What's normal?

Am I normal?
Do I want to be?
No.

My post for Sunday Scribblings. Short and to the point.

Your good health

"What shall we drink to?" slurred Shelby, gripping the shot glass in his wrinkled fingers...

"Health" said Smith simply. He banged his glass against the man's opposite. It slopped a little and a drop flew into Shelby's face.

The two men downed the amber liquid in one, both shuddering as it 'hit the spot' and the warmth seeped through their tired old bones.

Smith topped them up and they repeated the ritual, silent except for the slosh of liquid and the crash back on the table.

"One for the road?" queried Shelby, a wry smirk on his face.

"I don't think so" said the nurse, whipping away the bottle of cough mixture and hurrying a reluctant Smith back to his own bed further down the ward...

For Sunday Scribblings - Health

A fairy tale

Who can't wait for the Snow White films next year? I am champing at the bit of my magic unicorn. It's been a while since I saw the Disney version at the cinema. I think it was the first film my parents took me to see. My Mum, engrossed in the captivating story, did not notice the reaction it was having on her first born until she found me cowering under the seat. You see, I was a sensitive child and did not take kindly to being presented with an over-sized evil Step-Mothers intent on murdering young maidens. I was also struck by mistaken identity. Dwarves and wolves are not entirely dissimilar in pronunciation to a four-year-old... I can still remember the nightmare of a whole pack of the canine variety scampering up ladders to climb in my bedroom window...

However, I am much more mature now and feel able to cope with a darker (eek!) version of the much-loved tale and I only tend to have nightmares after watching films about dinosaurs and zombies. Besides the Julia Roberts version looks pretty safe!

I read a fascinating newspaper article about the origins of fairy tales - Hansel & Gretal was about starvation, Little Red Riding Hood a warning to young girls about predatory men.

I think I prefer the more humourous options though - the ones by Lauren Child - when her hero falls into the story book and gets chased by Cinderella's stepmother because he ripped out the page and put back in upside down. The Queen is also most dis-pleased with the moustache he'd drawn above her pretty lips, the Prince has gone missing (cut out to make a birthday card) and Goldilocks (who really was the most obnoxious child) was put in her place by having her hair coloured in brown.

Writing for Sunday Scribblings - fairy tales, plus a quick sketch of Snow White lost in the woods to illustrate.

Sit there for the present

I loved that story in Cider with Rosie when Laurie Lee is instructed to sit at a particular desk on his first day at school. "Sit there for the present," he is told. He waits all day for the promised gift that never arrives!

Well, right now I am sitting pretty in my new home - a little present to myself.

This weekend we converted the spare bedroom/box room/junk store into my new office. No more will I be working in the kitchen and having to pack everything away every time we want to sit at the table to eat a meal. I am Queen of all I survey. As my business grows, so does the accumulation of paperwork, notes and mind-mapping exercises!

Of course, I would have loved for this to be art studio too; but space constraints meant I had to choose one or the other and so the activity that will one day fund a move to a bigger house (with room for an art studio) nabbed the space. I do have some of my art on the wall though!

I'm decidedly pleased with my present. Who knows what the imagination will conjure up in here!

Somewhat fortuitously, Sunday's Scribble theme today is 'present'. Just perfect!

Picture is a bit rubbish, but you get the idea (and the size!)

The sun will come out...

Tomorrow...

Of course it will, for is not tomorrow Monday when we are back at work?

Tomorrow is of course another day. Tomorrow is hope and promise, but it's also most decidedly not to be trusted. Who has put off until tomorrow what they could have done today, only to find out that tomorrow had other plans for you?

Tomorrow has this clever way of making you feel safe. "It's OK, I'll do it tomorrow" has a touch of the Groundhog day about it, for how often has tomorrow never actually arrived - being forever the proverbial day away?

Tomorrow is in cahoots with 'too late' - partners in crime stealing your destiny and giving it to others who grab today by its hooves and ride off into the sunset of success.

Tomorrow is the Dark Side seducing you with indolence today only to blast you with regret later.

If I didn't listen to tomorrow so often I wouldn't have to worry about it so much.

What is tomorrow for you? A Sunday Scribble written today!

