RUNAWAY GRANNY

EPIPHANY 2009

2009-04-06T23:32:00.004+01:00

I am no longer Runaway Granny! How shocking is that? I came across a huge file on Saturday, stuffed with print-outs from the first year of the blog, some doodles with AOL and MSN and the travel journals I kept since I left in August 2003. I didn't begin writing here till May 2006. There it was, the tale of my travels, neatly sitting in glossy sleeves - I had also scrapbooked some photos to go with it...but it looked too white to be interesting.

So, last night I cut and pasted it onto coloured sugar paper and made that wonderful episode in my life more attractive. There are a pile of emails I sent to people so they could follow me around the world. As I watched it take shape beneath my hands I realised that I was not that person anymore; I have keys, a car, possessions and a new life beside my loch. I am backed by a mountain, surrounded by trees and granny duties.

I need a new blog. Abra-cad-dabra Ali Kazam...POOF! Present and Sometimes Functional! Ta-ra! And, the new writing blog is here.

Runaway Granny will stay here - it'll slip gently into the past and always be there when we need it. So, I'll say TTFN...Ta ta for now. xx

Home V Health

2009-04-04T18:13:00.002+01:00

I've given up chocolate. No it's not for Lent: it's for health and agility. I drove number-one son and three of his sons towards their camping spot on Loch Lomond today; I even got out of the car and walked...yes I said walked, along a lovely wooden boarded path, through the woods - in the rain I should add, under my big umbrella. All very earthy and natural (not to me) and I did enjoy breathing in fresh air - as opposed to the cloying lily-air in my flat (someone gave me lilies). So, when they climbed the stile and set off in a more difficult direction, I continued along the path to see the pretty view I'd been promised.

And it was nice but not really interesting enough, light-wise, for photography. The wind belted right across the golf course at me and my umbrella; it turned us all upside down and outside in. Definitely time to go home. Oh my legs! I must've walked all of 500 yards. So that's my exercise done for this weekend.

Another Memoir Extract: TRAVEL

2009-03-21T18:19:00.004Z

1993 : Sitting by myself, wearing white leggings and big T-shirt; bare feet up on the opposite seat, boots under the table and a pile of library books in front of me. I’m watching a man with dark hairy arms, in the seat next to my feet. He has a pinky ring on his left hand and a sturdy beard buried in The Scotsman. Long hairs seep out of the neck of his cotton shirt. I wonder about his hands, how the long fingers would feel on my neck, tangled in my hair. Men like women with long hair. The glint of gold on his collar bone brings me to my senses; I can’t bear a man in chains. A child is grizzling further up the carriage - please let them get off at Berwick. Farmers are out hosing their fields. Still in the flat countryside of England, windbreaks of young trees laze in the beating sun. Fields of rape-seed turn the landscape into a painting with pylons etched between long looping power lines like suspension bridges.

Our table is littered with Yorkie bars, plastic glasses and orangeade. We were lucky the train was empty. I’d forgotten to book seats and had been worried but soothed with the idea of us all in separate carriages. Lee, Paul and Claire spread themselves out around the car but are now sitting together playing cards.We have become civilized travellers. I used to be the-mad-woman-on-a-train, screaming at my children under my breath, between my teeth and kicking their feet under the table. It was a case of, ‘Sit there, be quiet, give him that, leave her alone, don’t say things like that, look at the sheep, there’s the seaside, don’t, you’re the oldest, don’t talk to him then, play cards, shut up, leave me alone, give him some paper, see the mist rolling in, no you can’t, just because, shut up and sit down, Jesus Christ, you’re disgusting, blow your nose, I don’t know, another hour, watch my coffee, WILL YOU GIVE HER SOME PAPER!

'‘There’s the sea!’ Claire stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like coastlines; see myself as The French Lieutenant’s Woman standing on the edge of land, pointing my tragic but beautiful face out to sea, watching for my future; waiting for something to happen. I want a house where the air is on the move: not stagnant - well-travelled air and a great expanse of sky. Sometimes I stand on the pier at Tynemouth. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.

Lee is 16, Paul 12, Claire 11…and I’m still alive. I dreamed the other night that I was smoking; I haven’t smoked for six years. The skin on my fingers is white/pink – nicotine stains long gone, nails white-edged. I dream a lot; sometimes they’re so strange I fear for my sanity – not the usual crazy feelings but real questions. I once dreamed that I halved Claire in two, put the bottom half inside the wardrobe and sat the rest of her up in bed. A day or two later a loud knocking on the door made me so afraid of what I’d done. I imagined a social worker at the door demanding to see my daughter. I tried to put her back together but the bottom half had withered slightly. Selotape held her together for the interview, which I don’t remember and everything turned out all right! I don’t know why I halved her in two.

A gypsy told my fortune last week. I saw her coming but couldn’t make my body avoid her. She grabbed my hand and talked fast with a strong Irish or country accent into my face. I couldn’t break free and could feel passers-by watching us as we stood beneath the hot air vents in the shopping centre. She said everything would be okay, that someone long-dead watched over me, that a man loved me and I would move house but not far. I kept asking her how much it would cost and she continued talking. As she tucked a small bunch of lucky white heather into my fist she asked me for three pounds. I couldn’t speak throughout the spiel, my chest was bursting into my throat. She took the money and I walked hard for the Haymarket exit, stumbled into Northumberland Street gasping for breath, trying to hold off tears. Why am I crying? I said to myself over and over again.

I glance at the children, ‘Look at the cows, they’re lying down. That means it’s going to rain.’ Lee is teaching them to play Chinese Patience. They’re not listening to me. I press my face to the window as the train curves. I can see its head and tail until my breath clouds the glass. Berwick is behind us now, only half an hour to Edinburgh. We spent a week in Berwick when Claire was one – she had her first birthday in a sand pit. The beach was impossible; it reeked of rotting seaweed, fumes waving up the cliff to keep us away from the edge. How many edges can there be in any one life?

Extract from My Memoirs

2009-03-09T19:29:00.003Z

‘There is a bleed,’ he said.
Not, ‘Your daughter has had a cerebral haemorrhage.’ No, I get the dumbed-down version. Her brain is bleeding into the nape of her neck, where it will disperse. Well that’s nice and tidy, isn’t it? I’m sitting in a tiny room being diagnosed as thick. I want to be bombarded with enormous words and unintelligible language. She’s only been here a couple of hours and has already had two brain scans; they wouldn’t spend that kind of attention on nothing. I’m choking here, trying to be passive and not in the least dangerous.

A new doctor, Mr Surgeon, throws an assortment of options on the table, all of which include the possibility of death. Claire is an adult and only she can make this choice.
‘I’m only nineteen,’ she screams. ‘I can’t make a decision like that.’
My heart is filling up all the space in my mouth.
‘With the operation there’s a fifty-per-cent chance of death.’ His face never moves and all I can hear is a death sentence. He stands at the bottom of the bed – this is nothing like the scenes in TV drama; he doesn’t take anyone’s hand or pat the patient’s arm.
‘What if she doesn’t have it?’ I ask.
‘It could heal itself, or she might fall into a coma.’ He’s a silver-haired automaton. ‘She could live the rest of her life and it wouldn’t burst again but…’
‘I can’t…’ she says. ‘Just do it.’ Her boyfriend is on the other side of the bed, frozen into silence.

The surgeon goes on to describe risks and complications during and after the operation, then in the recuperation period. She is all I can see and hear; her whole life is inside me - I’m pregnant with this beautiful young woman, this busy, loving and sparkling entity. Suddenly I’m a mother again. I’ll be her Rotwieller; she’s too nice; she’ll need me. My head fills with memories of other hospital trips; sons with broken bones, blood and gore and handsome doctors; sexy arms holding x-rays up to light boxes; long muscled thighs stealing my attention. This is different and I am consumed. Death has stalked me all my life but this is my children; I need to stand up and fight. I can’t be that woman anymore, that single parent with one eye on the lookout for the right Mr Right.

They said she'd have time to rest before the operation but here they are wheeling her bed out of its place, unlocking the brakes.
‘It’s only five o’clock,’ I say, walking beside the bed.
‘Mum! It’s too early. He promised.’ She’s crying, grabbing our hands.
‘My God,’ two of her aunts come around the corridor and fall into this scene. Jean is instantly terrified; her husband died ten years earlier from the same thing – he was sent home from three hospitals, nine visits in two days, to die in his armchair at the age of thirty-two.

We trail through the hospital to Theatre, like the day my mother-in-law was taken to the nursing home; the whole family followed her wheelchair, two-by-two, down the road to help settle her in, all of us trying to hide our tears from the children. My mind is flashing clips of film and all the while I walk beside the bed, holding her hand, shushing her, telling her it’ll be okay even though her voice and face are boring holes in my heart. I am stunned at how quickly they take her from me. Ron, her boyfriend, doesn’t know how to act and I lead him to the front door so someone can give him a cigarette. My sons clasp me in their arms and I am dwarfed.

How do you spend five hours while surgeons are cutting into your child’s head? You imagine anything but the saw that will split open her skull; you call everyone in your phonebook and ask them to send up prayers for your only daughter; you allow yourself to be held and soothed by an enormous extended family outside the building, where they keep arriving; and you attempt to drink the awful coffee, watching your six-foot nephew stand and drip tears onto the café table. Then you have to get away from them to be on your own, just a quick walk around the block, not long enough for them to worry. The traffic flows past me, unaware of my trauma, on its way to the tunnel, belching pollution but I need to take deep breaths; it doesn’t matter what goes into my lungs. I am caught in the glare of a huge sunflower painted on the side of a building – it’s a sign.
‘I won’t lose my daughter. I know this.’

When I come into sight of the family I feel them relax. We move upstairs into a waiting area opposite the lifts. Of course there are arguing factions; sisters-in-law not talking to each other, separating the group, all of us trying to ignore it. A lift opens and I catch sight of Mr Surgeon standing at the back. Suddenly I’m flying at him, aware that he wasn’t going to come out and talk to me. He leans across and presses the button to stop the door closing and walks towards me, still with the calm face.
‘Tell me, is she all right?’
‘Fine. No problems. She’s in intensive care. You can go down there now.’ He gives me this good news without an emotion, no smile, but I want to wrap my arms around him. Maybe I just did.
Only a handful of us stay. This family constantly amaze me at the support they instantly present at the first sign of trouble. I urge them to go home, promise updates. My two sons and Ron gather ourselves and move to intensive care.

This is my daughter; she is complaining about the tubes that are collecting around her neck, hanging down from her head; her hand tries to swat them away. It’s proof of her personality, her repaired brain. Even an atheist’s prayer is heard by whoever is up there; my friends are diverse and odder than normal – thank God for them.

On the day she was born I was surrounded; by the kind of neighbours who were part of normal life then, the knock-and-walk-in; gossip or begging bowl; founts of local knowledge. Meg from next door and Maggie through the wall were keeping an eye on me because I’d been in labour all day – if you could call it that. I’d had a little pain in the morning, regular enough to make me believe. My father-in-law came up to collect Lee for a birthday party. When I told him that I was in labour he brushed it off.
‘You’re not in labour. I should know, I’ve had fourteen kids.’
I made him take Paul with him too. It was a Saturday so Matt had gone off to do his thing but I’d warned him to keep calling for updates.
‘We should’ve paid the phone bill,’ I said. Father and son – nothing like each other and yet the instant deafness makes them twins.

The weight of that child bore me down but I couldn’t sit; I could only wander around the flat. There was no pain. Where I went Meg followed. Flo downstairs ferried messages up to us from Matt until they stopped. My waters broke and we sent her down to call the ambulance. I tried lying on the bed but when the urge to push came I leapt up and held onto the bunk-beds, crossing my legs, trying to keep her in. I was terrified of everything that could go wrong and frightened that the lack of pain was a bad sign.
‘Where’s the bloody ambulance?’ We all said it at one time or another and sent Flo back down to find out.
‘Eddie forgot to give the address,’ she said. ‘He’s out of his face but it’s on its way now. Hold on.’
She’d asked me earlier if I wanted a joint. I said no. It never did anything for me; alcohol had always been my thing.
‘Oh God I can’t hold it any longer. Flo, roll your sleeves up, you’ll have to do it.’
‘Shit.’
Meg was hanging out of the bedroom window watching for the ambulance. I kept ranting about germs and shouting at her to close it.
‘It’s here,’ she ducked her head back in, and then out again. ‘Hurry up, she’s delivering,’ she called down three flights to the crew.

The head was out and still no pain. Flo’s face froze. I was so glad to see the two uniformed men walk into my bedroom and take over – so was she. She moved up to my side and took my hand. Meg did the same on the other side. I told the ambulance man that I had no contractions.
‘So just take a deep breath and push when you’re ready,’ he said.

She came out in a rush and I didn’t ask what sex – I assumed it would be another boy. I couldn’t believe I had a girl at last. Meg threw the window up and leaned out.
‘It’s a girl,’ she shouted to the street.
Another ambulance arrived, bringing the midwife who delivered the afterbirth and took care of Claire. Maggie was in the kitchen making tea. My bedroom had never been so full – tea for eight.

They packed me onto a stretcher and took us downstairs; that was scary. The midwife carried Claire behind me. When we got outside the front door the whole neighbourhood was lined up applauding and wishing us well. I pulled the blanket over my face, wanting to kill Meg because she’d whipped them up and was embarrassing me…and that stupid Matt had missed it all.

And that stupid Matt missed most of her life; there is no explanation for his behaviour and neglect of his children – even a conundrum can be solved. He has been told and will be here tomorrow. Even after all this time I still want to kill him, pan his face in with a hot skillet, stab him to death with a blunt spoon but I will be calm. I won’t let acid drip from my tongue – Claire will be proud of me.

