2days, 2nights, 6weeks

I quickly bopped the alarm clock off before it woke my husband. 

I stretched as I left that lovely bedwarmth and roam my hands subconsciously over my boobs. Contrary to popular belief, we women do fondle our bits like men, it’s just that our bits are a nicer thing to fondle in the morning than theirs! Find me a man who disagrees!

Hang on a mo, what’s that?

Hmm. I look at my right hand. Nope, nothing strange there. I put my right hand to the left boob and pressed gently.

Fuck fuck fuck.

My stomach swiftly left it’s normal location and entered my throat. I glanced over at my sleeping husband. Oh dear God, can’t be.

I dressed.

I sat on the loo with my head in my hands.

Nah, can’t be.

Kissing my husband goodbye I left home and entered denial.

2 days avoidance 

2 nights of no sleep

2 days acting normal

2 nights silently fearing death

I pick up the phone.

‘ is it an emergency?’

‘course it fucking is you silly cow’ I want to say ‘ I think so yes’ I mutter

‘can you tell me what it is?’

deep breath. ‘i’ve found a lump’

‘Doctor can see you in the morning’.

Doctors.

Stomach once more returns to it’s new location. Throat

I get the lady doctor. ‘ok, lets have a look then, go behind the curtain and take your top off’

Top off, and she pops her head around the curtain ‘ok, don’t tell me where it is, arms above your head’

She stands there looking from left to right, then dives for THE spot.

‘is it there?’

‘Yes’

‘Bingo!’

Bingo? Bloody bingo. Jesus Christ!

After probing and pressing and delving her hand into my armpit, she declares that she thinks it’s nothing too much.

 ‘Can you tell that to my imagination  please?’ I say.

‘Appointment will be in about 6 weeks’

6 weeks? But but.

I check the post daily, waiting for the appointment. I still haven’t told my husband.

Eventually I have to as I’m avoiding any contact. Problem is with men, they see our boobs as a comforter so lack of contact means all manner of things. Usually that you have a headache!

5 weeks later and I’m entering the hospital

‘clinic three’

I turn a corner and see row upon row of people. It was like a tube of smarties. Every colour, every race, every age and even men and not just ones accompanying their spouse. I squeeze into a seat and try not to look around too much.

 Can you spot someone with breast cancer? 

Can you see the ones that have no hope? 

Is that me?

I came prepared and pull out a book to read. Every time a door opens we all look up from our own little worlds. You can’t help but stare at the person that comes out of the examination room. All carrying a slip of paper; some pink, some white, some yellow.

‘ Mrs Edwards’

I crease the page in the book though god only knows why as I’ll have to reread it all later, and follow the nurse.

‘go behind the curtain and slip your top off please, doctor will be along in a minute’

The door closes and I sit on the bed that is resplendent in blue paper cloth from top to bottom. There is a strange peace as you wait. The Doctors are obviously working a shuttle system from one room to the next. Faces must not register only boobs, boobs and more boobs. I wonder if they are ‘boob men’ out of hours? I look down and am aware of my vulnerability and that these things are precious to me and also sexual to men. How do I sit here, half naked and present myself to a completely strange man without it looking, well, you know, odd? I straighten my spine and suck in my tummy. Gradually the posture slips but as I hear the door open, I straighten up again

‘Ah, Mrs Edwards, tell me the problem then’ says the ‘Mr’ as two specialist nurses stay in the background .

I’m told to lay down with hands above my head and the prodding, poking, manipulating begins. And I was worrying about coming across as a half naked lady? No fear there. His hand seems to disappear into my arm pit. I felt like it was going to come out of my throat like a Paul Daniels magic trick. He’s kneading my boobs like they were bread dough, slowly edging towards THE spot. I’m starting to cringe as I know that if he carries on like this, it’s going to…

Youch! He found it.

I bite my lip rather than give him some verbal.

‘we’ll just take a sample for tests’

will we indeed!

A sample means a gleaming long needle heading my way.

Gulp.

‘You’ll just feel a slight prick’

where have I heard that before? 

A sharp intake of breath and it’s in.

The nurses are still looking on, and, to my surprise, do look like angels. Leaning in with faces full of sympathy in their statuesque silence.

Then the needle is being plunged up and down, exploring my inner self.

