A story

Here is the story I entered into a competition. Thought I'd share it because it didn't get short-listed.

The opening paragraph was written by author Rosmund Lupton, entries were to follow this with a first chapter of between 800 and 1000 words.

You have to buy the magazine to read the first prize entry, the two runner-up entries can be read here.

I wonder if my attempt is a little disjointed and cheesy, but i did enjoy writing it, and will keep practising... 

The swaying of the train made her hands grip around her bag as if it was anchored and could support her. Outside the window, the trees were a blur of greens and it seemed to the woman as if it were the trees not the train which were moving, hurrying away from her, putting green distance between them. She’d started the journey with clearly defined logical reasons for it, which she’d neatly stacked up like a wall. But the rocking of the train, the judder as it had speeded up, had toppled them and the truth was now visible, poking out and ugly to her. Outside the window the moving haze of green trees was replaced by the still hard edges of a grey platform. She’d arrived.

People moved hurriedly and purposefully. Martha slowly looked around, she needed to find  her bearings. The toilets were dimly-lit, with mirrors protected by sheets of scratched perspex.  It was hazy, but the reflection clearly showed a tired and pained face.

The city, awash with dirty water. Fluorescent shop lighting and occasional flashes of flowing pillar-box red hair stopped it looking like a black and white film set.
Heavy rain forced people to bow their heads. Perfect funeral weather, a sad sky mourned the loss of its sun.

There was an hour to kill, easy in an identikit post-industrial city. Familiar cafes, familiar shops, unfamiliar faces.

Something about the narrow shopping arcade beckoned, perhaps she was lured by the unknown. Shops and cafes manned by owners, not staff, with handwritten signs - unique places.

Martha chose a cafe which screamed Shabby Chic, jars filled with marshmallows, sugared almonds and macaroons adorned the shelves. Myriad pastel hues and subtle lighting, sweet peas in old bottles on the table, very cosy.
Good coffee and robust home-baked cakes were usually a delight to the senses but
now, all she could stomach was a pot of delicately perfumed Earl Grey.

To distract herself from thoughts of the afternoon ahead, Martha looked out of the window. An elderly couple glanced at the chalkboard menu. His face looked as though it had been painted with a wishy-washy mix of purple, white and red.  The lady shook her head - prices too high and coffee not milky enough, probably.
Time and aging, regret and longing - never righting the wrongs. Such thoughts enveloped Martha in despair.

"The wettest week I've known for years" said the cafe owner. Martha could tell she was the owner, there was so much pride in the way she wiped the distressed oak tables and organised everything. Welcoming the distraction of dialogue, she searched her mind for a rhetorical response.
"Good or bad for business? I mean, in some ways people will be drawn to shelter, but others will just opt to stay home".

"Business ticks over, you never know when you're in for a rush or a lull.


Martha ran her fingers over the scroll pattern on her teaspoon and wiped the pale amber drips of tea from outside the cup. As if sensing her need for distraction, the cafe owner asked if this was the first time she had visited.

"Only, we have a loyalty scheme, I can give you a card if you'll be coming back".

"I used to live here, but I'm only here for the day. I will take a card though, I may be back - you never know".

Though, Martha could never imagine coming back.

With the spoon lined up equidistant from the cup and saucer, chair placed squarely back in place, it was time to leave.

Martha caught her reflection in a large blacked-out window. There she was - a slightly padded version of the young lady who had spent many nights in that city. Dancing and drinking, every last penny wasted trying to create the perfect weekend, to blank out reality and forget.

Feeling anonymous among the sea of faces, she drew comfort from blending in with her surroundings, being part of the shuffling throng.
Occasionally, someone would catch her attention and come into sharp focus. One lady had been on the same train, she wore a cerise mac. The tie belt skirted dangerously close to the ground on one side. Martha longed to pull the belt, even it up.
There was a longing to straighten out so many things in her life.

Looking up at the sky as grey gulls floated and swooped, hungry for fast food, Martha took a very deep breath.
It was almost time to go to the chapel,  no going back. Surely this journey still had a purpose? She refused to even consider using the word closure, all hope of that was gone.

The taxi rank was in the same place as years ago, only now there were double the number of cabs. Flashbacks to teetering on four inch heels across the cobbled paving, chips in hand, cold exposed arms covered in goosebumps. Of ending a night out feeling sad, wishing it could go on forever,  music, laughter and bright lights instead of that thump of dark silence. These memories didn’t feel at all distant.