The Muse in disguise

It's funny, I've written so many posts about my Muse over the years, yet as soon as I find a writing prompt to do so, she deserts me. I can hear her now, laughing hysterically in the background, at my foolish belief that she'd bend to my will. Fickle creature. I have a cunning plan though... I will leave this post for a while and sneak back when she is least expecting...

You see the Muse might be her own woman, but she does have a tendency to turn up while you are creating. She's nosy. Once you've got her in your thrall then she just can't help giving you a little idea or inspiring thought here and there. Suddenly from nowhere, the word feather will appear and you'll realise it's just what you needed to finish your piece.

The Muse loves mermaids. Perhaps that's where she goes when sneaks off - to swim with sirens? This mermaid wanted to go to the Reef Masked Ball. It's a sumptous affair with everyone having a whale of a time proudly displaying their coral and pearl jewels. Melissa wanted to be a little different so had a word with Freddy the Flying Fish (he's well known to be able to procure anything and he owed Melissa a favour after she got him out of trouble with the loan shark).

Melissa's mask has feathers thanks to Freddy (probably best not to ask where he got them from... although have you seen that parrot without a tail?

Shh.... the Muse is back and she's in a playful mood...

We made this together but can't quite decide if we prefer the original (immediately above) or the one with a little PhotoShopped texture (up top). Freddy says he likes the first one, but he would as he supplied the texture.

It's disguise theme at Illustration Friday this week. We're sneaking in under cover...

Cake rap

I stole the idea for this rap from myself (and lots of other people who stole it from Jay Z and Alecia Keys), so I guess that's OK!). Been writing a rap for work and so while I'm in the mood I'll do another. This one's for cake - and why not I say! Just sing to the tune of Empire State of Mind... New York New York. Sometimes I really love my job - all in the aid of engaging employees (and having fun while we're at it). Who said that work had to be serious eh? Not me, that's for sure.

Yeah

I'm a makin cake

packin fruit n spice

Sugar and some nice

I'm mixing up my mojo

melt in the mouth so

crumbs down my chin

oven tray going in

creaming up the icing

spooning all my jam in

I'm a cake lover

biggin up my Battenberg

dusting my shortbread

I'm a eating cake

Til it's time for my bed
nuff said...

Take me down to the cake shop

I love patisserie, patissierie

Give me cream cake and donut

I'll grow a big gut, big gut, big gut...

A Sunday Scribble.

I titled the sketch 'cake hole'.

Milestones

Sunday Scribbling's prompt this week was Milestone. Next month I will be 40, can't get much more a reminder eh? I still haven't organised any form of party so unless I get my bottom in gear it will be passing by un-noticed. Ah tish! Maybe I just don't want to think about reaching 40.

What other milestones can I ramble on about instead? Well, next to spring to mind are those that appear in Project Plans. For those that don't work in the kind of business environment which requires the use of Microsoft Project, might I point out how lucky you are. These are very long lists of things to achieve and by whom and by when, marked in degree of importance and usually dissected to the smallest detail. They are much beloved by those of an analytical mind but strike terror in the 'fly by the seat of their pants' creative types. You see, I'm more of a 'know what needs to be done and by when and just get on with it' type of worker. I'll scribble down some essential notes and dive in. I keep on track because I know what I'm doing. I don't need constant referral to detail to force my output down a track it doesn't feel like investigating on that day. If I attend a meeting about where we are in an exciting project I like to discuss what needs to be discussed rather than tediously work our way through a long list of dull tasks. I do not like to refer to stages of my project as 'milestones' - the resemblance of the word to millstone is far too close for my liking. I prefer the JFDI methodology which is very close a word to JEDI and when the force is with you, what more could you ask for?

I'm sure the picture is foxing you... It is of the Milestone Hotel in London - looks rather nice doesn't it?

The good old days

May stretched out her aching legs and scratched absently at the new dressing the nurse had applied that morning. She threw off the blanket on her legs, it being far too hot with the central heating going full blast. "Shall we watch a bit of TV before meals on wheels come?" she asked Sid. Her husband picked up the remote for the flatscreen their Simon had bought for their diamond anniversary and flicked through the channels. The cat chased cake crumbs disturbed by Sid's movement, stopping only momentarily to watch some birds fly across the screen of a nature programme. The channels flicked past in rapid succession and they rejected antiques, soap operas, quiz shows, gardening, horse racing, football, golf, talk shows and card making (though May was rather keener on watching that than Sid). Finally they settled on an old black and white movie set in World War II.