GLASGOW HAS SNOW AT LAST

2009-02-08T20:48:00.003Z

Oooh we got snow! And it looks like the real thing; there has been the odd fifteen minute flurry over the last few weeks but this is lying on road and roof. Maybe I won’t have to go to the dentist on Tuesday. Luckily I can work from home if I have to but I can’t see it lasting – we don’t get snow in Glasgow! Well not the kind that grinds everything to a halt, not for years and years. In fact I only remember it happening once, when my son was about three; 1979, maybe. Diesel had frozen and there was no public transport – main roads were packed white and hardly a car to be seen.

I’m sitting here, cosy and warm with the heat of the laptop melting my knees, watching a repeated CSI and trying to pad/edit the novel. I do have to go out tomorrow but just along the road. The car is invisible; not in a drift – it’s not that bad. I love being inside when the weather is interesting and made supper suit the mood - a bowl of mashed potatoes. Life is good.

Of course I could check out the weather forecast but I never believe them anyway. Maybe we’ll be buried in it by next weekend. I went for a drive around my loch yesterday; blue sky and sunshine made it feel like a spring day; I got out of the car and sat on a bench for about a minute before changing my mind. I’d taken the SLR camera that had survived the fire, to test it and finish the film still in it, but the sun was too low and glared off the water right at me. Oh the mountains were stunning in their whiteness; I was right under Ben Lomond. It would all look fabulous now.

I'm reading Steph Penney's The Tenderness of Wolves so feel completely swamped by snow. Oh God what a life they led then, those early Canadians - here's a toast to all adventurers and settlers who drove themselves to early graves because they wanted something better.

MORE THAN THINKING

2009-01-26T16:13:00.001Z

I am a good editor; I love nothing better than ripping writing apart, cutting and stripping, always trying to sharpen and hone – that’s why I never get to the end of anything except poetry! That and ideas for new novels. I can’t sit down and write a simple short story because I find subtext, themes and before you know it there’s another book in the wings. So, it’s either poem or novel; there’s nothing in between – even the flash fiction I write demands to be big, bigger, biggest.

Inspiration, stimulation and perhaps increased circulation has got me moving in the right direction and I’ve been working on two of these poor, neglected works. Maybe this year. Have I said that before? Definitely.

This time though, I’m approaching projects that are well developed and am charmed by the characters and their stories – bloody impressed is what I am! I created these babies and they’re okay, so I should finish them. I will. Then why am I fannying about on here?

Alright, I’ll do something in a minute; I’ve also neglected my lovely blog; I’m supposed to be a serial blogger, but not this month, or last month. Hopefully when I look back on this time, from my busy writing routine, I’ll name it My Thinking Phase and have fond memories of how comfortable this sofa was. I’ll wonder why I thought I could write whole novels from that position instead of sitting properly at my desk or at least a table. But I know writers who write in bed!. Why can’t I be a better writer on my sofa?

Of course it doesn’t help that the telly is flashing in the background; I can’t hear it over the noise of the washing machine but I’m still aware of the movie and keep pausing to catch up – it’s a bomb on a plane thing, and I have seen it before – yeeeaars ago…so why am I watching it? Because I can.

RESOLUTIONS

2009-01-24T19:18:00.000Z

All I’ve got to do is stop
eating trash – start
walking fast, to slow
down the onset
of death.

All I’ve got to do is be
energetic
tick the boxes – see
entertainment
in gym.

All I’ve got to do is swim
instead of float
facing front – not up
pay attention
take part.

All I’ve got to do is grow
a love of sport
bore myself to death –
not list’ning, go
away.

All I’ve got to do is find
a way to play
when I’m not looking –
vacate my mind
maybe.

All I’ve got to do is stop
messing around
pound the pavements, right?
You’re hounding me
I’ll try.

All I’ve got to do is learn
to accept death.
Flattened by a bus
or heart attack –
who cares?

HOLD THE FRONT PAGE

2009-01-12T00:02:00.002Z

I’ve been writing!!! I think I’m back in the swim. Also been spending time on the collaboration site Protagonize but it seems to have been taken over by young writers from a site that’s closing down; it’s all very cliquish and busy with their chatter. I’m hoping the excitement of a new place will settle and things will return to some kind of normal, but it still has the same effect on me – it makes me write, is still stimulating as long as you don’t mind being ignored. I’m not there for ratings – I want more than that; I want writing practise and collaboration.

This has been a great weekend in that I’ve done nothing but read and write…and watch a little telly; I’ve been cool, calm and collected. There has been NO decorating or cleaning or cooking – tomorrow is another day and I plan on doing all three. The slow cooker is set on top with a chopping-board, bags of ancient potatoes and all the veg from the fridge; I’ll be making Stovies (Glaswegian stew with sausages). I’ve lived on pies all weekend; they were wonderful, mostly because I haven’t been able to cook or heat pies for the past 18 months. My little oven & grill is great…but the good news is that I’m being given a gas cooker, but will have to pay to have it fitted. Still, it is good news; I haven’t stirred anything in a pot for a long time.

I’m beginning the New Year with bank charges and visits to the dentist for root treatment – but what a slap in the face! I hope it acts as a torrent of cold water to wake me up and make me use the space I’ve created for anything other than watching bloody TV. I will turn it off. I spent hours last weekend in front of so many repeated episodes of CSI. This weekend might’ve gone the same way if I hadn’t set up the table in the corner here and brought in my twirly chair – I usually curl up on the sofa with the laptop which is not really conducive to writing. I promise to turn it off and write.

AWARD

2009-01-06T00:02:00.001Z

I’ve been given this award by Jo over at http://norwaynomad.blogspot.com/ though not sure I deserve it for neglecting the blogging world over the last few months, but I accepted it gratefully/graciously, and am ready to pass it on. (bow) I thank you. Oh it’s too much, I’m embarrassed and my ball-gown is getting soiled by my happy tears. Okay, enough of the speechifying, I would like to present this award to the following people, for their wonderful blogs:

BetteJo at http://bettejosbeadcreations.blogspot.com/
Poppy at http://poppyveins.blogspot.com/
Mum’stheword at http://mummywrites.blogspot.com/
Jenn at http://www.jennashworth.blogspot.com/
Tania at http://titaniawrites.blogspot.com/

The RULES for presenting this sought after Award are:

Pick 5 blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.

Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog.

Each award winner (upon acceptance) should show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award.

Link to the Arte y pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.
Show these rules.

TURNING

2009-01-05T16:39:00.002Z

I’ve just finished reading Dodie Smith’s ‘I Conquer the Castle’. It’s absolutely fabulous. I bought it a while back – see earlier post – and read a couple of chapters but had gone back to my phase of not-reading-books-but-reading-blogs-and-watching-too-much-telly. So, I picked it up last week, when I’d finished the first novel I’d read for ages, Carol Shields’ ‘Swann’. Now that was interesting for different reasons but I’ve left my notes on that in a little book at work, I hope – I can’t find it here. Anyway, back to the castle; this is a book to dive into – amazing narrator, I loved it the whole way through and wanted to live there, with them, but only in the summer and autumn months.

It’s cold here; the sun has shone like a little liar through the windows all day but I was suspicious and put on my boots and woollies even though I would be in the car, mostly. I did everything I was supposed to and treated myself to skin treatments for my poor old face which seems to be suffering from some kind of teenage flashback – SPOTS; the kind that turn up and hang around for ages then another arrives just as that one is fading – so that there is always two…and I can’t keep my fingers off them. Disgusting I know, but there it is. In my new life I’m going to be rid of them, fitter and healthier. I might even attempt to walk around my loch.

Just been over at Poppy’s place, catching up; she wasn’t in so I had a good read but no tea or sherry or cake. I need to get back to my literary life; been back with readitswapit.co.uk and getting rid of novels I’ve read or don’t want to. This morning I received a beautiful hardback, ‘Essays on Women’s Lives’ by Kennedy Fraser. I’m going to prowl through that next, before a second Carol Shields and a Margaret Forster. But first, I’ve got to get up off this sofa and TURN THE BLOODY TV OFF!

FIRSTS

2009-01-04T20:57:00.000Z

This is my first day of doing nothing and boy was it good? Oh yes! I did crochet 100gms onto a blanket while watching telly but that doesn’t count – I can do that with my eyes shut and it only took an hour. I feel as if I’ve been eating all day; I’ve had meals, even pudding – all from New Year’s Eve leftovers. My first dinner party in the new flat was successful even though there was a hitch with the mashed potatoes. Five grandchildren and their parents around my little drop-leaf table; I need to get a board to make it bigger for next time.

Time has disappeared under all this house-moving, decorating, xmas, new year and birthdays - we have three birthdays: 20th 24th and 26th. Power Ranger turned 6 on the 20th and had a family party with all his cousins there; it was pretty mental. When I was a child we were all shy about dancing, either by ourselves or in a group – especially the boys. You should’ve seen these boys go; number-one grandson, Bouncer, suggested a dance-off and they were up birling and twirling, legs all over the place, elbows jigging, faces twisting… I was ill laughing, but I made a terrible judge. I could knock a couple out but couldn’t make the choice at the end. Stunningly noisy.

So, I’m trying to set myself some routines, one of which is swimming or/and aqua aerobics, but the main ones have to be writing and art – I’ve just gotta get myself under some kind of control; I can feel life drifting under the front door!

My friend, Oracle, is beginning a new job tomorrow; I wish him well but will miss him at work so much. Even at work, I need to conduct my spare time when I’m not on the phone; I’m going to set myself some writing tasks – I think everyone has a blanket so I should stop crocheting, for now.

Right, that’s me sorted. All I have to do is do what I’m told, what’s expected of me.

DECOR

2008-12-14T00:02:00.000Z

My bedroom is painted! I considered a blue ceiling so I could sprinkle it with stars but decided that I couldn’t afford it and would have to make do with white, and with that in mind I pulled out the huge bucket of emulsion I got from Tilly; it was half-full – I figured it would be enough for a couple of ceilings. It turned out to be pink, lilac actually – I should’ve remembered that there was no white in her house. I am sooooo pleased with my lilac room; there was the exact amount I needed for the whole room. Perfect.

I laid the floor tiles I’d got from the pound shop, under the bed and around the edges of the room; I’ve been given off-cuts of cream carpet that will lie very happily in the middle and keep my feet cosy in the cold night air. So, the whole room will have cost me just £10 to decorate, which tickles my sensibilities.

Now all I have to do is find my trinkets and bobbles to round the room off – make it mine. Someone gave me a pack of luminous stars and moon but I have no idea where they are. It’ll be nice to have curtains up at the window – it would’ve been a waste energy putting up temps…and I’m not getting up to anything interesting, though I was scraping walls above the windows in my nightdress.

God I’m knackered and think I’ll slope off to bed now, for a wee read before some lovely sleep in my almost-beautiful bedroom.

HOME

2008-12-13T02:10:00.003Z

When I lived in Spain I had my own beach - this is my loch, and it's within walking distance of my new flat...not that I would consider walking. I feel as if the mountain is within grabbing distance, but I would only go up it as far as the highest car-park. Loch Lomond and Ben Lomond all covered in snow, this close, just make life almost perfect.

BEING A GRANNY FOR 3 HOURS

2008-12-06T19:00:00.004Z

They use my car as a toy, these boyz from hell!

Off in all directions - which one will hit the sea first?

Out of the car and straight up a wall turning me into a serious complainer!

Jackets off and get stuck in there - where's the nearest dirt?

WAITING IN TRAFFIC

2008-12-04T13:53:00.001Z

SERENDIPITY

2008-11-25T13:16:00.001Z

We were rolling along Great Western Road, keeping an eye out for the chairs we’d seen sitting by the roadside on our way out earlier; me and number-one son, Toc-Toc, had gone to pick up a lovely big telly from ZaZa, which sat very nicely in Clio’s boot and would look wonderful in the corner of my living room. So, as I turned from Anniesland Cross I glanced across the road and at the same time we both said,
‘There’s a silver TV stand over there.’

TocToc was out of the car and over the dual carriageway in a flash – I taught him well. As we’d passed through the edge of the city centre we caught sight of a little plastic table and bench, all red and yellow, for a child; it was still there on the way back too and we stopped so he could pick it up. A car full of free stuff just fills my heart with joy!

But the shape of this living room is driving me crazy; I can’t get the furniture to sit right in it at all, and the only whole wall has a radiator in the middle of it! I got TocToc to move the telly into the little nook by the old, previously fireplace wall but I think I’ll have to call him back to move it again – I’ll have one more try tomorrow before I ask him. I enjoyed my day with him; I hardly spend any time with him because he talks like a socially-starved automaton, and he’s a back-seat driver.

Afterwards, he directed me to a country road between Renton and Cardross across a moor, complete with cattle grids, and the views were wonderful. Ben Lomond is topped with snow and what a sight it is. The view of it from my window is obstructed by an ugly block of flats – as I turn into my road, just about thirty yards away, it rears up into the wintry sky like something from a postcard, right in front of me, a mountain all snowy and real almost within grasp of my city-girl eyes. I will take some photos and post them – even the ugly flats.

RETURN OF THE WOMAN IN WAITING

2008-11-23T14:41:00.001Z

The fridge is dead! Well that didn’t last long, did it? I expected longer than a month for my fifteen quid. I had a cup of tea and worried about the food that I’d have to re-home for a while; everything in the freezer was soft already so it must have happened last night or could’ve been days ago for all I notice stuff like that. So, I eventually got up and had a look at the plug, thinking that I’d check the fuse – that’s when I realised that I was holding the microwave plug and that the fridge was unplugged.

Now that’s the kind of thing that happens when the assigned electrical sockets don’t work and you have to move stuff around; the fridge plug was stretched across so that I had to keep pulling plugs out whenever I wanted to use the toaster or microwave… and the washing-machine is sticking out so the plug can reach another socket above the counter. I am a woman in waiting, again; waiting for the workmen to come out and plaster, remove gas pipes sticking out of the living room floor from an old fire, and of course the electrical sockets in the kitchen.