My eyes were growing wider and wider. The pain was immense; but then I’m a woos! I must stop concentrating on the pain

‘ If this is how you get your kicks with a woman then I’d hate to be your wife’ I said through gritted teeth

The elastic holding the heads of the nurses as they bent over me pinged them back to erect very swiftly. The concerned Mona Lisa smiles disappearing to horror. Mmm.. surely McMillain nurses come across humour sometimes?

The oncologist found it amusing thank god and apologised for his probing. It went on and on

‘ if you do much more I’m going to retaliate in kind’ I said, and I meant it. If I could have grabbed him where it hurt I may have been tempted never to let go until his eyes looked like a bullfrog!

Eventually it’s over and it’s off for a mammogram. Bliss. Nothing can hurt like the aspiration.

Wrong.

Have you ever had your boobs crushed between two cold plates and then squeezed some more just to be sure? Then you get berated because you aren’t standing just right when your head just wants you to pull away. Then I had a funny thought; if the fire alarm went off now, would I be left in a burning building with my left tit in a vice as the radiographer ran to escape? 

But maybe I’d be rescued by a dashing fireman?

Feeling ragged I was sent on to another department. I was now getting use to the ‘strip off behind the curtain’ routine and wondered why I bothered getting dressed again at all. Ultrasound next. Would this one hurt too?

I lay topless in the dark and felt like going to sleep. That was until the wicked woman covered me in incredibly cold gel. It was like the KY gel factory had exploded! All over my boobs, my armpits and sliding slowly down my sides and stomach as this shower head contraption took pictures from every angle as it slid over my boobs. How do they tell anything from these black and white images? I was tempted to ask if it was a boy or a girl but found myself instead asking for a picture.

I was handed more of the blue cloth and wiped myself down, trying to remove every trace of gel. Time to go back to normality, well, that was what I hoped. Clutching my scan I left the nightmare, well, at least until the afternoon when I’d be back for the results.

Silence? Nah busy!

Well it's all happening here! Higgy is in the final stages of being a Christmas card in 4 different images and I'm about to illustrate a book! So writing is taking a little bit if a backseat while in working on the commission!

All good before Christmas!

KEEP TAKING THE TABLETS Chapter One

I've dipped into the darker humour side of my tiny mind for this one....

‘So’ there was a pause, ‘have you ever thought about suicide?’

I continued staring at the piece of paper before I looked into his eyes, ‘Have I thought about suicide? Hmm…’

I let the words linger; if I said no, would he think I was in denial and a high risk? If I said yes, would he think I was a fruit loop and send me to the funny farm?

Had I thought about suicide?

Well yes but.. no.. hmm…not really.

 If I had, how would I do it? Would I drink myself stupid and take tablets? A covert alcohol buying trip to the supermarkets spirits section. But when I get there I wonder, what is the best spirit to use? I suppose you’ve got to enjoy the taste, so whiskey and brandy would be out as I only like those diluted or in coffee. Southern Comfort?  Love it but too sweet. Vodka, gin? Sigh…and how much would I need? How long before the alcohol blots me out? The cost of spirits is ridiculous if I’m going to need more than one bottle that’s for sure. And at what point do I take tablets? Do I have to be totally with it and shovel them down my neck at the beginning of the session or half way or just before I pass out? But when do I know I’m going to pass out? Hmm and what tablets? Parecetamol? Ibuprofen? Anti depressants? Nah I’d be sick; think of the mess I have to clean up if I survive and boy, that would be a hangover to end all hangovers!

Would I hang myself from a tree? Where could I go that I could rig up a decent amount of rope, pre ‘noosed’? I’d have to go and have a rekkie, determine the height of the branch and its suitability. Mathematical equation to determine ‘dangle length,’ velocity of drop and strength of branch. But apart from working out how I would get myself into a suitable position for neck stretching how big does the noose have to be so you don’t slip out and drop to the floor; breaking a leg on the way? ‘Yes, ambulance please; where? Hmm, top of Carrs Hill, the big oak.. what was I doing? Erm… erecting a swing rope for the kids, the branch broke and I fell and think I’ve broke my leg.’ Oh the humiliation. That would hurt! Of course it would have to be somewhere scenic really and have a suitable chair handy. And how do I explain to the two little boys running past with their football that no, they can’t play on my swing as it’s for me and not little boys; I’d probably get my shins kicked!

