’t come back in a lidded box, it looks like it’s just me and The Rabbit.

Audience Participation

Ok, lets see if anyone actually reads this thing :-)

A. First, recommend to me:
1. a movie
2. a book
3. a musical artist, song, or album

B. I want everyone who reads this to ask me three questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want.

C. Then I want you to go to your journal, copy and paste this allowing your friends to ask you anything

She Feels Like 90 and she's On a Rampage!

I was absolutely disgusted this Tuesday, when I stepped onto a bus which charged me £3.20 for a one way journey (In the good old days...). But as I sat down, I noted a large screen embedded in the wall, which, for the entire journey, showed our current position, the name of the previous, and next two stops, and intermittently, tourist info complete with 'ask your driver for a half-price admissions ticket' reminders! Once again, the elite brand-spanking-wonderful coat of Harrogate shows up the rest of the world. It kept me entertained, anyway.

So, I arrived in Harrogate after J took pity on my fouling mood, and by the time I left, I felt a little better.

Not any more.

Went to work, expecting my new manager to be on training. No such luck, he was in-house all day. His way to do it all, is the best way, obviously - but he has no clue about the tenants, the parents, the staff, or past or present issues. And he doesn't care. One minute he says one thing, and the next he contradicts himself. And since he's never out of the office, I have to pick up the pieces when staff and parents complain, or tenants don't get allocated the support they need. It's not my job anymore, and I'm not getting paid enough to deal with it!!!

So then I get home and I have to wage war against my mother who, obviously, is in no need of help despite the fact that she can hardly do anything for herself, and my father the ostrich who is taking on the world rather than ask for assistance, and killing himself in the process.

I'm getting increasingly more irritable, because I'm sure neither of these is my job, but nobody else'll do it. And, ashamedly, I exploded at my parents when I got home this morning, screaming at them that they were both pathetic and needed to sort out all their issues, because they're ruining everyone elses lives. Possibly not going to help their esteem issues :-S

Shadows.

A Friday night,
and souls are dead
from pressures of a ticking world.
But as they sit, their sorrow
buried in a glass,
the band takes up the stage.

The humming warm-up catches their attention
And they begin to play.
Bouncing to the jolly tap of bongos
the sax exuberantly wails,
on top of rasping trumpet,
running up and down the scales,
like Tigger on vacation.
The bass adds gravity
and soon the shadows of the week,
are hiding in the corner.

On and on they play,
mingling melodies daringly.
The sax and trumpet mimic,
Take the other’s lead,
Pushing the limits.
And the beat bounds on.

An audience shakes loose
And one by one
The shadows start to dance.

SNOW DAY.

Something broke my sleep at 4am, and an ethereal halo of white seeped through my misted windows. And, having arched myself upright to see, I flumped back under duvet, content in the notion that I could awaken to a cosy, useful Snow Day – the kind where you snuggle in the warmth, content to be penned in, and there, creative juices flow.

Then, at 9.15, consciousness once more prevails. But as I shed my warm cocoon, the snow’s begun to melt, and my family bustles in their usual way, around my airy prison, and I am filled with icy gloom. There’s no way I can make it work!

Until, by 3, somehow, my state of mind returns to that of ‘Writer – Not To Be Whitewashed’ and I settle, with tea and toast in true Snow Day fashion, at my PC.

For the hours, I meddle with the dialogue between Mother and Son, but despite my efforts, I cannot steer them towards Dillan and his lust for the Guy At The Bar. I mean, what is it gonna take – someone waving manically at them and pointing? Or, the Guy to introduce himself – “ Hi there Foreigner, now if you don’t mind, we’ll just make out, then take our son and be off, before you scar him.”?

Hmm, maybe it needs a different approach. Perhaps I could have them all killed in a drive-by shooting (convicts on the brink of desperation as their cravings mount for The Loungeroom’s champagne trifle – need you ask!). That way, all issues of plot-flow are of no consequence.

Leaves a lot to be desired though. I think I’ll write some poetry.

Happy Families!

The kittens are enormous, their eyes (well the lads' eyes anyway) are opening, and you can actually tell them apart. Although it's harder on camera. Golliath's enormous, and his face is flatter and fluffier than the other 2. Baghera is the most active, and at the moment, has one eye which opens fully, and the other only a tiny bit. And little meg has full jet black tabby markings! They're all fab. And I just had to share them with you again.

Dinner time - it's no wonder they're so big! 

There's Baghera... 

...Little Meg 

... And finally, Goliath

It's all so fake, I'll have no part in it.

Creepy pre-dawn light invading my privacy as I finally collided with my bed at 3.15, my mind insistently continued its spin-cycle of thought and try as I might the plug would not come out. So, I lay there, filled with irritation for All That Is Now, and beneath that a desperate lust for the jungle of Borneo.

Half an hour later, staring at a ceiling tragically void of stars or leafy canopy, I listened to a Mood CD entitled Sound Of The Jungle which magically appeared in my collection a few months ago. But as I lay there, my aggrivation mushroomed like an airbag in a roll-over because, here's the thing - the jungle doesn't sound like that!!

Even discounting the bizzarre accompaniment of pan pipes which supposedly enhances the whole thing, it wasn't right. It's quieter, for one thing, and you hear much more of wind-tree friction than you do annoying cacophony of insects birds and howling monkeys. Of course, that's not to say you cannot hear these things - the crickets, for one, don't ever stop for breath. But this pre-recorded shite is so off balance; the symphony won't happen in a 4 bar phrase.

And in the real world, there's space between the monkeys and the thunder to hear the silent noises of your being - the rise and fall of your chest, the scratching as you roll over - carefully lest you crash into a fellow traveller.

And there's one last resonating jungle-creator that the producers of my mood forgot - The snoring of Pantera-Man and Jungle-Bunny Dave!