But I do love my new wee flat and I apologise for being absent from this blog for so long. As I moved in, I was furiously writing, keeping up with the National Novel Writing Month, and trying to compile the photo album for my sister-in-law’s friend – I fell behind on the Nano but eventually finished the album. I’ve got into the habit of painting a couple of doors while still in my nightdress – there are a lot of doors, seven of them in the hall and previously painted a very dark pink so now need two coats in order to cover it; that makes fourteen doors, just in the hall! I hate painting doors but I’m a quick worker and am half-way there, thank God.

I’m still moving, still picking up bags from Musician’s flat on my way to work and wondering if I’ll get the bookshelves in the lovely wee car – I got my bed in it! Who would ever have thought that you could get a single bed in a Clio?

PROCRASTINATION 3

2008-11-11T13:19:00.001Z

PROCRASTINATION 2

2008-11-11T13:12:00.001Z

PROCRASTINATION 1

2008-11-11T13:03:00.000Z

NANO RULES

2008-11-06T11:46:00.003Z

Just a little extract from the novel I'm working on for National Novel-writing Month:

***************************************

I wish I’d stopped drinking last night when I said I would; working with a hangover would be interminable, especially with Marlow yammering on about the evils of anything other than red wine. Elegance is a bottle of the most expensive red you can afford, according to him. Well, it was beer or nothing last night. I’m fed up being piss-poor.

The shower always made me gasp and moan; the weight of wet hair down my back equalled pure ecstasy. It battered my hangover into submission and I felt more myself as I clambered out of the bath – I’ve never been elegant. An image of Frankie and his pet policeman forced itself into my head; he was driving me mental, this son of Satan – a true teenager, and definitely not my favourite child at the moment. Everyone said he would grow out of it, that he’d be a fine man – yeah right.

My first call was Moaning Millie; she wanted her mother to help her with her new baby – wasn’t that what a mother did? She whined that she was tired and had expected her mother to come clean the house, take over so she could sleep. I didn’t tell her that her mother had probably had enough of her and her sister to last a lifetime and was now in clover with her own little flat and piles of peace, contentment and bloody freedom!

Marlow smirked from his booth. He sat there surrounded by all kinds of balms, stones and healthy spiritual stuff; Dr Witch, I called him – he never moved from his place and we spun around him like the little satellites from his very own solar system.
‘Don’t even think it.’ I said.
‘I would’ve thought you’d have found something more interesting than alcohol by now.’
‘Shut up.’
‘I know what you’re going to say next; It was Jess’ fault. Now isn’t that right?’
‘You said that, not me – and I was not thinking it.’ I couldn’t look at him because he was always right. ‘Bitch.’
‘Patsy you’re a patsy.’
‘Yeah well. Jess is bad; she thinks she’s a terrible mother.’
‘She is.’
‘She is not…and you don’t know her. Well maybe you do, but you weren’t there. It’s too easy for the childless masses to slag single parents off – they haven’t got a clue. We’d be better off in Huxley’s Brave New World; created in test-tubes and grown in jars for nurseries somewhere distant. I don’t think we should be parents at all; we’re all bad, selfish and stupid.’
‘You’re in a lovely mood this hangover, aren’t you?’ he dug into his bag and offered me a French Fancy.

I couldn’t get Frankie out of my mind, wondering if he was smoking wacky-backy or breaking into some empty factory for lead and copper. He was supposed to be in his room studying and watching TV – he was probably talking on my landline but not to mobiles; I’d had them banned, so at least he wasn’t costing me too much money. Bella would keep an eye on him; she was a terrier when she started. That was the only fault with this job; I liked working at night because it stopped me wasting my time in front of the box but it meant that I wasn’t there to supervise my wayward son – but he was sixteen; he should be part-way sensible by now. I prayed he didn’t turn into a Hoodie, and wouldn’t buy him anything with a hood on it – not even a jacket!

TOO MUCH LIFE

2008-10-26T15:03:00.002Z

Over the past couple of weeks I've been through a multitude of family gatherings; a birth, a funeral and a wedding - though the wedding was my sister-in-law's friend and I was the photographer. The weather was awful, the worst imaginable; tons of rain, coming in waves and drains blocked with leaves; there were floods everywhere - I was terrified that my wee Clio would just phut-phut out in the middle of one of them, but she's a star.

So now, I have to present myself at a 20s soiree, wearing beads, for a friend's birthday. All this socialization is a bit too much for me...and, tomorrow I have to go meet a pile of writers doing Nano! But that's different, I'll socialise with writers anytime.

My daughter called me last night, just as I arrived back from the wedding, looking forward to my night of CSI stuff. Could I run her over to somewhere on the edge of the planet because she couldn't afford a taxi. So there I was, spending my night in a car, lost, with her on the phone (my phone) to drunk friends who didn't know where they lived or were unable to verbalise it!

This common life is too much for me; I want to be a hermit again.

A WOMAN-IN-WAITING

2008-10-23T13:50:00.000+01:00

10 days off work, spent away from the television and in front of arty projects I can sell either on ebay or in local shops – that lies ahead of me. But, November is National Novel-writing Month, so I’ll need to do that too. How am I going to get this lazy old body to take part in all these things?

If only I could be dragged through this creative mud, wouldn’t it be fabulous? It might change my life completely and I would be completely delirious – why can’t I set it up? I tell people all the time to make changes in their lives, sometimes five or six times a night; I must take my own advice.

Life with the car is better because I get more things squeezed into the hours in my day, when I can be bothered and if I don’t take any notice of the weather – which is howling behind my head as I type, so I might not go to the garage and have two new back tires. I can’t stay here till it’s time for work because there’s no food; shopping is a necessity.

The fact that I’m living in a junk shop, surrounded by bags and boxes of stuff doesn’t make me get up and tidy it; that would be wasted effort because it’s going to be moved soon enough. My bed is an island in a sea of God-knows-what and I’m waiting, waiting, waiting for the phone call about the keys of my new flat.

The thought of paid holiday is very exciting but I’m pulled down by imagining all the intrusions; if I’m not careful I’ll spend it all doing things for other people and not arty-crafting and writing. I’ll wave my magic wand and forbid myself from running family around; I’ll get up early and have long, long days; I’ll wander around the loch taking pictures, notes and pick up leaves for art.

Only time will tell, but there might be some interesting posts as I beat myself up…and, I think I’m going to take the bluebeard novel to Nano – there’s loads of sex in that, so there might be little clips of that! But now I have to go out in that weather for lovely food.

WOMEN-IN-TRAINING

2008-10-22T12:41:00.003+01:00

My dead friend’s daughter has started blogging, and is posting her childhood diaries; she’s just reminded me of a scene between me and Roseanne in Manchester. We were both pregnant; I was six weeks ahead of her, relaxing after a bath one evening, when her husband came panicking at my door.
‘She needs you. You have to come right now.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘She’s locked herself in the bathroom. I don't know what's wrong with her.’ For all the rush to get me up there he didn't seem really worried. She was standing up, moving around and not in any pain.

So I got dressed and followed him up the road, and it was quite a walk. When I arrived she dragged me into the bathroom and pulled out a breast.
‘Look at this!’ she squeezed the nipple and little white bubbles appeared.
‘Oh, it must be milk,’ I said. We stood there, glued to the spot, wondering at this change – I don’t think she was even showing then, must’ve only been a few months. ‘You’ve dragged me out of the bath for that?’

Innocents abroad didn’t do us justice; we were twenty-two in 1976 and hell-bent on living life. We’d met a pregnant woman and wanted to be just like her – and that was that; we told our men that babies were on the menu and they had no say in the matter. Unfortunately, some months later, I decided I didn’t want to spend my life with this particular man and orchestrated an argument so I could walk out with no comeback.

Stupid, dumb but definitely not blonde, we stumbled through that year; she got married and gave birth, I gave birth and got married (to a different man). We knew nothing about ourselves or our bodies and were disgusted when a midwife suggested we breastfeed – it wasn’t fashionable then and we thought she must be from the 19th century. I don’t know how we survived…how the kids survived us is a miracle!

MORE KD LANG

2008-10-20T02:54:00.001+01:00

Hallelujah

2008-10-20T02:38:00.001+01:00

ANGER V DELIGHT

2008-10-14T11:51:00.005+01:00

Angry? Try furious. That was something I never want to repeat; listening to a priest pontificate about religious politics during a funeral service. This doddering old man wandered across the scriptures to give himself a jumping-off place so he could rant about the credit crunch and how greedy people were for wanting more and more money - what did that have to do with Anne's life? I think he mentioned her twice; some of the family missed it!

His actions took all emotion out of the situation - maybe that was the intention; keep everyone from crying and breaking down in his church; make sure they are sufficiently bored, intoxicated, fused into a stupor. I know I'm coming from the Heathen point of view, but I am a connoisseur of funerals and have listened to some wonderful services - I know what I'm talking about.

So, it's best to change the subject - Lily is here! My poor niece struggled to give birth for days and eventually, on Sunday night - 35 minutes from Monday, Lily made her beautiful appearance, and boy is she pretty. Two weeks early and not a wrinkle in sight: smooth and gorgeous she is...and a sleeper! I spent an hour with her yesterday and she didn't open her eyes once. There was a real panic on Sunday night and worry for my niece; the baby was always all right. We've had the bad side of pre-eclampsia before when my sister-in-law, Sid, nearly died and lost her new son in the struggle. So it was a very tense time.

Lily was my mother-in-law's name; it's lovely to see it revived.

BIRTH V DEATH

2008-10-12T12:53:00.004+01:00

Oooh X-factor is back and aren’t they just fabulous? I love Austen, and Laura and Diane, and Alexandria. Me and my sister-in-law watching together in our own homes, texting what we love and hate…we hate Daniel. He seems a nice guy but I don’t know why he’s there; I think there were quite a few would’ve done better in his place. I feel that the judges were diverted by his sob story; I’m surprised at Simon, but then it wasn’t his choice to bring him to the live shows.

And…he made it through, though I knew that the girl groups were the weakest of the bunch; individually they’re good but they’re all over the place. I feel a bit like that. I was driving home from Asda last night and suddenly Anne’s death hit me; we’ve all been a little matter-of-fact about it and haven’t taken the time to really think. I found myself crying in the car as I turned into my street, and it wasn’t the music, it was just time it caught up with me. Oh the weeping and wailing will turn up smack on time tomorrow morning at ten o’clock.

My sister-in-law, Sid, said she can’t drive; she is quite aware of how grief bounces back and back. Her driving test triumph was only a fortnight ago so it wouldn’t be a good idea for her. I bought my son, Musician, a new black jacket. TocToc will be stuck in Loch Lomond, his kids are off this week. Musician came out with age-old complaint, ‘Why is it we only see people at funerals?’ It is an awful truth.

My 19yr old niece is labouring as we speak – one in and one out, isn’t that always the way? And tomorrow is my eldest child’s birthday; that’s another reason why he doesn’t want to come to the funeral; he wants to spend his birthday with his family, and he hasn’t seen Anne for a couple of years. I won’t be able to forget the date of this funeral. Just think of the mixed tears from that birth and death, and Anne’s son left alone in the world – though he’s still got all of us, but is now forced to be a man on his own at twenty-seven. Whoever said life was easy?

UPDATE:

It's a girl - it was difficult - dangerous; pre-eclampsia but i think all is well, for now.

DEATH IS ON THE MOVE

2008-10-05T01:30:00.003+01:00

I have moved out of my hermit phase, at last, and am now trawling the roads with Clio, the lovely wee car. I even went visiting the Pollok mob today and turned back into the wonderful sister-in-law I used to be; picking people up, dropping them off, chatting to small great nephews and neices - taking part in this life. A fabulous day wrapped itself around me: we gossipped, laughed, complemented, lied and were forced to keep crying at bay; the crying will have to wait for the funeral.

A sister-in-law died last night. She's been fighting cancer all year but it brought her down in a real hurry. I didn't know she was ill, and we're all feeling guilty because we thought time was infinite and that she'd always be there - no-one had given the cancer any importance. She was only forty-six. Like me, she was an ex-sister-in-law; the family can't get rid of the ex-wives the brothers collect. In this family, you're included from the beginning and you stay as long as you want, but you're always family, and the children multiply like rabbits.

I really hate funerals and am not a death-visitor in general; I've got to be very attached to attend them these days - there have been far too many in my life. So, we're glad of the two extra drivers and cars of the past week; I just got my wee Clio on Wednesday and a sister-in-law, Sid, just passed her driving test, so she's running around in her Micra now, free as a bird - well one with a husband and two kids!

And now we wait. I don't think we're in full-death-throes; the usual search for mass-black-suits for the boys and black ties. One year I had to make a dozen black ties; we were too poor to buy them. I suppose some of them will leak out of cupboards. I think we're saving the hysterics for the day of the service; usually the first sight of a hearse and we're off. God I hate crying in public. I just hate crying; I want to make peace, make everything and everyone better. The years fly by and the deaths pile up; we've had four years free of them, something had to give.

A REVIEW

2008-09-26T12:49:00.003+01:00

A lovely thing happened on my way to the blog; someone had been in for a browse and left this comment: ‘Stubblejumpers Cafe said... Hi Irene, Your blog is featured this week at Stubblejumpers. Kate.’ Now, isn’t that nice? So I went along and discovered this wonderful site with an amazing range of stuff:

Tarot readings, with real questions, from real people; reviews of blogs, books; from a Shaman to roast suckling-pig, the mixture is heady and wonderful. I was so enamoured of her site that I popped over and got one of my own; I mean, they offered it free!