As the bombs dropped on Mrs Minerva, and her family shivered in the air raid shelters before heading home to powdered eggs, May and Sid relaxed into their matching electric riser chairs and watched with contentment. "I miss the good old days" May voiced for the pair of them as Greer Garson confronted a downed Nazi paratrooper in her kitchen.

"Aye" agreed Sid as he answered the door to the young 'un who brought round their dinner every evening and smelt the appetising aroma of lamb hotpot. "Things was good then..."

A Sunday Scribble on the theme of: the good old days.

Extreme

A Sunday Scribble prompt - written on a Monday and probably posted on a Tuesday as I've only just published - don't want to look too keen do I?

The heat was intense wrapping itself tightly around her, choking the air from her lungs. Around her other figures shifted slightly in the thick mist which helped them not look at each other.

It was an uncomfortable place in every sense of the word. Claustrophobia grabbed at her throat and she wanted out. Her head felt so heavy she could barely move but limbs finally obeyed and at last the rush of cooler air hit her as she opened the door.

But this wasn't the extreme she was after. She turned and smiled at the stranger who happened to be standing watching and, holding her nose, plunged into the icy depths.

Rising to the surface in a maelstrom of exhilaration and shock she laughed and shook the water from her hair.

"You're brave", said the stranger as she gingerly dipped a testing toe in the freezing water. "The steam room's always enough torture for me..."

Weird...

I offered Rachel a lift home since it was on my way but it turns out she lives in Hornsey, which is the opposite direction. I only know the High Road. It was weird because she acted like we were still great friends but tonight must be the first time I'd seen her in twenty years. No wonder I didn't know where she lived. I'd parked the car in a sneaky little spot. Must be the only place in London not on a meter or time limit. Strictly speaking the mini wasn't still on the road, but since it had magnetically attached itself to the gates of an imposing mansion, I figured it was private property and out of bounds for the wardens.

The room was rapidly filling with soft furnishings. Cushions with elaborate frills and heavy embroidery reminiscent of a stately home. I wasn't sure where they had come from but apparently they were something to do with Christine and her friends. That's what Dean told me anyway as he danced with the curtain.

I needed to get back to the car. I had to visit my Auntie. Rachel had gone anyway, so she would have to find her own way home. The stairs just kept on going, round and round in dizzying circles. I tripped. Fell. Yelled. And woke with a start...

No, I haven't gone mad. This was just a Sunday Scribble on the subject of Weird. An excerpt from last night's nocturnal adventures!

The Game

Cheryl turned sideways, sucked her tummy in and drew herself up to her full 5 foot 5 inches. She was ready for battle and had no intention of becoming a casualty. Her eye on the prize she began to move imperceptibly across the field. Sidestepping the eye of the enemy she kept her focus. It helped to turn sideways, she could slip through the ranks un-noticed, then a quick flick of the shoulder and she was past the first wave. Watching carefully she judged her next move. Where would it be safest to position herself? It wasn't just a matter of grabbing the first safe spot, it was about who would be her wing man. She hesitated almost a moment too long as she spotted an incursion to her left. But Cheryl was a veteran, she knew the game. A sharp elbow, a small imperceptible shove and she made it to the front of the bar, smiling sweetly into the topaz eyes of a besuited City type. Captured by her sparkle he allowed himself to be drawn into her net until, almost without thinking, as the indifferent barman handed her the large glass of Chardonnay he uttered the words "let me get that for you" and handed a crisp note across the counter.

A Sunday Scribble on the subject of 'Game'.

Shame

Running from shop to shop, Jennie clutched at her remaining clothes in fear. Passers-by stared and laughed at the half naked freak dancing a fear foxtrot before them. As fast as Jennie grabbed at clothes to cover her modesty, so others fell from her skin until she stood wearing just a blush in front of the hysterical masses. The laughing seemed to go on and on and on... taunting, shrieking, tearing at her. She shrank back in shame from their jeers, tears running down her cheeks. Turning a corner, she climbed from a train and ran across a sandy beach to an azure sea hiding her body beneath the waves. It was cold, her arm was growing numb, a shark was biting on it. She screamed in terror and awoke in a cold sweat with George glowering above her.