Slit wrists? Although I wield a scalpel most days and am not squeamish, I hate to see a scalpel cutting flesh. My ex husband in his youth use to proudly tell me that a girl said she’d slit her wrists if he didn’t go out with her: he gave her a piece of glass and walked away. And how quickly do you have to slit the second after the first is spurting and redecorating your lounge? Do my beta blockers make me bleed out quicker or slower? Or would I be in a warm bath? Nah, hate baths and I’d be a wrinkled prune before anyone found me with beetroot coloured skin; and cold from the water. What? It doesn’t matter that I’m cold ‘cos I’d be dead? Hmm…good point. In bed maybe: Decisions, decisions! Scalpel or old fashioned razor blade? How about one of my lovely kitchen knives? Point in or slice? Nah, hate pain: and the mess! Boy I’m getting a headache just thinking of the options.

Carbon Monoxide poisoning? Haven’t got a garage to drive my car in and hook it up to the exhaust. Also think I would get bored waiting; it must take a while surely? Mind you, the irony is that I could have snuffed it accidently when a neighbour installed a log burner and the smoke and fumes came down my chimney: thank heavens for a CO meter or I could be dead!....Can it work with diesel?

Drive off a cliff… I thought about this for a moment: that feeling of weightlessness as you glide off the top in slow motion like Thelma and Louise before gravity pulls you crashing into the sea. That point where you can’t suddenly go back as you remember you left the iron plugged in; heaven forbid you burnt the house down: a Fred Flintstone ‘air walk’ is not going to get you back onto terra firma. Then the jarring ‘thud’ as you hit the water and slowly sink. I’m imagining this takes time too? Nope; hate going under water.

And of course, at the point of death when all your muscles relax into silence and calm after all the reactive twitching; do you defecate?

‘Suicide? No not really’ I replied.

Old Bill

A true Story of the Unusual for Halloween

Old Bill

It’s that time of year when things go bump in the night…well, they don’t really, but even those of us who are logical play along for the fun of it. I have a tendency to ignore Halloween in favour of Guy Fawkes on the 5^th: purely for selfish reasons as my birthday is on the 4^th and I love fireworks!  But I do have a tale to tell.

A number of years ago, my husband and I bought a house that had not been lived in for two years. It had terrible dry rot and damp along with so much heavily embossed anaglypta, some hung upside down, that it was a definite restoration project. It was a 30’s build semi of good size, built in a relatively rural location. It had its own well water system-long since turned into a decoration and a beautiful established garden. The kitchen was the mother of all disaster zones with water dripping from the electric box in the corner. Melamine cabinets and dark wood panels along the main wall which, when ripped off, revealed a passage from the bible scribbled across the wall in pencil. I struggle to remember what it was, it wasn’t a familiar quote and didn’t seem to make any sense to either of us. But once ripped off, there was the strangest smell in the air; old: musty: stale.

The lounge still had some furniture in it; when we viewed the house, it was like the guy who lived there had popped down to the shop. A mug on the table by the side of a chair, a pen and pools coupon nearby and the tv remote. A scuffed path marked the passage of his slippered feet from chair to kitchen and stairs and a dark stain remained in front of the fire. On ripping the carpet up, the same smell emitted from the disturbed threads.

The bedrooms were also an oasis of anaglypta and 60’s pink Vymura , a piece of which I still have; pristine in a frame. The bathroom an oasis of yellow and white ‘thread vein’ tiles that were so popular in the 70’s with a yellow mismatched bathroom suite. Well, it would all be done in time but the basics needed doing first.. the dry rot, damp, electrics oh  and the matter of a new roof and damp proof course. The dry rot was worse than feared but we were lucky to save the staircase, but the floor timbers in bedroom three were not so fortunate and needed ripping out. The day we moved in the builders were still beavering away. The only room we could use as storage was the lounge. The kitchen was just a brick hole; no ceiling, no floor joists, no floor and no ceiling above that either; right the way up to the roof tiles!

Once we had crammed the lounge full we had to fill the old garage in the garden. What went in here was prey to the mice we soon found out but as we couldn’t get to the bedrooms due to the slight technical hitch of gaping holes, we had little choice. A bed was hastily made up in the lounge for a few nights when thankfully a friend offered us his house whilst we were having the works done.