It’s different from a blog in that it doesn’t move; it’ll stay exactly where you put it, no matter how much you add to it – you can control that part of your life at least. I’ve been playing and procrastinating over there ever since and now have a lovely new website/showcase for my meanderings which links to all my blogs.

But, How is the novel going? I hear you ask. Well, I saw it last week and it was fine, just kind of hanging out, chillin’, but not allowing stress in the door. It was waiting for a boat trip because Loch Lomond is an adventure that needs to get underway before anything else can be done.

I’m anticipating the arrival of my new wee car (new to me) and the keys to my new flat; I’m suspended, frozen in time, surfing until I’m invisible – just waiting. You could say I’m pregnant and paused.

HOW IS A JUDGE TO JUDGE?

2008-09-21T21:02:00.000+01:00

I treated myself to a writing magazine yesterday on my day in the city, waiting for my new glasses for driving – preparing for my new wee car. So, I settled down to read some of the mag and was horrified by a ghost story in it; a competition winner that would never have got near the final five if I’d been the judge. It wasn’t seriously bad and most of the flaws, well the ones that bothered me, were in the first five paras; I had to do a double-take almost immediately and found myself talking out loud in disbelief:

seven sentences in a row began with ‘The’, and this followed being annoyed at the many short sentences from the first seven-word beginning, the repeat of ‘as’ within seven words. Not a good start, you would think, for a competition entry – but it won!

How could this pass for any kind of excellence? On one hand you might think that it’s good for all of us who work at editing and polishing but not if you get a judge like that who must have disregarded a host of better work for this effort; you can’t rule out subjectivity in creative writing – the judge must’ve liked and got carried away with the story…but he certainly didn’t do his job, in my opinion.

PROBLOGGER TIPS

2008-09-19T15:11:00.003+01:00

I've just lifted this from my email box because I think it's an important point.

Hi irene,

We are all basically selfish. I know, I know, you are generous to a fault, but think of how you browse websites. You want to be entertained, informed, and so on. It's all about our needs, wants, interests and desires. Common sense? Why then, knowing this, do so many bloggers make their blogs all about THEM?
=======================
What's in it for ME?
=======================
By all means have a personal blog. It's your choice if you write for yourself and you only. But if you want to have a successful professional blog then you are going to need to do a little extra. To get what YOU want you need to give THEM what THEY want! That means creating value and clearly communicating that benefit. Just take a look at Darren's blog title: "Blog Tips to Help You Make Money Blogging" Obvious what the benefit is, right? Compare that to what you often see, "Jim's Blog about things andstuff". Always always have in mind your reader and what they will gain. Do you ask people to subscribe without saying what that is and why they might bother?Here is what it says on Chris' blog "Receive more free blogging, writing and marketing tips to your email inbox or feed reader, plus a free eBook download." Click the link to see more about the free ebook download:

http://clicks.aweber.com/y/ct/?l=BXvvC&m=1jREdVaowEnc4H&b=vF0zQmqpQRI3ygxdH97gbw

That free ebook alone has probably brought more subscribers than any other single addition to Chris' blog, because the value of subscribing becomes self-evident. So create value and communicate it. Put yourself in your readers 'shoes and answer WIIFM.
----------------------------------------
Bottom line ... it's about THEM not YOU!
----------------------------------------
Until next time ... Happy blogging!
Darren & Chris http://clicks.aweber.com/y/ct/?l=BXvvC&m=1jREdVaowEnc4H&b=P_H9rA6VfJBPdHFG1xwOmA

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AND IN THE MORNING

2008-09-15T19:57:00.000+01:00

Last night in my dreams I found the most wonderful stuff on an indoor market stall; there was a set of dishes that fitted together, some kind of condiment or jam thingy. One of them opened like an oyster and had a kind of pop-up detail inside with little ducks and water lilies. I asked the price and was amazed at the £2.98 tag, so naturally I couldn’t wait to buy it. I’d taken a china teapot with a cane handle to use as a bag and had carefully placed it on the table so that everyone around could see that it was mine, that I’d arrived with it – I didn’t want it to get mixed up with the ornaments and ceramics for sale, but I thought I could always show them my money inside. It was gone.
‘Where’s my bag?’ I looked around at the man behind the table and two women browsing. ‘My teapot is missing.’ I felt ill thinking of the £200 I’d been carrying around since pay-day, but then remembered that I hadn’t brought it, only some cash, in the teapot. ‘How am I going to get home?’ No-one said anything or made any helpful suggestions.

I waited for a bus and jumped on the first one to come along, only just scraping the money for the fare from my pocket. So that was alright, till I thought of asking where exactly the bus went; it wasn’t going anywhere I wanted to go – not even through the city centre. It seemed the longer I stayed on the bus the farther I’d go into nowhere but I didn’t have the money for another bus ticket. I wondered about flashing the ticket I had and saying it was a day-tripper.

There is no satisfying ending to this and I have to inform you of the truth, do the Dallas thing – I woke up.

MISSING MUM

2008-09-14T16:20:00.000+01:00

When I was looking after my mother I didn’t have time to wonder when she would die; a client who calls me for tarot advice often asks me when her mother is going to die. The first few times she asked this I got a perverse pleasure from saying, ‘…not any time soon.’ There is also a man who puts this question to me about his wife; he’s been waiting for her death a long time. This all sounds bad but I really do understand where they’re coming from and just how difficult it can get – and how madly insane you can end up; the day I got my mother into a wheelchair taxi and onto the ward I had my clothes on inside-out and back-to-front, and my hair hadn’t been brushed for days.

I think that one of the hardest things to manage is that decision of just how much you can or should stand in any situation, especially when mental illness is a factor whether we’re talking about plain old senility or something more serious and dangerous – and senility can be full of missiles and snapping teeth! I know, I’ve been there, but it’s the insanity and total confusion of the whole scenario that drives you onward, until there’s no difference between you and the person you’re looking after – I know that I was off my trolly and when a social worker answered my plea for help I fell into her arms in the kitchen. I had a crazy mother on one hand and three teenagers on the other; there was no escape and up until then, no help that really helped.

It makes me sad now, thinking about that time and I thank the gods that it didn’t last long; she went out like a whirling dervish, my mother, and it’s taken years to relegate the memories into something softer. It’s easier to see the real woman she’d been; the mother and wonderful grandmother is now slipping out of the cracks to catch me in tears.

CHARITY SATURDAY

2008-09-08T01:04:00.010+01:00

Saturday afternoon in a sunny Glasgow - now this is the September I was dreaming about. I took myself off to the West-end; the poor end, Partick and all its wonderfully cheap charity shops - after only two I was weighed down with bags. So lumbered that I had to find somewhere to relax with coffee; and here we are, well just me because I couldn't get hold of Herman, in a window with sharp shadows and bright sun making it all look very arty.
One of the books I found was I Capture The Castle by Dodie Smith, the other is a beautifully new hardback collection of Scottish short stories - both of them for £1. So, I settled myself in this wonderful cafe that wasn't there last time I tramped the road; it's called Yasmine's and if you ever visit that part of Glasgow, get yourself in there, it's fab. There are twin sofas, a little bamboo 3-piece suite, two black leather sofas and your ordinary tables and chairs - even those outside for the smokers.
In between the toasted cheese and latte I took some pics but I wish I could've captured the atmosphere, with a mixture of jazz and blues and then a whole album of Madeline Peyroux - I was in heaven, just chilling, reading my new book and being so impressed with the whole day. The thing in the pic is a lamp I got for £2.50; it's made with hand-crafted paper and has sparkly bits sprinkled through it. I finished off my late lunch with a melon, mango and strawberry smoothie. They've got internet access there too. Oh I need to go back soon; I only did two shops.

In the last year that I've been back in Glasgow I haven't spent much time, or money, in cafes - except when on the romp with Tilly and ZaZa. So this was bliss for me. I think I'm going to go back there to write. I found another cafe further along the road, that had a mixture of art and clothes but I couldn't decide if it was a charity shop or a business; the paintings were priced over £200. I didn't ask because they were busy with a couple but I will find out next time. It might be somewhere to sell my arty-farty stuff.

I also got 5 videos for £1 in The Solidarity shop - it took me half an hour to choose them because I don't want to litter the place up with old movies I'll never watch again; I'm only allowing myself reference stuff, like music, dance etc and the very odd old favourite film that I know I'll watch again and again, like Lord of The Rings and Pricilla, Queen of the Desert - which I got too. So I ended up with Riverdance, Celtic Feet, Cher-fitness and Country Line-dancing! Go Irene.

STRANGE FISH

2008-09-05T15:28:00.001+01:00

COUPLING

2008-09-04T12:52:00.002+01:00

Ooooo, Harrison Ford or Richard Gere? Well I choose both and add Bruce Willis, James Woods, Rob lowe, Bon Jovi, Tim Mathieson, Bruce Springsteen and of course the beautiful bald black guy from Weeds – not to mention the beautiful bald black guy from Dexter. I didn’t plan on adding younger men but those last two just popped into my old head so it can’t be helped; there are tons of luscious young men out there but I don’t want to be slavering over them – that would be unseemly. I’m happy with the wrinklies, and they are much more interesting to me, what with their malleable and fabulous faces; I don’t want them for sex – I just want to look and admire their regal standing, their greying and white hair…well okay I’d do the sex thing if I had to but these days I really can’t be bothered. It’s enough to look at men and sometimes I like to listen to them but only if they’re lying, playing a part; they’re more reliable that way.

I have always fallen for ugly men, or at least men with interesting faces; my friend Carrie has had to drag me away from some serious mistakes – alcohol had that effect on me, though how do we know that she was right? Just because she judged these men and found them wanting in the attractive department; she was drunk too - I might’ve missed my soul-mate because of her actions! I was drawn towards men with problems; there was a guy in a wheelchair in a Newcastle nightclub, a guy with one arm at Berwick holiday centre, and almost a guy in crutches in the queue for another club until Carrie stepped in.

Now, I’d rather write about sex than actually take part in all that heaving, sweaty exercise – been there, done that loads-a-times, nothing-new-to-be-had. How could I ever be bothered again? I can’t imagine. Maybe I’ll pick up a nice old gent when I’m eighty and he can perambulate me in my wheelchair, lift and lay me in my single bed, bring me my Earl Grey and chocolate biscuits. It won’t matter what he looks like as long as he’s kind and has lost his sex-drive. I don’t want to give up any of my power or precious time to someone else’s pursuits, so that man would have to give his life over to me completely and be my slave, and leave whenever I wanted to be alone. So really, all I'll need is a male live-in carer who also wants to be alone to write his novel or paint his art – what a perfect couple we would make!

TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

2008-09-03T15:39:00.004+01:00

When The Witchcraft Act of 1563 was passed, an estimated 4,000 women were executed in Scotland over a period of approximately 150yrs; chief investigators of the witch-hunts were the clergy acting on a phrase that had appeared in a new version of the bible, Exodus XX11, 18 ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live’. At that time 4,000 people was a huge number; the population for Glasgow in 1691 was less than 2,000.

King James V1 thought that women were more susceptible than men to witchcraft mostly because of Eve falling to the serpent’s deception in the Garden of Eden. The last witch-burning in Scotland took place in Dornoch in 1722. Apparently, these epidemics of mass-sanctified murder have never been really explained or analysed to anyone’s satisfaction. That something so nonsensical and plain stupid could be sanctioned by leaders, royalty and church is bizarre. Compare that to how hard it is for the authorities to put mass murderers to death in the US; oh how they wish it was easy - as simple as it was to burn witches.

SUFFER THE WOMEN

2008-09-01T16:31:00.002+01:00

God bless the Kirk; I’ve just been reading that the establishment of a theocracy in Scotland followed a peculiarly masculine and mysogynistic theology – John Knox in his ‘First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Women’ called them, ‘the porte and gate of the devil.’ Imagine that!

I was trawling the bookshelves in a Govan charity shop, and complaining about the price, as usual, when I fell upon this fabulous little local history pamphlet that was compiled and published for an exhibition at The People’s Palace in Glasgow Green. It’s titled, The Scottish Women’s Suffrage Movement, which I think might put people off at first glance unless they were in the mood for a history lesson – but it immediately grabs your attention by the selection of the comments above. Oh, I certainly wouldn’t have wanted to live then, and there.

Women found guilty of gossiping or quarrelling were forced to stand in public with a metal brace (branks or jougs) around their head and a mouthpiece to depress the tongue, which when combined with the ducking stool was very unpleasant – to say the least. Also, a pulley was constructed to duck female adulterers in the river Clyde. There is no mention of male adulterers, yet.

Even on the Sabbath, there was no peace or rest for women, not in church - they had to bring their own stools in some places! They were prodded awake if they fell asleep during sermons; Beadles were appointed to poke them and punish any children causing a disturbance. Searchers prowled the streets to ensure the compulsory attendance at church. In the 16th and 17th centuries the Kirk had a lot of influence on the civil law and because of this town midwives were not allowed to give assistance to unmarried and pregnant women unless the father of the child had been named; women had no power to refuse a man anything - if their employer or any man took a fancy to them they were doomed and the only thing to save them would be infertility. What a thing to pray for.

Working-class unmarried women were not allowed to rent rooms or houses and the only work permitted was that of a servant. Doesn’t this just break your heart? I feel myself wanting to go back in time to save these women…and I haven’t got to the witch-burnings yet!

GAY PRIDE GLASGOW

2008-08-30T22:32:00.002+01:00

APOLOGIES

2008-08-28T14:24:00.004+01:00

Holy Blog Of Doom, Batman! I just returned from my daily swim on the beautiful Fijian beach and realised I have not updated this since petrol was cheaper than a bottle of Chateau de Neuf! You would not believe that I'd been abducted by aliens, but I'm sorry you'll just have to take my word for it. I am swilling chardonnay, discovering time doesn't stand still, watching Dexter and just generally being an embarrassment to the servants. My day seems to involve the authorities from beach break to running out of alcohol. I am avoiding recapture - can't they see I am blogging? I declare solemnly I will write something that makes sense soon. What? Unless of course the pool with the cocktail bar is heated!