"Get up, you're on" he yelled into her face, spittle covering her lips. Recoiling in confusion and revulsion Jennie pulled herself off the couch and stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was just a dream she reminded herself. Just a figment of imagination.

... She smoothed down her skirt and pulled back the curtain to the stage before seductively wrapping one silken leg around the pole and winking at the expensively dressed punter in the front row.

A Sunday Scribble. Theme: Shame

Things that go bump in the night

A Sunday Scribble - Thing's that go bump in the night.....

Thump, thump, thump. George lay in bed trying to shut out the repetitive banging as the wind played drums with the back gate. He watched the digital numbers changing shape beside his bed until he gave in to the noise. Pulling on a worn dressing gown and shoving his feet in the nearest shoes that came to hand he padded downstairs.

Outside the wind howled and, just to spite him for waiting so long, it had now begun to rain. He trudged round the side of the house in the direction of the gate battling an umbrella that was determined to take him on a flight of fancy.

Bang, bang, thump, thump... the noise pulled him closer. It was dark down here. Really dark. If he'd had his wits about him George might have considered that it was darker than it should have been in the middle of a city with a street lamp just metres away. George wasn't scared of the dark though. He knew where he was going and carried on towards the thump, thump, bang, bang.

He ran his hand down the wall, fingers grazing slightly on the rough brick. How much further was that damn gate? At last the wall ended, but where brick should have become wood instead was... what was it? George pulled him arm back in surprise. What little hair remaining on his head stood rapidly to attention. The banging stopped.

"Hello George" murmured a smooth voice, "been a long time... " George reached instinctively for a weapon that wasn't there. A weapon that hadn't been there for 25 years. He looked into the glowing eyes and watched disinterestedly as the sharp fangs began to protrude from the creature's lips. He clicked his fingers and the sky lit up in a shower of sparkling colour. Lightning streaked through the sky ripping apart the branches on the beech tree towering above them. One solitary branch was ripped from the trunk and flew rapidly to earth, impaling itself on its journey down through the heart of the creature of the night.

"Bloomin'vampires... never learn" yawned George as he fastened the gate and wearily made his way back to bed.

Come here gorgeous

I'm on a roll - 2nd entry for Sunday Scribblings...

It was our first date. He didn't know I was such a lightweight when it came to alcohol. Two glasses of wine should really be my limit, but he kindly procured a third while I visited the ladies', so I felt obliged to at least have a mouthful or two. The merlot rushed around my bloodstream, heightening senses, shaking off nerves.

He was pretty nice mind, we had plenty to talk about. Good-looking, charming, an easy way about him. I found an excuse to slide closer along the sofa, so we had a bit of body contact. I flirted, he flirted back.

Time was our enemy and we had to leave. He walked me to the taxi rank and it seemed natural to hold hands. Regrettably there was no queue and line of rumbling black carriages waited to whisk their passengers off into the night. No more time for small talk.

We said our goodnights and arranged another date. Heady with drink I probably gave him 'that look'. Heads moved closer. Lips brushed, then parted. He maintains to this day that I practically devoured him, that he was innocent of any unseemly behaviour! All I remember is a very nice kiss that had me grinning like a Cheshire cat all the way home. I've had a lot more from him since then.

Kiss, Kiss Sweetheartxx

For the avoidance of doubt - picture is not us!!

First kiss

My first sight of my new love happened, as is typical, when I least expected it. I mean you could could go fruitlessly searching for romance at a dating site, but end up meeting the man of your dreams over the apples in Tesco; that's the vagaries of fate for you.

So, there I was skimming the pages of an underwear catalogue (for women of a larger bust, not that you need to know that, but hey, I'm proud of my assets). I never thought I'd fall in lust whilst browing knickers and bras but BANG - there it happened.

Of course, underwear catalogues only help you buy well, underwear... all other embellishments are merely for 'decoration', there to assist the sale. Regrettably, there's no helpful shopper's guide for anything else that takes your fancy on the page. And so, with regret, I accepted that it was highly unlikely we'd ever get to meet, let alone become intimately acquainted. Until today...