We worked around the building site of a house at weekends, [Paul was working away in the week] ripping out rotten wood and stripping the worst of the walls. A layer of brick and mortar dust settle on everything we owned leaving our skin dry and cracked. I gave up trying to clean the place unless it was necessary! Every time we stripped anything, that same stale musty smell was evident. We couldn’t work it out. It began to appear in the bedroom, then bizarrely when I was having a shower, but never when Paul was in there.

In fact, I can smell it now. My nose is wrinking at its sourness, it’s like …oh never mind: I digress.

We continued to make the house into a home and eventually moved in properly. Rescued what we could of the stuff in the garage that hadn’t been used for bedding by the mice, and cleaned everything and restored it in the newly plastered bedrooms. 33m of plaster…now that overcame the musty smell for a while. We had no carpet as yet but as it was work in progress, they would have only been ruined anyway. The hole was blocked in the chimney where the mice lived and came out to play [no joke] and the season passed where the spiders thudded down onto the floorboards from the curtain rail. Our oasis of calm and cleanliness was our bedroom. Dusty working clothes left at the door before stepping into tranquillity. At least now I was only juggling the business and the house not the move of a business, house and project managing the build! The barn owls calling from the roof to the tree and the foxes and hedgehogs snuffling in the garden were a pleasure to see at night fall.

We had a bonfire party for my birthday. A friend pulled me to one side, ‘who’s the old man just gone up the garden?’ I looked around puzzled. All our friends were in sight and the neighbours too.   ‘there is no old man?’

She put her hands on hips, ‘I don’t mean for real,’ she said. She leaned in.. ’you have a ghost, I saw him the other week go past the patio doors and earlier he followed Claire upstairs.’

Now, I had been wondering about this as the smell did appear around women more than men but being a non believer, I dismissed it.

The next morning I got in the shower and the smell was there with me, ‘Go away!’ and it did! Hmm. But the smell kept appearing.

Of a weekend when Paul came to bed.

When I went into the shower.

When new friends came around: it was a nosey bugger whatever it was.

Things started to click into place in my mind so I popped around to speak to the neighbour and mentioned the smell. She smiled.

‘The houses were built in the 30’s and Bill who lived in yours, owned both of our houses with his brother. When they were finished he moved his young family in and they had a happy home. Every year they bought a rooted Christmas Tree and after Christmas, planted it in the garden to see if it would grow. Most didn’t but the two you have at 40foot high did, that’s how they come to form the archway. As his family grew up, his children married and his wife died, leaving Bill to cope alone and wander around the empty house. When he died, it pained the children to come to the house of happy memories so it mummified until you brought new life into it.’

I felt there was more. ‘And?’

Sheila took a deep breath, ‘ do you want to know how he died?’ she waited.

‘can I guess?’

‘Yes.’

‘He had a heart attack as he walked back into the lounge and fell in front of the fire which is where he was found?’

‘Yes. I found him. I came around to bring his tea and he was where you said. Sadly life had left him but I believe he never left the house.’

My husband and I divorced a few years later, but when he was on holiday, he asked me to check the post etc. the smell had evidently gone at this point. I unlocked the door, punched in the alarm code and entered my old house. All was quiet and I collected the mail and placed it on the side in the kitchen. I pottered upstairs and having the need to use the bathroom stepped into the new white and blue sparkling room. It hit me as I did so. That musty old dank nose wrinkling smell.

As I write this now, my nose is wrinkling, you see, Bill has followed me. He’s left the house. Whenever I speak about it and now for the first time as I write about it, he’s here. Hovering behind me, checking every word as I write.

higgy piggy

well, things are warming up in the Higgy arena and a few changes being made and more illustrations being done. it's all rather exciting!!!

Don't foget to check pre built bonfires for snoozing hogs before you light them please!

the things you do for fun!

well, it was good fun with great people!
http://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DaGetFNULIRw&h=SAQEFkEhR

Birds? Two legs, a beak and wings?

So I'm in Norfolk. Relaxing, writing (?) and taking photos....

Taken some lovely moody cloud shots: some fab reflections in water and jostled with the horizon and lost on a few occasions: thank heavens for Photoshop.

Then there are the birds.... For which you seriously do need a better lens than mine. Also a little knowledge wouldn't go amiss. The standard seagull: tick. The wagtail: tick. The big white one with brown wings and yellow beak... Is he related to the all white thing with an orange beak or the black and white thing with the red beak? Hmmm

Oh hang on... Brown ones.. Brown ones with long legs, with webbed feet, fat ones, taller slim ones. Squeaky ones, cawcaw ones and cah cah divebomb type ones?