Martha’s heart and stomach became overwhelmed with spasms of pulsating anxiety, getting into a taxi was the final part of her journey and made the feelings she’d experienced on the train fade into insignificance.

Perhaps it was a good thing - encountering the world’s nosiest, chattiest taxi driver. If only he hadn’t decided to talk about the funeral.

“Union Chapel, eh? I’m guessing from the black outfit that you’re going to a funeral...clever me eh?”

It was hard to reply, despite it being obvious this was not a quirky date with a fellow wearer of sombre black attire, she wanted to keep the details to herself.

“Yes, the funeral is at 1.30, I’ve come down from up North”

“That's gonna be a busy one, good job you’ll be getting there early. Terrible when someone young dies, innit? Such a waste.”

The taxi driver had summed up her feelings. Such a waste. Twenty years of waiting, thinking, dreaming and hoping. A past brought to life and shattered so suddenly.

All that loneliness and heartache for this, a chance to say goodbye for the second and last time.  Martha felt the physical pain of grief stab her coldly and deeply.  Smoothing down her skirt, she paid the driver as he said “I’ll see you again love”.

They had been her final words to her son.

Premonitions, Scratch-Cards, Shelters

Yesterday we enjoyed the wettest, coldest, smallest and most modest 'street' party imaginable. Huddled under a skilfully erected tarpaulin shelter, we learned a lot...
...rain doesn't matter when you're aged between 7 months and 10 years old.
Crisps are all you need to fuel children.

Who really cares what anyone thinks about the royal family?  They're here, they're normal people masquerading as some kind of other-worldly beings, and I don't envy them at all. Maybe I envy Middleton's waistline, but that's it. Waving, having a Maureen from Psychoville hairdo, listening to obsequious and nervous idiots telling you stuff you couldn't care less about - a tough job.

The best thing I read about the whole Jubilee shenanigans was this post.

Maureen, Psychoville

At the corner shop this afternoon, I was overwhelmed by a sudden and irresistible urge to purchase a lottery scratch-card. Gambling isn't an addiction I can imagine fully immersing myself in. Maybe alcoholism,.definitely food, possibly class B drugs. Throwing money around chasing unattainable larger sums of money, only to throw that away if a miracle occurs - no thanks.

I remember my mother's friend saying her agoraphobic sister had a mild  prescription painkiller dependency - "she pops a couple of Co-Proxamol and then she's on QVC buying all sorts of crap".  That sounds great fun. Maybe I'll try that when I'm elderly.

I was in the shop quite a while, rather like a 1950's housewife, I while away plenty of time there, eager to catch a bit of juicy gossip, or witness some blog-worthy display of uncouth human behaviour.

The green veg at the shop had turned grey - I offered to make some soup for Saj to sell at a pound per cup. My entrepreneurial skills know no bounds.

Saj declined my offer, and I won NOTHING on the scratch-card.The customers were mainly purchasing cigarettes and alcohol (recession? What recession!).
Back to the drawing board for me.

Earlier this evening, I picked Liam up from his dad's house.
Liam was supposed to be camping this week with his friend, dad, and dad's partner. As Liam's dad was playing golf, I chatted to his partner about the abandoned camping trip. Much bickering had ensued following an attempt to erect the tent in gale-force winds and torrential rain on a sodden field. Liam's dad was determined to get the tent up, determined to laugh in the face of wind, rain, mud, grumpy pre-teens and a simpering, damp, smelly coquettish dog.

"Men!" I exclaimed in a cliché and over-the-top tone. "Why do they feel the need have to  prove themselves by  providing an inferior shelter, when they have a perfectly sturdy,cosy and functional home?".

I was, of course, referring to the tarpaulin shelters which took Rob, Ken and Stuart (plus various other gentlemen in the street who rubbed their chins, squinted and laughed before retiring to the safety of their brick-built castles) two hours to tether in place

I must admit though, despite much tutting, eye-rolling and negativity from us ladies, it was great being outdoors; watching the children play happily and mingling with people I was barely on nodding terms with before.