Heart-fluttering moments were far from my thoughts when I set out on my errand. A quick trip into town, check out the art expo, then home and cook lunch. Simple. Wrong.

I don't know what called me into that shop in particular, perhaps it was the enticing scent of expensive leather. In fact, I'd been in there a while and was heading back towards the door when that moment of recognition clanged like a cymbol, awakening my memory and assailing my senses.

The object of my lust was there... before my eyes... just standing there. I'm sorry, but I couldn't help myself. I'm ashamed to say I just grabbed, held, stroked, sniffed and yes, held tantalising close to my face and... kissed.

Those boots might be the most expensive pieces of footwear I've ever owned but they are sooooo lovely..... Well, they will be when they arrive in the shop - didn't have my size in brown, but the black size 39 fitted perfectly. Just a week to wait before we become attached... I see myself living in them all winter. I may even take them to bed... If you want to see a picture, see page 46 of the Autumn Bravissimo catalogue and let the green-eyed monster take you...


My Sunday Scribble - a fun, weekly writing challenge. Theme this week: First kiss. Yeah, I know that it's cheating - who kisses boots eh? And they don't kiss back, but really... you should see these boots...

A cheesy tale

Fran wriggled her nose rabbit-style and slowly sniffed. Deep, earthy scents tickled her senses, teasing with promise. Salivating, she smiled coyly at James and begged for a tiny taste. He speared a ripe brie and held it out tantalisingly before snatching it back as her mouth leant forward. The exercise was repeated with a gooey stilton, a pungent gorgonzola and the freshest of unpasteurised goat's cheese.

The precious dairy products were packed away and replaced in the fridge. "Do I need to padlock it?" James laughed.

Fran patted her round belly and heaved herself out of the chair, waddling upstairs to bed. "I think I can wait a few more days", she smiled.

My entry for this week's Sunday Scribbling. The theme this week? Well, cheese naturally!

Hungry - a Sunday Scribbling

This autumn we Brits once again seek to get our fix of talent shows. Up against each other in the ratings we have Strictly Come Dancing and The X-Factor.

What does it take to be a winner? Is it down to talent alone? Do you have to possess a burning hunger that drives you to seek sustenance for your soul? Was Susan Boyle hungry? Probably not. I think she just liked singing. But then is hunger necessary to sustain a lengthy career, to keep up the rounds of tours, interviews and recordings. I suspect that a burning desire to hold onto this magic will have to come, or else a different yearning will pull her back to a Scottish village again, away from the limelight.

And what of the other thousands of professions that don't require audiences of millions to view your 'audition'. How do you portray hunger at interview without coming across as desperate? When you hear the magic words "We'd like to offer you the job", how much do you have to continually want to make your living like this to really enjoy it and be successful?

This is a turning into a list of questions? Shouldn't I be answering some or is that your job readers? If I was a hungry writer, surely I should be giving more of my opinion.

I am a hungry writer, so I'll do something with this knawing, nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. I believe you need hunger to really succeed, you have to 'feel the pain'. Programmes like the X-Factor put the belief in heads that all you need to do is turn up and Simon Cowell will do the rest. What the unsuccessful auditionees fail to spot is that, of those that make the TV shows, the majority have 'been there and done it'. They have felt the knawing, they've toiled at singing lessons, worked the clubs and put themselves in front of an audience. They want it. They know they want it and so, they keep trying every avenue until they get it. There'll always be the few blessed with effortless talent who sail through to the finals. But watch them... see them get the hunger, the desire to win, to be a success.

So, I reflect on my own hunger. How much do I want a new job? How hard am I prepared to work at a (nearly) middle-aged second career as a writer, for I still need the day job to keep a roof over my head? Well, I do want that new job. I have so much to offer a business. I am all about building engagement - hunger if you like - in employees. When I'm set free I write to engage, to entertain, to educate, to nurture. Last time I checked, Simon Cowell didn't do a talent show for Internal Communication Managers or budding novelists, so I'll have to make it on my own.