One of the best from the... Lazy Blog Post Generator another pinch from Bettejo.

POSITIVE THINKING

2008-08-23T13:46:00.002+01:00

I’ve been thinking on the positive wavelength for a couple of months now, more fiercely since I watched the movie The Secret – and it’s working; I am attracting all sorts of great stuff to me! People I hardly know are offering me things; two lovely women who have recently started work beside me have offered furniture, a microwave, coffee-maker – one has presented me with beautiful baking trays, signed by Antony Worrall Thompson himself! Before that another workmate brought me in shoes that she couldn’t wear, then a lovely blouse and then a pair of lined curtains for my new flat!

Yes, I’ve even got a flat out of all this positivism, oh The Universe has definitely got me in its sights – I hope I’m not looking too needy. But I do need a lot of stuff. I don’t think I’ll ever remember all I lost in that fire; I had the cupboard packed full of all kinds of arty-farty bits n pieces, photographic equipment and everything that comes out of that. I know that I’ve lost all the black n white negatives along with the enlarger. A few little accoutrements survive for my new darkroom but I’ll need to visit ebay for another bargain enlarger. I can’t wait to have my own kitchen again – so I can black it out and play.

The Artist’s Way is written with The Secret in mind, which was working on me long before I saw the movie, but I stopped doing my morning pages and working on the book when I found the collaborative writing site Protagonise; I always go off on a bender when I find something new. So, I’m heading back The Artist’s Way and will pick up where I left off. I’ve promised myself that I’ll keep the TV turned off this weekend, and hopefully every weekend – with the odd exception of particular programmes. I’ll be good. I’ve given myself a 10,000 word task to be done by Tuesday so let’s see if I can make it.

RECOGNITION

2008-08-17T12:16:00.003+01:00

Just wanted to mention that I found the first cat cartoon on this blog, or blogs; bettejo has several blogs here and all worth a browse - she posts a beautiful pic every day on one of them and shows off her wonderful jewellery on another. She's got interesting blogs on her blogroll too. Here's to ya bettejo!

ANOTHER CAT STORY

2008-08-16T15:11:00.000+01:00

CAT STORY

2008-08-16T14:27:00.001+01:00

TWITTERING IN CYBERSPACE

2008-08-05T13:30:00.005+01:00

So, where is all this going? Is it because I want to be a legend in my family way down the line? I would be reaching back at them through eons; imagine something from a space movie, kids doing biography projects or some kind of social history through the ages like The Flip-side of Dominic Hide. Actually, I just caught a repeat of that last week…must look for the second part on BBCi before it’s gone, but it might’ve been on another channel, in which case I’ve probably missed it. That character’s reason for going back in time to 70s London is to study bus routes!

All my witterings travelling in time; I can just see future scholars trying to understand my choice of similes in the race to avoid clichés – it’s like a complete second language in idiom. I will not be explained; I want to be different, unusual and absolutely unexplainable; I want to be indecipherable by future literary historians; I want to make them laugh with a quizzical smile on their faces. What would they make of my Ode to Chocolate?

Right now, I’m doing this for me, and just like Everest, it’s there to be climbed; this mountain of Ethernet and the blogging world is the melting pot we were promised in the 60s – pop songs can be prophetic! I must find a YouTube link for that song so you can listen to it here. It’s an added bonus that my heirs will be able to investigate this for whatever reason – I should do a rant about the price of everything then they’d have that information at their fingertips. I remember searching for prices of food and cigarettes in the 70s; it was for a project (probably a novel) I was working on in the late 80s that proved very difficult.

The autobiography is great fun; I love searching for just the right movie clips and music to create the atmosphere of the late 50s; it’s keeping me focussed on one particular time, seeking out the memories, those early and vague glimpses of my life then before I slip back farther to who my parents were and where they came from, though now that everyone is gone my memory is more than a little hazy but I don’t want to dig deeper – someone else can do that. I am forcing myself to stand still in that period until there is nothing left, before I go on to the fun and naughty tales of my older childhood.

And blogging now; all this twittering filling cyberspace can only get better; I have read some younger bloggers and been astonished at their wonderful writing which I’m sure is because blogging exists and is cool in their world. Blogging is doing education a favour in that its encouraging reading and writing, thinking and commenting in many ways and forms that might not have happened.

CONFESSION

2008-07-30T13:06:00.004+01:00

My name is Irene and I am a blogaholic! There, I’ve said it. Oh, the loneliness of the serial blogger. I switch on in the mornings, check email, wonder why no-one has left me any comments, then swing right on over there to the blogs; checking stats is also becoming addictive – when I first got a site-counter at Blogger I was all over that map and it was soooo exciting, but I got bored with the non-readers, all those searchers looking for granny-sex.

I set up a new blog with Wordpress last week, BUBBLES IN TIME; working on compiling an autobiography, and it’s great fun – especially the YouTube searching for just the right music and film clips. So, a few days in and I’m twitching, looking at stats, and wondering what to do next – set up another blog! And suddenly the name Fatty McSlob arrives in my head…and within minutes there it is, FATTY McSLOB in the flesh; ten minutes later it has a post and I’m satisfied, for now.

Wordpress is a whole new world of blogs calling to be read; they come to me from tags, I can pop next door, just like at Blogger, and then there is the blog networks in Facebook. OMG I wish I was unemployed or retired or rich – possibly in reverse order! I spent hours in Facebook blog networks yesterday, reading about full-time bloggers and how they make money. I think I want to be a full-time blogger when I grow up. Maybe I’ll just create ebooks and sell them on the blogs! Just think of all those tangents!

So, going off on that tangent, I should do a little ebook research just for the fun of it; I suppose it’s the next step from reading blogs, isn’t it? Mmmmm, and I’d have to blog about the experience and spout opinion, yes, good idea. Maybe I should get a dongle and take the laptop into work – I’ve been thinking of that anyway, taking it with me to work then I can write properly between calls instead of using a pen and notebook. I could stock-pile blog posts instead of the bulk-crocheting I’m doing now; it would be tidier than the craft work; no glitter all over the phone or glue gumming up my desk.

I really want one of those little laptops; it would sit very nicely on the side. This is small but an even smaller one would be much lighter and I’m all about if you don’t need it then get it out of your bag.

Some people can’t read off the screen but I seem perfectly comfortable with it; I know I’d be too miserable to print stuff out. I think the laptop has become my security blanket, and if I got a smaller one I could take it everywhere with me – not that I actually go anywhere these days, but it sounds good. And reading blogs is a bit like having a huge collection of short stories or serials, for free.

SHIFT YOUR AWARENESS

2008-07-23T15:57:00.000+01:00

Whatever you're thinking and feeling today is your future!

BOOKSHELF DETAILS

2008-07-20T18:53:00.001+01:00

A PEEK AT MY SHELVES

2008-07-20T17:31:00.005+01:00

My excuse for the apparent messy bookshelves is that I am still kindof in transit; I'm camping in my son's flat, but at least some things have a home - you should see the rest of the room. I am definitely not posting that picture!
Some of these books have been saved from the fire and are pretty smoke-damaged; look at the state of Wild Swans, but I haven't read it yet so I wasn't about to throw it out, yet.

This was an idea from Nik's blog, and a good one, in that you can learn a lot about someone from prowling their shelves; one glance at mine tells you that I'm untidy and lazy but eclectic in my interests - the little anonymous blocks under Ann Rice are tarot cards, and my newest, the Klimt set are inside the silky yellow bag.

A LITTLE BIT OF MEMOIR

2008-07-19T20:37:00.002+01:00

In my safe childhood I was allowed to play outside, by myself, unsupervised, all day; hours and hours spent catching frogs, climbing monkey-puzzle trees, killing water rats and boiling dead bees.

Life in Carnwadric was quiet but interesting; right across the road from us was an old internment camp that used to house Italian prisoners of war. In it there was a big empty house on the hill, a forest, raspberries, blackberries and strawberries, rose bushes and tall daisies, wild onions and, according to my little brother, dead Germans! There was also a row of little brick buildings that we called ‘The Zig-zags’, we thought they were probably dog kennels. We played house in them; they were just the right size for us. We’d sweep them out, and using spare bricks we found lying around, build furniture; little armchairs and sofas, with a table. Suburban Glasgow rocked; I had mystery and adventure inside and outside – the inner provided by Enid Blyton with The Secret Seven, and The Famous Five. I was so envious of the lives dealt out to these characters and always frustrated that I couldn’t re-create them in my own; my mother wouldn’t have a shed built at the bottom of our garden, nor would she buy enough ginger beer to serve to me and my friends; lemonade had to be good enough for us.

I went to stay with a friend in Stirling for a week and returned with the knowledge of how to build a den; so my friends and I began to dig a hole in the back garden, stacking up the clods of earth – they would be the walls, then we would lay a piece of corrugated iron across the top for the roof.

‘GET THAT CONTRAPTION OUT OF HERE!’ old-bag-upstairs shouted.

She always spoilt our fun, or complained whenever we did the slightest little thing. The den was finished and we were just about to have our first meeting of The Secret Four when she screamed. My father rapped on the window for us to come in. So, that was the end of that. Being seven in 1961 was very difficult; adults were the enemy and something to avoid at all costs – or play tricks on to get revenge. We leaned milk bottles full of water against her door, knocked and ran back into our house, back to the jigsaw in the big bedroom table. On Saturdays my father watched horse racing on the TV, with the sound up; he always took our side when Mrs Ratbag came complaining, but he told us off for annoying an old woman, even though she was a pest.

WHY I WRITE

2008-07-13T01:25:00.003+01:00

I have thought about it, a lot, and have probably spouted the age-old answer: ‘I write because I want to.’ But, what does that mean? Scribble? Or do I mean some kind of continuous stream that will eventually attract someone’s attention? Am I really planning to be a novelist? Or do I fancy myself in the trade of public observation, like in a regular column? Yes, I’d like to live in that description. I want to describe, sum-up and comment on people, places & stuff; but I also want to create and lie for a living.

Living to lie; that sounds just the right slant to me – I want to be that! One of the blogs I regularly read, Every Day I Lie a Little is pretty hysterical. Lying is fun. I remember people coming to me for lies in the 70s, when they’d taken time off work or been late; I was a great liar and could come up with the most outrageous stuff that was so out-there that they could only be the truth!

I don’t know why I was drawn into the world of writing but I think it might mostly be the fault of Margaret Atwood; I fell after I’d read her for the first time – The Handmaid’s Tale did me in. That was probably about 1988; I’d spent the years before that at some party or another and seemed to have drank my adult life away – I really don’t remember much about 1985 or 6 or Chernobyl because I was mostly drunk!

I thought I was happy then. We had the time of our lives, Carrie and me: me and Carrie tripping from party to party, men to men – cool was our middle name. When I stopped it all and started college Carrie found it very difficult, propping up bars by herself…and it took me two years to get her to leave me alone; to stop trying to drag me out to pubs. I’d discovered further education and Writing; a new drug – it took me over completely and I haven’t been the same since. Carrie eventually forgave me.

So why do I write? I don’t know; this stuff just falls out of my head and there it is, on the paper, on the screen – it swims around me like a feeding shark, nipping at my heels and sometimes (well mostly) there is so much of it. Then it needs filing and remembered, and then editing begins and never stops, but then a shiny new thing comes in and distracts me and I see the end of the road taking a turn, twisting into all those zed-bends. Navigation is murder.

CAKE DAY! WAYHAY!

2008-07-05T10:43:00.007+01:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!
And a fine day for it; summer came back. ZaZa baked again, in honour of my birthday. We began with home-made ice-cream in brandy baskets with strawberries and sauce….mmmmmmmm!

Look at the beautiful china, and real napkins! There was silver sugar tongs too.

Then a gateaux arrived bearing a single candle for me to blow out – I stopped to take a photo first, of course, and they sung happy birthday to you, of course. You don’t really expect stuff like this when you’re 54 do you? I forgot to mention the white wine cocktail we had on arrival, and the beautiful bottle of bubbly blackcurrant & cassis I was presented with. I thought I was just going over for some cake, but I brought ZaZa one of my blankets for her knees in her old age as a thanks-for-feeding-me-gift. Tilly told jokes but I’ve forgotten them now

Sandwiches of home-made bread and salmon just blew me away; this is the most fabulous bread in the world – I think I’m going to move in with ZaZa and May; it’s the only sensible thing to do…and then again, perhaps not; not a cake or biscuit has passed these lips for a fortnight, nor chocolate (except for Aero mouse) and I was well on my way to normal breakfasts that don’t consist of a packet of chocolate-chip cookies. I had cornflakes twice, and Kellogg’s Crunchy Nut for supper once in work. And then came the scones and butter and jam and cream (no I don’t think she milked the cow and churned the butter), and then there was the meringues! Oh dear God, what is this life if not full of cake?

So, how does Money Oil fit into all this? An earlier post covers the beginning, but back to the present; ZaZa presents me with a scroll which is a spell to bring your money back to you, and a little bottle of Money Oil in a tiny pink and sparkly bag. Outstanding! Fantabulosa! and Fandabidozi! What a brilliant and wonderful afternoon with beautiful friends (I'm hurrying now to tell you what happens with the money oil).

I went straight to work, loaded down with birthday cake and merringues and of course a couple of sandwiches for my break. I couldn't wait to tell Angel about the money oil - see original and earlier post. We had an hysterical first hour and everyone had a bit of the beautiful gateaux and praised the skills of ZaZa, which I went on and on about. Then when we got our wages (cash) we did as instructed in the scroll; we oiled our fingertips and rubbed our money with the oil, all the while imagining it returning to us! All that was left to do was to put the money in a special little bag and sleep with it under our pillows for it to work. So here's hoping!