Sigh. Think I'll stick to beach huts.

HIGGY

well, who would have thought it?

Some exciting news about Higgy that I can't reveal just yet but watch this space...what do you mean, you don't know who Higgy is? pft, get reading as he's going to be familiar very soon!

a hedgehog riding a motorbike? would i ever not accept a challenge?

Could Do Better

Jayne came running down to the school gate, pig tails flying left and right, one sock up, one down. That familiar brown envelope in her hand: the school report.

Jayne was the youngest of three, a decent 8 year age gap between her and her older brothers. All were outgoing but Jayne was the bubbliest and, having brothers, a tomboy, much to her mother’s frustration! Although Sindy and Barbie were everywhere, it was as fashion models for the clothes she designed and made rather than ‘make believe.’ She was much happier out on the allotment with Dad or helping him clean windows or fix the car [the wheel nut going plop was a story on its own.]

She handed the envelope to her mother and they turned to walk home, Jayne telling Mom what she had done that day and that she had been asked again to do a painting for another competition so had spent most of the day on her own in the corridor with paints and paper. Although happy to be doing this, she felt ostracised from her class mates who were doing normal school things.

The report went ‘on the side’ unopened until Dad came home and it never bothered Jayne that much what was on that single piece of see through paper as she was ahead in reading and writing and of course art. The only thing that annoyed her was the teachers calling her a liar when she said she had read all the blue book, red book and green book series and was currently reading Guns of Navarone at 9 years old.

Onto girls grammar school along with most of her peers. All a bright bunch, the brightest going to King Eds the rest, to one of two good grammar schools or the one decent comprehensive. A uniform. Yuck. But hey, they all looked the same.. apart from the young lady who was 11 going on 21 who rolled the skirt up shorter, wore heels an inch higher, plucked her eyebrows [???] and had a mole on her face that made her look like a movie star. Here there were streams; A, B, C, the unmentionables. Never one for the A stream Jayne settled into B then dropped to C. Although bright, her grasp of new facts and figures was slow to embed in her brain and languages were her nemesis. But dropping to C stream meant CSE not GCSE. At senior school, remembering things was important but if Jayne couldn’t picture it, she struggled to remember it. So senior school was hard work but she tried.

College was art based and then off into the big wide world of self employment, a big move at such a young age.

 Then marriage and a mortgage. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, wrapped up in duvets in the winter because they couldn’t afford a bag of coal. Net curtains stuck to the glass in the frost; no double glazing or central heating. Leaving the washing soaking in the bath to come home and find ice had formed on top of it.

But Jayne coped. She always tried her best just as she had at school.

Jayne is now single and appears to be having a great life to those on the outside with everything in place for a happy life.

On the inside the mask drops and life changing issues that come at 50 and with singledom occur and have to be dealt with.  Jayne is dissatisfied with her life. Feels lost that she hasn’t achieve anything and wonders why she exists if she feels so dissatisfied. She can’t understand why she feels she has never pleased everyone in her life, why she has always felt she could have done more or should have done better. Was she a complete let down? No she didn’t totally think so after all she was a successful businesswoman. No she didn’t have the flash car or the big house but she was generally happy with her lot.

In clearing out the loft to move house, a bunch of brown envelopes are in the bottom of a box below big Ted and Sindy and Barbie.  Just like old photos, Jayne can’t resist looking at them. Laying them out in order, those beautiful delicate thin sheets of paper with their flowing delicate handwriting, followed by the blue covered little books with much bolder biro strokes, there is a common thread that strikes a chord and answers some of Jayne’s issues. Her eyes glance from one to the next; ‘could do better.’ 

Have you still got the magic towel?

I saw a picture of a friend of 20 or more years ago yesterday and I smiled; immediately taken back to the last memory of a tournament we were at, there was an issue over really bad coffee…a stand up for your rights moment. Petty but it seemed relevant at the time.

Memories came flooding back of his humour, his great personality and his conviction in what he believed in. Of fun times in days gone by when I was learning my craft and he and his peers were my own personal sporting heroes. Standing on the edge of the circle whilst most sipped Budweiser from the bottle, they discussed oil patterns and ball choice. Replaying frame after frame of games, citing American and European bowlers as examples of this that and the other. I was in awe.