I also got to meet Sue, the lady I said this about in a previous post:

"A new addition to my 'I've seen you before' file, intrigues me. I reckon I'll get to know her one day, she seems worth getting to know. I like her clothes and the way she looks up, not just around. I'd say she's in her mid forties, lives alone, and suffers from depression - her eyes look quite sad, like they're desperate to be rinsed out with cold water and shown a bright picture."


Turns out, she has recently moved into the next street, and is very pleasant indeed.


 Sue is joining a few friends and I for drinks tomorrow night. My premonition was right. Fancy that!

Tah - Dah!

I've been itching to link up with Lakota's  Tah-Dah Tuesday, but, what to 'Tah-Dah'?

I don't make many things these days, maybe the odd card, but nothing as impressive as a pair of shorts fashioned from a curtain, a la Vix

It has to be charity shop buys, and not even modelled by me, just quick snapshots taken late last night, I was too hot and bothered to put underwear on and stand there posing in my finds.

I had been looking forward to a 'day off' last Friday, no niece to look after, and no skip to fill. Charity shopping and maybe a cuppa in the sunshine sat opposite the meat van man (he spends the day shouting crass double entendres, and running down his ex-wife into an echoing mouthpiece).

I did very well with the charity shopping, 2 pairs of shorts, a dress, a vest top, 2 t-shirts, an encounter with a paranoid and charmless customer who insulted the staff in the most abhorrent way imaginable.


I also had another haircut. After years of no haircut - two within 6 weeks.

I told the hairdresser  "do whatever you like"

She made me look like a cross between this:

 and this:

But by last night it had flopped, limp and lifeless, to this:

,

Tah - Dah!

Clarks sandals - £3 

Dorothy Perkins 90's dress - £2 

St Michaels vest - £1.50

Cheap razors - don't bother

Manual labour - don't bother

I also made a card, inspired by Mexican Goddess  Todo Dorado:

What else could I make with buttons, broken bracelets, a  tangerine net and  collage?

I got home, ready for a cuppa, and eager to try on my finds. The school rang, as soon as I got home

"We think Ricky has hand foot and mouth,, please pick him up"

He did have it. I had it a few years back, it's a horrible virus, painful blisters in your mouth and on your feet/hands (fancy that). 

At least I had a morning off. I'm all ready for summer, just in time for the sun to vanish.

Lucy, she's here to help*

The soles of my feet look as though I've hacked at the hard skin with a cheese grater. My back, if it could talk, would be saying "why did you make me lift 3 tons of rubble today?". My hands feel like Velcro.

I fell asleep this evening between the hours of  8pm and 10pm, never a good slot for an impromptu nap.

"I'll help you strip some walls, Charmaine". That had been a very genuine offer to my running partner and school friend last week. Having finally sold her cramped house, Charmaine is now faced with the task of gutting and renovating her new house, as quickly as possible. 

I assumed her new house was on Berw Road (pronounced 'Ber - roo'). Whenever it was discussed, Berw Road was mentioned.

"I'll see you over there Luce, I've got to rush back to meet the skip man"

I was slightly late getting the boys to school, we walked. Sonny insisted on climbing every wall on the way, and there were various heated debates over who should press the button for the green man (at all FOUR crossings).

I had hoped Charmaine would accompany me on the walk to her new house. Directions were shouted to me over the school wall. "Police station side, Berw Road, you can't miss it".

I walked almost a mile out of my way. Thank goodness for mobile phones. The new house is BEHIND Berw Road. I also received a text from my friend Rosa asking if I could  look after her daughter, I felt awful saying no.

I changed into 'work clothes' (it's been a while) and found myself in labourer mode for a couple of hours.
We lugged huge pieces of wood, smashed up a bath, snapped, sawed, heaved, lobbed, and dragged all manner of detritus into the skip.

It was getting hotter, and with no running water, we were forced to work without a toilet or refreshment break.

I soon realised some of the rubbish destined for the skip, would fit in the car and could be taken to the tip  instead. I offered to drive there in Charmaine's  sister's (tiny) car.

Bags stuffed into the car, just enough room for the driver. Off I went. I've been to the tip loads of times. This time, I couldn't find it.
Happens to me a LOT.

"Hmm", I thought. "I can't go back with all this stuff". I dumped it at my house to save the embarrassment of explaining myself.
"Rob will have to take it".