And please give a round of applause to the Samsung phone for capturing the lovely pics, though close-ups are not its forte. Today is the actual birthday and summer seems to have gone again; I can hear the wind roaring behind me as I type. Merringues for breakfast then it's off to the bank to lay my magic money down so it can be whipped away and, hopefully, spirited back.

Amazon and PowerRanger just showed up with a bagful of lovely goodies and now I'm sitting (still in my nightdress) stinking of ROUGE by Christian Lacroix - let's face it, I am Ab Fab!

CHRYSALIS

2008-07-01T00:30:00.004+01:00

I’ve found a fantastic site for procrastinating called, Protagonize. Collaborate to your heart’s content. I’ve tried to get my fellow writers at WF in Writewords to play with this kind of thing but they never do, or keep anything up I begin. So I’m in clover; I’ve only been a member there for two days and I’ve got two stories running and have joined in a couple of others – now this could be very addictive but at least it is actual writing!

And the bad news is, I didn’t write my morning pages today! No reason other than I was writing and polishing old stuff for Protagonize. I thought I’d use old bits of work that I know I don’t want to continue; there are loads of scraps filed away, and I was already trying to tidy the fiction file – so this is just perfect, isn’t it?

The thought of other people creating a continued life with my characters is very exciting; I really hope people are stimulated enough to write some of these threads I’ve suggested; they have what they call branches, where you choose titles for three tangents or new chapter beginnings for other writers to investigate. God, the very idea just makes me high as a dragon chasing an addict!

I confess to addiction; I am addicted to new projects – I wonder if there is a name for this. I’m not afraid to finish them: I just kind of slope off in other directions but I do pop back eventually, hopefully to finish. Womag blogged some info that peaked my interest the other day about Woman’s Weekly looking for new submissions; I’m thinking of having a go at short fiction for that market, so have already rescued a few neglected pieces. Let’s all send a prayer up to the universe that I finish something.

The unfinished novels sit in the back of my mind and mock my attempts at forming routines; they know that I’m a lazy bitch and that they could be neglected for years! But, I am a new woman now; I know this – still a baby in this persona, a youngling. I feel a rebellion coming on, so watch out!

BUMBLE BEE & BOY SCOUT

2008-06-27T16:13:00.004+01:00

I couldn't resist this when I found it: I am the bee and Carrie is the scout. See my sting! This was probably around 1985/6 when we spent a lot of time on fancy-dress-pub-crawls for charity; this might even have been the one we did three-legged! It was very difficult going to the toilet tied to someone else and hauling a bucket full of money too! Not to mention drunk.

BELIEVE IT OR NOT

2008-06-26T14:12:00.001+01:00

My God is the universe and all its mystery; its coincidences, synchronicity and magic – I live for happy accidents. I absolutely do not believe that there is a man up there with a great white beard surrounded by blooming cherubs. So what does God look like to me? A ghost of a smile like the Cheshire Cat in Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland perhaps; or a wisp of a breeze that flips things into movement in my peripheral vision; or an eternal computer that has every permutation programmed into it…and we live in a world where magical realism is alive and very well.

My God provides beautiful scrambled eggs with cheese, directs me in and out of danger to learn lessons; I am capable of enormous feats of strength and courage because I am open to all eventualities. This world has always been cruel and magical; there are just many more instances displayed in an international arena that make us think it’s escalating – we are myriad and dangerous entities with only self-control to guard against the dark side.

My God plays me like the Greek gods in the movies played with their pet mortals, and I am set on a multitude of paths according to my own choices. We all get to choose: left or right; up or down; in or out; on or off. I am observed and judged – the path I need most in certain times will appear before me, but always with a choice.

My God will eventually lay down the knowledge I need to navigate my way to the success I hope for. All those years ago I chose to go to Manchester – I could have picked three other cities. I also chose to have babies and actively set about making it happen. I selected all the paths that have led me here; one day I will spend time imagining the ones I rejected.

My God does not lay a hand on me, either in anger or love; existence does not mean preponderance in menial and domestic notions – I, and I alone am responsible for my emotions and perceptions, without influence. My lethargy is mine; it comes from my experiences and feelings – I own it. I am to blame for not doing what I really want to do, and I am happy to confess. All the while I am in learning mode I move an inch or two in a positive direction.

My God has a thousand possibilities for my future and has put me in control of my destiny – I accept that and hope that the choices I make take me as far as I am allowed, within the confines of this body. My body is nature and therefore deteriorates in time.

My God spreads a wealth across the universe, where possibilities depend upon imagination and creativity – it is ever-expanding into infinity.

My God does not need: worship; gender assignment; race or creed attached; hymns written or sung; churches built and laid with gold; prayers or punishment; marches or pilgrimages; politics or pontificating. All that is assumed is kindness and generosity; is that too much? For many humans it apparently is!

My God does not have apartments in the name of Heaven and Hell; they were invented by us, men, and humans. Heaven and Hell are a control feature for the invented church to have power over the common masses – to frighten the hell out of them! Heaven and Hell are abominations and absolutely do not exist in my universe.

My God knows the way of the world and the limitations of Earth. There is no use in speculation because that’s all it could ever be; the only good outcome of speculation is education and learning. I am ready to accept my place in the way of things and already have an image in my mind of my end here; I see myself flying into the black universe, back to where I belong – home.

MORE PHOTOCHROM PICS

2008-06-25T15:26:00.000+01:00

GIVING CREDIT

2008-06-23T19:52:00.004+01:00

Thanks must be paid to ebay seller kodi987 for the beautiful photos below, and above; I will be posting more. I bought two CDs for 99p each, entitled: 1000 Vintage Photochrom Photographs 1& 2 and they are an astounding collection of views from around the world, possibly taken or inked, over a hundred years ago...and there's more than 1000! I can use them to make cards, for scrapbooking and of course, blogging. Enjoy!

SIX RETREATS

2008-06-23T18:03:00.001+01:00

TAKING OVER THE ASYLUM

2008-06-22T02:18:00.001+01:00

I’ve just been watching Fight Club again and come to the conclusion that we have to drive into the skid if we ever want to get anywhere. I don’t mean capitulate and fit in with the norm: I think we should run away with the extraordinary. You know the old detective saying, ‘if the only thing left sounds crazy, then that’s probably the truth!’ So, the yellow brick road and the wisdom of the green wizard is the way to go.

Normality has never really existed in my life; I did everything backwards and now I’m coming home to roost, amongst my similar friends – my familiars. One is a witch, one had a sex change including a clitoris on the National Health, and another is a psychic who swallowed Wikipaedia. Walk this way and don’t be afraid.

Fear has no power over me – I swat it like the fly that it is. I made my way to a cemetery 15 years ago, expecting to find a man who had attacked my17yr old son; I was prepared to kill him softly if he wasn’t already dead (from the whack on the head my son had retaliated with) – it was 3am and I was strolling in the moonlight, with the dog while my son (who I’d left behind) babbled his terrible warnings about how dangerous this man was. I told him that Glaswegians run from no-one. The bully had gone; there were a few spots of blood on the pavement. The anti-climax is still with me.

I know I would survive disaster and end up an old warhorse; there would be monuments erected, in time. Quite right too. But I wouldn’t be the one sending soldiers over the top; if anyone had to go I’d be right there with them. Honesty and courage used to be a basic instinct when I was growing up: now it’s missing in action and should be posted MIA all over the bloody place. My son thinks that my kind are mad. When the druggies smashed the windscreen on my car I was out there with a hammer demanding they come out and fight; they thought I was mad too and stayed in their holes.

How are we to live in this increasingly wicked world? By standing up and getting as bold as them; the muggers, rapists, murderers, robbers and violent cowards all have one thing in common – dishonesty; they think they’re hard, but they’re in denial. In Fight Club they’re looking for a way out and start beating themselves to a pulp; there is an energy and honesty there and courage to face pain and the unknown. The scary part is the success of madness, but someone has to push to create change, and often madness is very well disguised.

WILLPOWER

2008-06-19T15:30:00.002+01:00

Sylvia and I had a great night in on Sunday; we spent four hours rabbitting on about our school-days and old friends, family and God-knows-what-else. The only strange thing about it (to some people) is that I was in Glasgow, and she, in the vicinity of Chesterfield. Boy, can we talk on the phone; we had toilet and coffee breaks, and she had a bottle of wine and probably about a thousand fags – we broke off before the call reached the hour limits so it cost nothing. The sensible, older woman – that’s us. Yeah right!

In my hermit stage I spend an awwwwwwwful lot of time watching TV. I was conscious the whole time that I was missing my CSIs – isn’t that terrible? I think that this is my worst anti-social period to date. I enjoy being with my friends, talking and relaxing, laughing, looking at the phenomena of fashion on the high street; I love to hear about people I used to know, finding out where they went and what happened to them, but – I seem to be addicted to drama on the box. I don’t watch soaps or reality programmes or most of the fashionable sit-coms or comedies – DRAMA is the thing. I am losing my will to live.

It’s time to turn the telly off and read, and write, and craft, and think, and LEAVE THE HOUSE! Time to go out among the great washed and unwashed, fashionable and downright real people, in the streets, through the parks and art galleries, over bridges with stops for photo-shoots - to listen and learn. I say this from my comfortable position in my bed, with the lovely laptop upon my knee, and all kinds of refreshments at my right hand – even a cat within stroking distance.

This room, prison and necessary evil has everything I need within easy reach, for instance, upon my table: TV with video & DVD player; slow cooker; little grill; kettle; phone x2; coffee & Earl Grey; water; Slimfast; (milk & butter that needs to go back in the fridge – what an effort) bread; scissors and accumulated letters – it’s a big table. There’s also a baking-cooling tray that the laptop sits on. Why do I need anything from the outside world? I can be perfectly sociable from here. Just remembering an EM Forster short story called, I think, The Machine Stops, where life is reduced to an existence in a tiny room. What’s wrong with that?

I’ve been to the doctor and asked for help to lose weight before I kill myself with type 2 diabetes or something and he suggested a SPORT’S CENTRE!!!! My God, the very idea of it! But I suppose I have to force these things on myself; it’s an awful imposition on my horizontally-creative lifestyle, and I resent the time it will take – maybe I should create a whole new character to experience these vile activities…yes, I’ll give her a name and let her get on with it.

MOVING PICTURES

2008-06-17T14:21:00.005+01:00

My grandmother dreamed of a sailor at the bottom of her bed - he never spoke. She looked forward to his beaming smile during the long sleepless nights, alone in a city centre flat - a daughter for every day of the week to ration sleeping pills and Codeine. She sang about sin and spat at Ian Paisley on TV.

Her grave is a mile from my bed, but she won’t leave me alone. I hear her singing in our spare room flinging up cold cotton sheets, calling for drains to be bleached, complaining about the men on my walls. 'Valentino!’ she’d sigh. ’Now, there was a man.’ She wore black and red to his funeral.

Religion was an extension of her old age pension. Nuns followed her home. She begged from priests, and charmed local bobbies in the middle of the night, wrapped up tight in flannelette and tweed wandering Glasgow Cross, searching for a sister lost in time.

When she died, my mother found money taped to the wall behind the Pope, enough for a hundred fish-suppers in front of Late Call and a blazing gas fire to tartan her shins.

My grandmother is a frail fairytale, missing from my mirror. I didn’t know her face would disappear - I was young, couldn’t see past my own fifteen years. I remember her buttery hair, tidy, with natural oils, scraped back, pony-tailed. How will I know who I am? There are no pictures, only vague memories, fleeting.

TRAVELLING BLOGGERS

2008-06-16T12:20:00.004+01:00

I’ve just found myself getting quite upset at the death of a fellow granny-blogger; I hadn’t been in there for ages and how strange to click over there today to find that she’d died yesterday morning. Funny how you become attached to people through writing; it seems to be an instant connection that blasts away the rubble so that the friendship and bond is almost immediately grasped. I haven’t been back to read as much as I planned but I will. I now have two links to travelling bloggers: Maya’s Granny and Julia Darling.

This reinforces the importance of blogs to me; the family of a blogger will always have an amazing chunk of their loved-one’s spirit; their opinions, ideas, character and personality will shine out so that generations can meet and know who they were. I often wish I had something like it of my parents; they really were strangers to me – I only saw what they wanted to show me…which is what my children experience from me.

Children are always so involved in their own angst and plans for their future and present that the question of who their parents are doesn’t arise until death intervenes. The idea that these blogs will be part of family trees and social history is quite mind-blowing.

funny art

2008-06-14T12:24:00.001+01:00

THE NONSENSE OF TRAVEL

2008-06-13T12:03:00.000+01:00

Next stop is Kilpatrick; it lives under the bridge, huddled and flat beside the river. The next stop Anywhere, anytime; next stop Heartbreak etc, next stop Childhood and my ball stuck behind the railings and I’m going to be late and The Granny will kill me! Change conductors at Dalmuir – scary.

CASH IS SPENT, advert on billboard. What do people do in Singer? Next stop Drumry, and the sun also shines. I’m going straight to work, so I’ll have time to dally on Paisley Rd West, have coffee in Subway, might even buy a sandwich for dinner later. Must get wool for the sunset.

The city is approaching and I remember the photo I took of a rain-splashed bench, all dazzling with colours flashing off the prisms as the sun glared. I do believe in faeries. Westerton brings me nearer to Partick and a subway to Subway. I need an iPod.

TEA PARTY

2008-06-06T12:54:00.010+01:00

Tilly and I spent the afternoon at ZaZa’s yesterday: sandwiches, cakes, shortbread and more cakes – all home-made, for breakfast, lunch and I took some away for dinner at work. Howzat for bad habits? Then I began today with two of her rolls and am planning the last of the shortbread for lunch, in a minute! Just as well I’m arranging to begin a new life next week, isn’t it?