In short:

I'm hungry

I've cupboards full of the juicy sustenance of ideas

I'm very clever with blending ingredients and creating tasty dishes

I have the power to feed the hunger, feed the soul

So, what am I waiting for? Life begins at 40, so in 6 months when I hit that milestone I'll be loving a cracking new job and have the first manuscripts out to the agents!

Now, I'm off to feed my stomach. There's a blackberry and apple crumble in the oven. Heavy on the apple. Dragged my son off blackberry picking this afternoon. We were gone over an hour and came back with six! Still, it was enough to give the apples a slight pink tinge!

This post was in response to the Sunday Scribblings challenge - write on the subject of hunger. To read more, pop along to their website.

Tattoo tales

OK, deep breath.

This is the opening page or two of a story I've been working on... and I'm keen for a bit of feedback. I never felt comfortable posting it before, but my creative ramblings have led me in the direction of another weekly challenge - Sunday Scribblings. Their theme this week is tattoo and since a tattoo of sorts featured in my story, I thought maybe fate was nudging me to dangle my characters into blogland and see if anyone bites!

It's strange, because I don't feel nervous writing blog postings. In fact, as you may have observed from the prodigious quantity of posts (particularly this month when I've purged out more posts than there's been days in the month - with even more 'waiting in the wings'). I quite happily pour out my heart for all the world to see - from Moldova to Brazil if my little widget is to be believed - I tell it how it is. Yet, posting up a little fiction is an entirely different matter. Anyway, enough procrastination. Here is my entry for:

Sunday Scribblings: Tattoo

“Scratch my back will you”, murmured Tabby as she rolled over in bed shrugging off the last vestiges of an alcohol-fused sleep. The returned answer was more of a grunt as Mark flung a hand in the general direction of her back and gave a half hearted rub while desperately trying to regain sleep.

“I had that weird dream again” Tabby said to the hand doing its poor job of relieving her annoying itch. Giving up hope of getting back to his dream of playing alongside his hero Thierry Henry, Mark gave his girlfriend his full attention. “Not dungeons and dragons again?” he smiled at her, marvelling at the powers of her subconscious imagination which was currently conjuring up the contents of a Tolkein novel most nights.

“Dragons and unicorns actually” Tabby remonstrated, “as well you know, and don’t laugh. I’ve never had such vivid dreams, they’re freaking me out”.

“I keep telling you… too much cheese… “ laughed Mark stumbling out of bed towards the shower. “If it bothers you that much, go and see the doctor, though be prepared to leave in a straight jacket!”

Tabby sank back under the duvet consumed by thought and duck down. She had no intention of going to the doctor over a series of odd dreams but they bugged her none the less. What she might see a quack about though was her birthmark which seemed to be changing. Climbing out of bed she tried to peer at the unusual markings on her back which had begun to itch and become inflamed in the last week or so. Her fingers traced the strange pattern at the base of her spine. She was rather proud of it in a way, it was certainly unlike any birthmark she had seen on anyone else – more like a tattoo, a mixture of swirling lines forming what seemed the beginnings of a pattern. Mark, an artist, had even created a series of paintings based around it. He came out with some supposedly romantic notion of it forming a bond between them., but Tabby didn’t need a painting to know that they were meant to be together. She blew an invisible kiss towards the steam filled shower and headed off to the kitchen to make the love of her life a coffee.

***

Tinker glared at Tony, his eyebrows knotting in anger and frustration.

“There’s nothing wrong with it, just do the tattoo” he ordered, but the artisan sat firm on his artist’s stool and stared back with as much determination.

“I’m telling you man, see a doctor, then I’ll do the last part. There’s definitely some inflammation around that mark that’s nothing to do with my artistry. Probably nothing, but I have my reputation and more importantly my insurance to think about.”

Tinker leapt up and got dressed wearing his frustration and disappointment alongside his leathers and filthy jeans.

“Looks bloody stupid now,” he bemoaned. His hands smoothed over the intricate design on his lower back made to match his weird birthmark. It was starting to look really cool, much better than the dumb mark he’d had to put up with all these years. Tony had skilfully mirrored the strange markings creating a labyrinthe design. It was too big a job for one session though and he’d returned for the last part today only to be turned away for “medical reasons”. He slouched out of the tattoo parlour and headed for the doctors. Might as well get the all clear today if he could, maybe Tony could fit him in later…

***