Annoyed once again at my poor navigational skills, back to the house I went.
Another hour of manual labour, lots of dry-heaving from Charmaine upon discovering soiled underpants, washing-up bowls housing thick pools of dark green fetid slime, and myriad molluscs, worms and spiders.

There was slight sadness too - the old lady who had lived at this house before dying two years ago had children - why couldn't they be bothered to clear her home?. Holiday snaps, toys, clothes, all manner of possessions -  just left for a stranger to discard.

Soon after midday, I was most relived to hear Charmaine suggest we 'call it a day'. I had to fit in having a bath (no shower in my house) cooking dinner, and organising snacks, gym kits and drinks for the boys' Monday evening gymnastics class.

I hobbled the 15 minute walk home, pulsating blisters smarting. I took a route along a street which has numerous solicitors offices, the Citizen's Advice Bureau, housing charity offices and leads to the bus station. The worst examples of human nature can be found along this road, rather like a zombie-apocalypse catwalk.

A couple zig-zagged towards me.  Underweight, yellow-toned skin, vacant, staring eyes. They were arguing over who had the most tobacco in their rolled-up cigarette. I wonder if they went on to argue about the green man?

A girl approached me, pink hoodie with a light sheen of grime, off-white tracksuit bottoms, trainers and the expression of  someone severely constipated.

"'scuse me love, can you lend me a quid? I need £4.50 to get to Aberdare, I only got £3.50"

I felt sorry for her. She looked around 18, and her teeth looked 118 - as though they'd been daubed with a coat of mahogany varnish, and etched with a pointed tool in a freestyle fashion.

I gave her £!, and, rather patronisingly, said "you should say please when you ask someone a favour".

I resisted the urge to say "I want it back, with interest!" and "It's not can you lend me, it's could I borrow"

I came home to a house full of someone else's junk, and slumped.

 Gymnastics class was chaos - the waiting room is tiny, boiling hot, and packed with parents, older siblings, tired babies, people eating smelly food and people talking too  loud. This is where I feel most sympathy for children with Autism who are noise-sensitive, I cannot bear the sensory overload, so goodness knows how they feel.


Anyone else need a favour?

Please, don't ask me


*title taken from a film I like - "Harry, he's here to help"

Religion/Motivation

I have made many a light-hearted jibe about Christianity  (or religion in general) on this blog.
I cannot bring myself, though, to say I'm an Atheist.. Mainly because I'm under-educated.

I choose not to read books which suggest the Bible is full of shit, because any book can be full of shit, including a book suggesting the Bible is full of shit (and I'm guessing that the enlightened among you are thinking that makes me highly ignorant for saying that, and you'd be right).

When I was around 12 years old, I went through what must have been a pre-teen crisis. I decided to seek out attention in a variety of ways, one of which was to be baptised. My mother purposely chose not to have my brother or me Christened as babies.

Anther attention-seeking activity included spraying my hair with 2 bottles of Sun-In (peroxide) turning it a rusty-iron colour. Team that hair colour with a giant blue shirt belonging to my dad, a marker-pen thick slick of eyeliner, and a very tight, very long black skirt, and I'm ready for my school photo.

The baptism was an anti-climax. Bible study classes were boring, and any questions I asked the vicar were answered with "read the Bible - you'll find all the answers".

I did read the Bible, it's a good read, I wrote down a lot of the quotes and still have the book. Alongside crude drawings of  dresses I had designed, are quotes like "I will bless those who bless you, and curse those who curse you".
I suppose a lot of what appealed to me at the time centred around 'love'. I've yet to meet an Atheist who believes love doesn't exist (outside the survival of the human race realm).

Sitting on the fence with regards to religion is not something I'm proud about. Having said that, I struggle to commit to anything because I challenge every fleeting thought, suggestion by others, idea, action, feeling....

Get a group of people together in any setting, and a loud-mouth control freak with an army of followers, a rebel, and a quiet outsider will emerge.

In the workplace, there will always be someone who talks a good game, captivates everyone, but does very little else. What motivates people to shy away or follow?


Religion aside, I found this video interesting. If you can bear to spare ten minutes, I know that is a MASSIVE amount of time in internet terms. Maybe like a six hour shift at a components factory with no toilet break

Deep question, perhaps...but, what motivates you to perform well?

Blogging?
Money?
Religion?