His son was born a few weeks early. A joyful occasion as he was scheduled to be on a business trip at the due date.

Then my smile fades as I recall the shock of learning, in a phone call from a friend, he had gone missing: the days of landlines and pay phones. I even recall asking the dumb question ‘are you joking?’ for days then weeks we all hoped for news, again, no facebook to communicate, word of mouth.

Nothing.

With heavy heart we attended his memorial service. Pulling a friend to one side to tell him to pull his flies up before he got up to read a eulogy and we celebrated his life. Our lives move on and memories fade but your memory lives on JC especially in that bowling towel.

Odd Sock

I am currently at the mercy of the odd sock fairy...but it's not a sock that is odd that is my problem; it's a dongle.

I am relatively organised but the pressure of life dictates that I have a tendancy to 'put things there and i'll re organise/file/shred/label them tomorrow'. 

What i am good at though is putting important things in a safe place.

I know this dongle is required to run the program on a machine I have just sold. I know this dongle is therefore important. Hence, I would have put it in a safe place.....a very safe place.

So safe that I can't find it.

All the random safe places have been checked. A spare set of keys, glasses and thread count magnifier have been located but not the dongle. In an attempt to recall where it is that I have put it so safe that I can't find it; I have tried to clear my mind of all other clutter, relax [with a glass of wine] and await the memory's capacity to remember.....3 bottles of Rioja and a nice Pinot Grigio later i am still none the wiser. So today started the serious search; the methodical one. My office is now two bin liners of rubbish lighter and i have discovered my Assessor Training Files but still no dongle.

On to the shop floor next and all the logical dust traps there. But if anyone sees a blue dongle on a keyring that is a goldfish in a water bubble can they let me know, it might be stuck in a drawer with your odd socks.

When Jill had a spot of bother

Rapunzel’s iphone rang; it was Jill. ‘Hi Jill, how’s things?’

There was a sob at the other end of the line, ‘Jill, what’s up Hunny?’ Rapunzel waited whilst the sobs and sniffles reduced. ‘I don’t know what to do…’ more sobs.

‘Uh huh….’

‘He’s just useless; he’s doing my head in. He can’t do anything right and now he’s in hospital.’ The sobs increased to full volume.

‘Stay there Jill, I’ll come right over.’

Grabbing the keys to her Beamer, Rapunzel ran down the stairs, undid the solid oak door, drew up the portcullis and lowered the ramp across the moat. Stepping back into the hall to retrieve the keys off the portmanteau, she glanced in the mirror and admired her biceps… ‘good work going to the gym’, she thought.

Zigzagging her way across the country lanes, she reached the hospital to see Jill sitting on the steps of A&E, cigarette dangling from her fingers, her head on her knees.

‘Sod disabled parking spaces,’ she thought as she handbrake turned into one, nearly sending an old dear and her Zimmer frame into a lamppost. She jumped from the car and ran across to Jill. ‘Hunny, I’m here, what’s happened?’

More sobs as Jill realised who it was, ‘Oh Rapunzel! She rose off the steps and hugged her friend. He’s such a daft bugger; he went without me!’

Rapunzel looked puzzled… ’went where?’

‘He went to open up the acequia to let the water through, he yanked too hard on the gate and came flying backwards down the track, cracking his head open.’ Jill sobbed again, ‘bloody Jack, if he wasn’t so soddin ill, I’d kill him!’

A date with a masked crusader

‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, throw down your hair’

Rapunzel sighed, gave one last look at ‘Mr  Honest, True and never hurt you’ 

profile and went to the window. Without thinking she opened her window and let  down her hair. 

A gentle tug turned into a snatch and when Rapunzel actually looked at

who was climbing she saw an old Ninja Mutant Turtle.

‘Stop! You are not Donatello. Who are you?’

The old man stopped and looked up, ‘oh I am he Rapunzel, just a
few years have gone by since those profile pics. ‘ He began to climb again.

Now Rapunzel was not a needy woman but she was fed up of chameleons,
she reached behind her and grabbed a pair of scissors from her sewing basket.      Taking a deep breath she sliced off her hair releasing Donatello into the 

pyracantha below. 

Pulling the double glazed window to, she sighed, turned to
the mirror, funked up her new short hair and went back to see if she could find
her leading man amongst the players.

Paperwork

The working day needs to get more organised! 