We had a great time talking nonsense; of course funerals came up, and the outfits we would wear, and what would or should happen to our bodies. ZaZa said that we should send her ashes off in a little boat onto Loch Lomond, on fire, while we sway and dance to the music she’s chosen - she made us listen to it and Tilly and I had a few practice hand and arm movements, while describing the trailing black lace of our gothic sleeves. I offered to create the little boat and Tilly, of course, will do the herbs and spells.

So there we sat all afternoon, stuffing ourselves…oooh, did I mention the merangues? FAB. And all with French cafe music in the background; there was also a touch of Russian as ZaZa showed us her Russian fox-fur hat. She paraded around, wearing it and a machine-washable afghan coat but wouldn’t allow me to photograph her because she wasn’t made-up. Life doesn’t get much better than this; I’m so glad I came back from my travels.

I can't believe I've managed to do this! How great is this? I have impressed even me.

DEAR TEACHER

2008-06-02T18:11:00.003+01:00

Mrs A, Mrs B and Mr C, you won’t remember me, and you’re probably dead by now anyway, but I must inform you that you were in the wrong business; there was no love of children in the ranting and terrifying tirades that you poured over our little primary heads. Somewhere in your lives you all took a wrong turn or were following a path that you should never have been on. I see you raising your hand with a ‘but’, but the fact is you are three out of perhaps six or seven teachers. You are the only stars of this show – none of the others left a mark either physical or mental on me; they are invisible. Almost fifty years ago, Mrs A, you made me stand in the corner of a cold cloakroom, alone, for swapping my blue pencil with the red one given to the boy behind me. I was four years old and you were my first experience of the education establishment; you certainly left an impression on me.

When I was seven, you, Mrs B, dragged me up the dining hall backwards by the ponytail, because I had done something awful, diabolical even; I licked mince gravy off my knife. I was a quiet and tender little thing and you were the monster from the black lagoon. There was no comparison in my reading matter; I don’t remember vile creatures in Enid Blyton tales. While I was asking my mother to serve me and my friends ginger beer and sandwiches at the bottom of the garden, you were the reality that was breaking into my life. Home and literature was a haven from the only school bullies I knew– the kind that didn’t need to wait at the gates; they got you in public, these 007s with a licence to maim.

I haven’t forgotten you Mr C, or the first time I felt your leather strap slap up my tiny wrists; I might’ve been eight or nine, and my crime was eating a banana in the lines. I’d probably been so busy playing that I’d forgotten to eat it at the correct time. You ordered me to come to your classroom which was full of eleven-plus students, all sniggering at me standing there, waiting for my punishment, aware of all my flaws. I had to be brave, ignore them and pay attention to your swaggering thick belt; I stood and took the two great whacks while trying to control my face. I didn’t cry; I stared wide as you verbally justified the beating and sent me back to my own class. I had that few minutes to get myself in order to face my friends, to pretend that it was nothing, that I was tough and cool before cool meant cool.

And then there was the day you belted the whole class, Mr C; I had finally reached the top, was a member of the eleven-plus, and looking forward to leaving for secondary school. We were usually quiet and studious, in your presence – there was no other way to be, and live. It began to snow, huge, soft flakes, and we stood up to see it. Of course you thundered that we should sit down, and we did at first, but when the blizzard really began to swirl we rose up again and were deaf to your threats; it was exciting. You must’ve thrown an enormous tantrum, I don’t quite remember that part but suddenly you had the whole class in a curve around the room, about thirty of us. You calmly walked along the line and belted every one, except for the class favourite who was crying, you told her to sit down; she was the fairy from the top of the tree. We were belting material; she was far too fragile for real life.

The three of you sent me out into the world with a hatred of teachers; a dislike of loud voices and discord – to this day I still have a little of the people-pleaser in me. When my first child was starting school, I walked the corridors, listening for raised voices, for the teachers who couldn’t command respect by just being kind and working at interesting lesson plans. I hope your kind are dead and gone; there is more pain in mental torture than physical – in life I learned to fight back with my tongue rather than my fists…so I did learn something from you after all, but should I thank you for that? Is it you I should thank for my cynicism, my quick wit and acid tongue? You battered a good Scottish education into the bones of me and I do thank you for that – perhaps the madness in your methods was thumped into you.

LOVIN' IT

2008-05-31T19:22:00.004+01:00

Yesterday was a very decadent space in time in that when there were three of us a round of coffees cost over 6 quid! At one point we were four and included crisps; £10 later, we sat in a window in comfortable armchairs, advertising our affluence - even though we're all as poor as honest working folks. If we were more like the general public we would spend our free money on £100 trainers, if we had free money.

So, it was Sea-salt and Balsamic vinnegar crisps for brunch; ZaZa had made beautiful merangues with cream and gave us three each - those I took to work with me and had for dinner, after a first course of chips. Wot a life.

There was a lot of sauntering between cafes; the sun was present; we peered in stylish windows at stuff we could never afford; I took photos but they didn't work out as perfect as I'd hoped. In Royal Exchange Square we fell upon a vintage jewellery shop, only opened three weeks ago; I had to buy myself a little pair of 30s earrings for £10 - I discovered the limitations of the phone camera; it doesn't do macro, so the beautiful jewellery came out blurred.

Tilly and I slagged off the cost of crafty things dangling from strings in a shop on Queen Street, so I've got feathers and sparkly bits on my mind, ideas for future projects; of course mine will be better than theirs and have more value for money - I might ask them to sell them for me.

I had intended on going home to write a little before I went to work but ZaZa was late, of course, and I hadn't seen her for a few years so the afternoon stretched like a cat in the sun, and we were all content with our place in the world, in Glasgow's coffee houses.

A HAIKU AFTERNOON

2008-05-31T02:31:00.002+01:00

Trains growl through tunnels;
a promising presence deep
but ordinary.

I cafe-culture
from Nero to Nero, one
solvent afternoon.

I should be sticking
feathers and glitter on things
that dangle from strings.

TRIP TO LOCH LOMOND

2008-05-27T13:30:00.003+01:00

This is Balloch, on the River Leven, which flows into Loch Lomond. Yesterday I took myself on a date, my Artist's Date, and bought an all-day bus ticket in Glasgow for £3.20; it took me 90 minutes and three buses but I eventually got there - it's only about 15 miles from where I live and maybe 25 minutes in a car.

Ooooh, lovely fish and chips out of the wrapper, sitting by the river; you can't beat it, especially if there's sun glinting off the water.

There are two dogs here, having a paddle but by the time I got to them with the camera they were leaving.

I just missed the ducks here.

CHOCOLATE AND WILLPOWER

2008-05-25T23:28:00.007+01:00

I am sitting amongst copious amounts of chocolate, at last. I've been good for a whole week - didn't know I had that much will-power! But today was the day, and I deserve a treat. Now I'm stuffed but happy. Happy too because I had an idea for a new project this morning and let it control me all day, which has ended in the creation of a new blog just for it; the blog-novel will be an interesting (I hope) development to watch. It's called THE POST and can be found in my links or profile, or click here. I am planning a twice-weekly delivery of posts, so let's see if I can keep that up.

Sylvia called me this morning and we babbled on for more than two hours; that's probably one of the reasons I keep either forgetting to call her or putting it off till there's more time - because I know we're at it for hours! But these little bits of time just multiply into years. We usually just pick up where we left off, as if we'd met up only weeks before but it will have been years - this time it might be about four. It's good to talk. She is well and is the proud gran of three. It's so hard to believe that we'll be 60 in six years; where the hell did it all go?

UPDATE: still going the Artist's Way and doing my morning pages; Morag is coming along nicely so we're leaning towards optimistic again; but I haven't really cleaned anything for a while, so am living in the valley of dust. Can't have it all, I suppose.

A BIT OF MUSIC

2008-05-24T20:26:00.016+01:00

If music be the food of LIFE sing along with this...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PL-uL2M3xvM&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9L9_8vwx2w8

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IWJDLgfzNgQ

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8vSWGNqI-sI

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VSqGwOmKEwU&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XMbvcp480Y4

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgfRqXmiimI&feature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=onmz15XIhdQ&feature=dir

LETTER TO SYLVIA

2008-05-24T01:51:00.003+01:00

March 2003
(Just found this mad letter I sent to my old school friend)

Hello hen

Seeing as you’ve lost my address and fone number I thought I may as well send it to you along wi a letter full of tripe! ….first break…just going for my bath….back soon.

I’m back. Gave the dead-ends a walloping as well. Maybe I should take a wee course in shoemaking, it’s the only thing I don’t do.

I joined that ‘FRIENDS REUNITED’ on the net. If you want any contact you have to pay £5 for the year. I paid because I saw the first boy I ever kissed was there. You lot made me kiss him through the railings between the boy and girls playgrounds. I think I was about 13! So I emailed him, telling him what I remembered and he emailed back! He said he remembered a lot worse events from his school days and that a kiss should be one of the nicer memories. He’s in New Zealand, got his own business, a wife and 2 daughters. He also told me that he’d bumped into an old schoolmate a few years ago who told him that 4 people from his class were dead!

I’ve had loads of work this week, so next month’s wage should get me out of debt - well the debt I pay…I mean there’s debt you forget about and debt you run away from. Mind you, I think most of mine’s fell so far behind me I completely forget about it. Well, time for another break, I’ve got to go and tape something for Amazon…I’m always late taping things for her and she goes mad. Time also for a cappichino with scoooshy cream.

I’m watching Kevin Costner and nipping in here to write this. Adverts are over, I’ll be back. That film, ‘A Perfect World’ it’s really scary…the thought of that kid with a man who doesn’t know if he’s bad or not. The whole way through it you like him and accept his faults, like murder, but then it hits you. Makes you think about how much you let people away with, how much you forget. I was watching Law and Order last night and a woman mentioned date-rape and how she’d always thought it was her own fault. I remember that happened to me, but I wasn’t traumatised, I just shrugged it off and learned a lesson. And Roseanne used to berate me for laughing at her cause it happened to her in my house. We were young then, and thought that a woman changing her mind half-way through had to just get on with it. Well, I think I must’ve thought that. I don’t know. How’d this get so serious? And now I come to think about it, when it happened to me it was in Carrie’s house and she laughed at me when I told her about it, she said I imagined it, or that I was drunk and it hadn’t happened like that. I remember I couldn’t look at the guy again. We used to see him in our local pub. She’d talk to him, but I wouldn’t even look at him or acknowledge him.

It’s late now. I’ve been watching the last ever episode of the X-files…the last words ‘Maybe there’s hope’. Not a chance in hell is what I say…we’re all doomed!!!

* * * * * * * *
NOW, 2008 You'll never believe this: I edited this find earlier today, planning to post it tomorrow (today now) this old letter I wrote to Sylvia (remember only the dead have their real names). Well, when I returned from work I found a message waiting for me on yes, wait for it - FRIENDS REUNITED! from Sylvia. We haven't been in touch for a few years - probably since I sent her this mad missive. W~ow. I just love stuff like this.

ADDS FROM THE BIG ISSUE

2008-05-23T13:11:00.006+01:00

These adds just killed me. Do people actually pay for this stuff?

CRANIOSACRAL THERAPY:

'a gentle yet powerful therapy to help the body's natural tendency to find health and optimum balance...for life's experiences such as birth, accidents, toxicity and emotional problems...that affect the body and cause disease.' (you may need 1-3 treatments to gain the full benefit) Cost is £40 per session and £180 for five.

www.biodynamic3.com

WORKING INTELLIGENTLY WITH EMOTIONS:
1 day seminar £110 per person.

HAVING DIFFICULT CONVERSATIONS:
1 day seminar £110 per person

From the Kinharvie Institute of Facilitation.

A LITTLE BIT OF SEX

2008-05-21T15:24:00.001+01:00

THE SALESMAN

‘Let me clean your carpets
your toes will think they’re in Persia’
His top lip stretched
and crumpled, stretched
and kissed.
I sorted my face into a quiet smile
the one my mother used.

‘Be bad luck to say no’
He had wrists
like emergency room doctors’
long brown hairs curled
at the strap of his watch
I couldn’t get away
from the thought of his fingers
inside me.

‘I’ll trim your hedge then’
His eyes kissed my feet
tossed
a laughing mouth
into the shade.

‘You’ve a couple of loose tiles’
It was cooking on the step
a breeze sauntered through the house
and flapped cotton against my legs.

‘I could save your life’
He leaned nearer
and spread his hands
under my eyes.
I watched the sun spin
on gold sleepers
while the smell of me seeped
out of the neck of my dress.

Published in Iron Magazine 1995

MODERN TECHNOLOGY

2008-05-18T01:49:00.003+01:00

I've been trying to learn the workings, or some, of my phone; beginning with photos and the whole editing suite that comes with the package. I am slightly more informed than I was a couple of hours ago, but still clapping my hands at happy accidents and insights but confused most of the time. Now, I am able to twist and turn upright; I suppose it's always a good thing to be upright. The images from the phone wouldn't let me edit them on the computer's software, but now I'm a wiser woman. My god, the places that photos can hide on a phone is amazing, but I got the little buggers.

These above are from the Art Galleries at Kelvingrove, and the fireworks from my bedroom window maybe at New Year; I really can't remember, but I thought the phone camera had done a great job here.