I would put my motivtion down to a quest to find 'the answer' and I know I'll never find it. Even though I don't doubt for a second that the answer is 42. yes,  Sarah - you said it best.


Who judges whether or not we perform well?  Think about those clever little bankers....

And NOTHING Happened

The clock ticks are all I hear.

Boys all upstairs, Rob asleep on the sofa ( he's poorly). I've just finished my dinner, some of it landed on Liam's hoodie, I was cold, so put it on straight from the washing line - back in the wash basket it'll go tonight.

Twilight, between daylight and darkness, I've yet to switch on the lamps. My eyes itch, pollen and mascara falling out with each other. I still have my shoes on, I'll keep them on because the bathroom floor is still wet and I hate soggy socks. 

I'm thinking about the robbery which took place at the corner shop last night. The shopkeeper was forced to hand over cash at knife point, a second robber was brandishing a hammer. I'm also thinking about my greasy hair, I  feel about as attractive as Olive from On The Buses lately.

Olive, that's me, that is

The living room was just bathed  a lime-green glow, as if a filter had been put on a giant torch.  Quite soothing. I wonder if I'll ever have a 'sitting room' or a 'drawing room'. Standing only in this room, I'm afraid, and don't even THINK about doodling in any of my rooms. Lounge is an awful word, just like 'turbo' and 'greet'. I overheard a lady in IKEA say that she wanted a "chayze LOUNGE" once. I never wet back to IKEA.

I'm off now, I was so very bored. I typed loads of stuff and deleted it. Too personal.

Sometimes you spend all day looking forward to some peace and quiet, and when you get it, it deafens you.

Has anybody got anything interesting to share!?

In defence of daytime TV

I have a confession to make. During the wet, cold miserably grey days this past fortnight, I have succumbed to the horror of daytime TV. 

For 3 days each week, I looked after my niece and left the TV on from The Jeremy Kyle Show, through to This Morning and then, horror of horrors Loose Women. 

For those not familiar with these shows (don't live in Britain; too educated/middle class/got better things to do [like, work]) I'll try to briefly explain the formats of these shows...

The Jeremy Kyle Show - short-arsed former gambling addict, Kyle, uses his narcissism and overblown self-righteousness to deride, ridicule, anger and embarrass unfortunate people. 

Kyle's guests are usually unemployed, young, have poor communication skills and zero self-esteem. 

This Morning - 'national-treasure' Philip Schofield and 'the girl everyone wants to be' Holly Willoughby,  pretend to be interested in a variety of has-beens/minor celebrities' latest book or project (I'm looking at you, Denise Van Outen and Terry Wogan). 

They talk about the soaps, taste a meal cooked by a celebrity chef (it's always 'gorgeous' or 'amazing') and a fashion expert will host a feature on this season's MUST HAVE dresses/shoes.
"This costs just fifty-two nine-nine". 

What's wrong with 'ninety-nine?'

Loose Women - OK, my blog name is a take on the phrase - I apologise.

 Four women off the telly discuss topical news items, let minor celebrity guests promote things, and offer  'hilarious' insights into life. 

The four women 'celebrity' hosts will invariably be very sarcastic about men, look past their best, and are inexperienced regarding the topics they discuss. Like Kyle, they'll be brimming with a sense of self-importance:

"I'd NEVER choose drugs over my kids"

Maybe, but you'd get your jugs out on a low budget reality show in a pool with a bloke half your age?

Why watch them then? Er, I don't really know...

...I was moved to tears by one story on Jeremy Kyle. Two men met online and got very close over a period of a year. 

They met, fell madly and deeply in love (they lived quite a distance from each other) and formed a relationship.

It turned out they were half brothers. The heartbreak, shock and devastation was clear to see:

On This Morning I was fascinated by Tourette's sufferer Jess Thom.

Excuse the Daily Mail Link but you can hear her Radio 4 interview (and the obvious Tourette's symptoms) by clicking on it. 

Her website brilliantly celebrates Tourette's Syndrome.

I loved her self-depreciating humour and positive outlook. Despite continuously punching herself in the chest and saying 'biscuit' at least twice in every sentence, she's engaging and articulate (unlike Kyle's usual guests).

Highlights of Loose Women? 

Realising there's still a bit of time to enjoy myself before becoming an over-eye shadowed embittered thrice-divorced whining boiler (finger's crossed).