Reminders, late orders, quotes, jobs in general... And it was a tidy ordered chaos at 9 am!

news in the Sierra Nevada

check this site out for all outdoor persuits in the Sierra Nevada and other mountainous regions and look who the guest writer is!!!



http://www.sierra-nevada-news.com/2013/08/alpujarreno-folklore-overheard-in-a-lanjaron-cafe-bar/

Just A Little White Village

Places make an amazing impact to many of us.

Homes Apart

Reams of calico sail, ribbon along the main street,

bougainvillea weaving its way up to the

scented rooftops sending you

 giddy with herby pungency.

Arbours of plumptuous fruit trees,

limes, avocado and oranges,

orbs for Eve to pluck for free,

denying the supermercado of trade.

Cats drinking on edges of water fountains

containing wicker bales soaking

of the basket maker next door,

to make, then barter his craft.

Whitewashed townhouses nuzzling

side by side with hotels, having

lines of chairs outside where

‘ancianos españoles’ pass the time of day.

Leaning on the wall of Calle San Jose

underneath Catholic effigies,

Garda Civil smoke and chat

in the shade of the calico sails

gazing out to rolling vistas of vines and olives

leading into the ‘pueblos blancos’

of Pampaneira, Capileira, and Bubion.

Relaxation behold.

crossing times

It's always interesting as a writer to explore things that would not normally occur. Even the most mundane can bring about more thought provoking ideas

4^th Oct 2011

Hi GeeGee

            Just time to drop you a quick letter before I head off to Uni. Mom and Dad are insisting on coming along to halls even though I could have got all my stuff in the Corsa. But then as they are straight back on the plane to Australia, I can’t complain. I bet Mom will cry and Dad will hug me to death and not want to let me go!

Mom has even made me loads of frozen meals ‘just in case.’

Speak soon

Oodles of love

Becca  xx

                                                                                       18^th of October Nineteen Hundred

Dearest Rebecca,

How are you? Are your mother and father well? I am feeling the damp a little on my chest and Great Grandpapa has purchased an elixir from the apothecary along with some remedy mix that I shall have in a vapour bath this evening after supper.

I do think it rather unusual that as a young lady, you will not be having a debutante ball as we did at your age. How will your parents find a suitable young man for you to marry?

            Are you sure that you are fitting for the University life? I know your dear brother has done well but darling, you are a lady and it may be frowned upon if you are a little, well, how shall we say, flighty.

With dearest love

Great Grandma Rebecca Shields

24^th Oct, 2011

Gee Gee!

You do make me laugh! Times have moved on and I’ve found a great guy here at university, his name is Tim and we are going bowling tonight and then for a curry with the guys. Next year we will probably house share with Melissa and her boyfriend James.

 Campus life is great. There is plenty to do so I don’t feel too home sick. Lots of bands playing and parties as well as cheap cider in the student bar, but please don’t tell Dad as he’ll go mental! He’ll hide his whiskey when I’m home for half term, lol.

Love and hugs

Becca

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

                                                                                 1^st of November Nineteen Hundred

Dearest Rebecca,

My dear child,

With much thought for your welfare and safety and in the absence of your father, I feel that you ought to leave this University at once. It is not becoming of a young lady of society to be sharing japes with young men unchaperoned, one never knows what scandal will ensue. It is forbidden for you to even think of sharing a house with such flighty young ladies who are obviously leading you astray and forcing you to drink alcohol, which is what I assume this ‘cider’ is. You have brought on a fit of the vapours, from which I am now recovering. You must be strong my child and return home to your parents forthwith.

With dearest love

Great Grandma Rebecca Shields

18^th Nov 2011

Dear Mom,

            Greetings from across the pond. I hope you are well? Becca has called me in tears and as you refused to own the ‘new fangled contraption’ called a telephone, I have had to resort to putting pen to paper.

            Please do not encourage Becca to leave University. She has worked hard to get her place there and does seem to be enjoying it. Yes I know she has a boyfriend and that she drinks alcohol but she is sensible so will be fine.

           

            Your loving son

David

Alison Edwards November 2011

like learning to walk!

welcome to my crazy world..

writings, scribblings and ideas are no good kept in a metaphorical folder on a pc; who reads them?

well, me sometimes: some random friends on various occasions. More often than not, they sit in the dark recesses gathering metaphorical dust. time to oil the hinges, open the doors and blow off the dust...just let me get the hang of this blogging lark and we'll be away!