EATING THE BLOG

2008-05-16T11:59:00.001+01:00

Here's a little bit of something I posted a while ago:

I was reading a blog about secrets and came across one which was a photo of a very fat woman, and written on it was, ‘I am eating myself to death because I don’t have a gun’. It wasn’t till an hour or so later that the whole concept suddenly dawned on me; suicide by overeating. How long would it take and how many diseases and chronic conditions would you pick up along the way? I never thought about eating myself to death; although it might be quite evident to some people that I am on that path whether I’ve planned it or not. On one hand it might seem a good way to go but not if you arrive at the stage that you can’t leave the house because your legs won’t hold you up, and you can’t fit in a car, bus, train, plane without having one specially made for you! And, is it still suicide if it takes 20 years?

IS THIS THE WAY?

2008-05-14T15:26:00.001+01:00

I’ve gone ‘The Artist’s Way’ which might be detrimental to the blog for a while, but the great thing about it is; I’m writing and actually getting something done. In the last two days I’ve solved a problem with the section of the novel I’ve been working on, so it’s almost finished – the section I mean, not the novel.

I’ve been kind of stuck here for a while but I hadn’t thought of it as being blocked; I don’t know if I believe in artist/writer’s block, but something has happened and I’m only on day three! I’ve done my morning pages every day (I don’t do mornings) and I am beginning to look at what I’m eating and doing. You never know, I could be reborn within a month. Agents and publishers look out, ‘cause here I come!

CALLING TIME

2008-05-12T19:19:00.003+01:00

1973

I’ve teleported myself back to The Muscular Arms; this was a pub in Glasgow, not the nickname of uber-hunk. I was 18/19 and working in the super-coolest bar in the city; life was absolutely marvellous, and after my deflowering I was some kind of confident, as a woman. It’s a Pizza Hut now, but back then there was nothing like it. They’ve changed the name of the street and it’s now Nelson Mandela Place; my brain can’t retrieve the old name. A lot happened in my 1973; the main thing being the death of my father. I’d spent most of the time mooning around in the deep and meaningful words of The JeanGenie, Daniel and Happy Xmas War is Over

I don’t know what the theme was supposed to be in the main bar, probably just whacky: there was half a car (yellow beetle I think) on one wall; Rupert the Bear hung in a corner; and a dummy dressed like an old man leaning on the bar, became the cause of many one-sided arguments because he wouldn’t accept drinks or cigarettes or join in a song. I grew up in that job; that was where I learned to love coffee. For years I’d tried it with and without sugar or milk but just couldn’t get on with it, and then suddenly, coffee was the new chocolate! I felt at home and surrounded by family; there were parties somewhere every weekend – my mother reported me missing because I’d been gone for days…but she hadn’t contacted work. I’d either borrowed or bought clothes and continued life as normal but ended each night at a different party, waking up on strange sofas.

The Starlight Lounge, upstairs, had an ornamental stage with Fred ‘n’ Ginger stepping out in a dance (it might not have actually been them, but dancers anyway). It was all romance, sparkle and shadows up there. I think I only ever worked lunch in The Starlight. The specialities I remember were hot beef sandwiches and oxtail or tomato soup – fabulous combinations. Then we would go round to Diggs (the other coolest place to be seen) and eat cheesecake; their cheesecake was a seriously crumbly base and very soft creamy-cheese with great dollops of strawberry or cherries and sauce. My father was in and out of hospital every three weeks; he loved my long skirts and laughed till he couldn’t breathe at the make-up. We had to lock up the dog whenever he came home because he couldn’t take the weight of happy animal. I loved telling him the tales of my many mistakes.

When the new bar on the second floor opened, the theme was a surprise; even we didn’t know what it was going to be. They had opened up the old close (stairs and landings), keeping the original tiles on the walls and the old wrought-iron banisters; it was a journey into the past, to a version of old Glasgow. Oor Wullie’s Bar had a gigantic mantelpiece as a gantry, complete with a pair of wally dugs on each end, and high up on the wall was a beautifully decorated toilet cistern – you pulled the chain to ring the bell and call, ‘TIME.’ People would wait by the bar, hoping to see us pull that chain. Across the ceiling there was a pully (washing line) hung with huge bloomers, vests, bras and socks. I loved working up there but never used the toilet to call time.

I often ended up in the tiny basement bar by myself; it was a kind of mellow and quiet space that I was definitely too young to appreciate; I wanted to be in the midst of all the action. My father was the only one who could answer my question, ‘What’s a pink gin?’ A couple had come to the bar and while she sat down he got the drinks. Well, I searched that bar for a bottle of pink gin and neither he nor she told me any different; they obviously hadn’t a clue what it was either. So she had to have something else. None of the other staff knew; we were all too young to know something as dead as pink gin.

MARCHING ORDERS

2008-05-11T17:20:00.005+01:00

I’ve got two lots of homework to do: Morning Pages, and 20 lines of iambic pentameter. I suppose the former should be done first, otherwise it’ll all end up iambic. Of course I do realise that this is not morning, but that kind of thing doesn’t matter to me; my life has its own time zone.

Still reading bits of books - can’t seem to get a whole one to stay still and on my mind for longer than fifteen minutes. I discovered a little pile of lit mags with me inside them somewhere (they stink of the fire) and it was fun browsing work that I’ve either discarded or lost; I must type the viable ones up to file. Funny the things that survived that fire; I mean, all my old notebooks, my clothes, shoes, books, art materials, photos, negatives, furniture and I hate to think of what else went up in smoke…and some scabby old poems make it out.

I don’t think my memory will ever be able to recall everything that was in that cupboard – fate has me in its grasp and I must continue with what I have now. I had an email from Lulu in Spain last week. She said that the Spanish police have her car but I don’t know which car she meant; the one she uses or the old black one that’s full of our junk! So that would be more of my possessions going PUFF! Mind you, I haven’t seen that stuff for eighteen months, and have no clear idea of what is or isn’t there, so maybe I don’t need it.

What I need is to live in the present and concentrate on my future; I need to write, to position myself either with a pen in my hand or my fingers splayed across this bloody keyboard!

KLIMT TAROT

2008-05-10T13:22:00.007+01:00

These have been very hard to capture; the gold embellishment glares back at the camera – I’ve tried it from all directions and this is the best I can get. I haven’t got a scanner. The art is just wonderful but there is no explanation as to how they’ve created them or who for that matter; I assume that Klimt is dead and these seem to be collages of his collages – some kind of insightful collaboration.

I’ve been browsing the cards at work – not using them yet; I need to know them a bit better for that. Angel and I were discussing the interpretations of some of them last night; for example the 4 of Wands is a woman with a baby – we are more used to the house image here, but I suppose you would have to feel secure and safe to create a family…barring accidents. And I love the way the women swim under the 7 of Swords, with that knowing and clever manipulation. The 9 of Cups is satisfied indeed but the absolute beauty in the overall picture of the 5 of Wands takes my breath away; you have to allow yourself the freedom to see the fragility of bones here as strength and determination to overcome obstacles – the background is stunning.

The 10 of Cups is a true representation of the life I lead in my early thirties; it was all wine and beer and 'Does my bum look fat in this?'

It’s always amazing to work with a new pack of cards; there is suddenly space inside your head, room for reaching out and catching new inspiration – time also to discard familiarities and lazy readings. I’ve got about six but used to have a lot more. There is always more than one way to read a card so replacing the usual image in front of us frees our minds. I spent time with a spiritual mentor many years ago and she taught me to read from nothing; the cards are just tools and we take notice of the details that are meant to capture our attention – that’s how the connection or bond is made between the reader and the questioner, that’s how we can pick up and describe parts of their lives that we could never know.

I’ve found reference to the designer in the little book (I hadn’t looked properly). It says, ‘Klimt and his strong allegorical subjects inspired the Tarot designed by A.A. Atanassov…The symbolism inherent in the Tarot is perfectly coherent with that symbolist culture that also gave origin to Klimt’s artwork.’

FOOD FOR THE SOUL

2008-05-09T14:18:00.006+01:00

Tilly and I treated the city to our most scrumptious lunch outfits; we sailed our considerable ships out into the flash of a Glaswegian summer – and heads did turn. She sported a walking stick with a crystal ball clasped in a bronze hand, and my bag dazzled the streets with mirrors – we left the bells at home, on other accoutrements.

It was an amazing escape from the cave and my hermit existence and I made great use of the phone camera. Isn’t it fab? We were disgusted with the Gallery of Modern Art; it is a bare place, littered with someone’s idea of Art - neither mine, nor, I suspect, any of the general tax-paying public! I was very vocal in my opinions, as always, especially when we found fabulous art in a little gallery in Prince’s Square. I wish I had taken some photos there.

We had several sit-downs with coffees and drinks, and eventually, lunch, before I went to work at five. I remember a great conversation about one of Tilly’s old neighbours hanging condoms (and other interesting objects) on the washing line; she whispered most of this tale, sniggering, because there was a very small child only inches from us - in a pram I should add.

The day started well with the arrival of my lovely books from Amazon; The Artist’s Way by Julia Cameron; The Ode Less Travelled by Steven Fry; and Now That You’re Back by AL Kennedy. It ended with the absolutely fabulous Klimt Tarot cards I had to buy from Borders; they are a whole gallery of art that I can play with anytime I want – completely amazing, and inspirational; already I am imagining the collages I can create with my old photos! Oohhh , life is a minestrone indeed!

OF LUNCH AND CULTURE

2008-05-09T01:33:00.003+01:00

LOOK UP GLASWEGIANS

2008-05-09T01:24:00.003+01:00

MORE PSYCHIC PAM LETTERS

2008-05-07T15:37:00.003+01:00

Dear Pam

If I sent you something belonging to someone, would you be able to tell me who they were and what kind of people? I’ve bought something that was supposed to have belonged to Dean, on that ebay place, but I need it confirmed before I’ll really believe it. Oh, maybe I shouldn’t have told you that it was his. Well never mind, I trust you, and you’d have known it anyway I’m sure. I’ve enclosed it with this letter.

Also, Sonjia said something the other day that really got me all wound up; she said that Dean was seen with a woman in a London restaurant...she’d read it in one of her stupid magazines. Is it true? He told me that he wasn’t going out, that he spent all his time reading up for the next show, or just watching TV. We like a lot of the same things; he loves Midsomer Murders too! I realise that he is a man and will do all sorts, sometimes, but I got the feeling that he had kind of grown up, and therefore learned something since his divorce. Sonjia still doesn’t believe that I’m working for Dean Webster Live! She is very old fashioned though, and doesn’t keep up with modern technology. I’m taking a course - a computer driving lesson thingy, and then I’ll be able to email you instead of waiting for the post...though I do love the postman bringing letters to me: not just bills.

I was startled by your photo on the website yesterday and felt very close to you because of the resemblance to my mother. It always worried me that I looked nothing like her and she’d say I was my father’s living image; he died before I was born. It was also very interesting to notice that our dates of birth are close. Are you sure that yours is right? And do you know if you were adopted or not? I think it might be possible that we are twins. I know that might sound pretty mad but if you look at this picture of my mother (which is also included) you’ll see what I mean. You really could be her daughter. Maybe we were separated at birth...or maybe had the same father, but that wouldn’t explain why you looked so much like my mother, would it?

There must be an explanation. Maybe we could meet and talk about it. I’m free pretty much all the time so could make any date you suggest, though I suspect you’re madly busy. So, if we were really sisters, maybe that explains my interest in the Tarot and all that stuff – maybe I could be psychic too!

Ooooh, this is getting exciting. I can’t wait to hear from you. Now, don’t be afraid of my feelings, I can take it; I would love it if we were sisters, but it isn’t the end of the world if we aren’t. But maybe we could get a DNA test to make sure.

Love Isabel X (sis)

WARNING

2008-05-06T12:29:00.001+01:00

Thinking about Sex and The City, and how some people don’t like it because of SJP or whatever. I don’t think I see SATC so much as hear it; it’s all column and my mind seems to be fastened on that – it probably wouldn’t matter to me who played the parts as long as the acting didn’t get in the way of the words (is SATC a blog?).

My brain is a very mysterious thing; sometimes it doesn’t recognise and add up the total of what’s being said – it just concentrates on the melody. I’ve been singing certain songs for years but only recently noticed that I don’t really know what the song is about; I haven’t been listening to the words, well not completely – think I stop somewhere before the middle so that I can never sing a song by myself right to the end.

I’m faulty; a broken computer – not in control of my faculties. It must be the kids; they made me what I am – they turned me into a monster. It was in fact them who helped me discover the switch so I could turn the abominable noise off; when Carrie came over to mine she couldn’t bear it and was amazed that I, obviously, could – she only had one child. I could read a book in the middle of screaming, whining and complaining (as long as I didn’t have a hangover). Having three kids was just insane.

So has that switch come a bit loose over the years? Can I only focus on one thing at a time? I can still multi-task but only if I talk to myself. There was a time when I couldn’t read or study with music on: now I can sit in my own little bubble of silence in the middle of football and sport conversations. When this happens my daughter will say, ‘Mum’s gone.’ And I used to have a problem with noisy neighbours, barking dogs but even their kind have receded – I have no need for ear plugs when I have that inner world as a retreat.

Does all this mean that I’ll be barking before I’m seventy? Or am I already there and just don’t recognise the signs? Should I be slipping into my purple and choosing a good walking stick?

ESCAPE

2008-05-05T14:33:00.009+01:00

Reflections of TopCat on the laptop and a venture out of the cave; beautiful architecture in Argyle Street. For the tiny sum of £25 I got: 2 lamps; 1 single bedding set; 2 beautiful notebooks; mother-of-pearl photo frame; fancy mirror; and 2 square plates (red) for my bottom drawer. When Oracle told me that Au Naturale had gone bust my first words were, 'Oh, a sale!'

SHOCKING SIGHT - GLASGOW FOLK BARE ALL BEFORE MAY IS OOT! Sunshine all day, so far, and people showing white skin - though I did come across a tanned little thing wearing lots of bling; mostly on her bag. And for my travel-log, a young woman on the subway with black and white striped hair, not very well done I might add. All this excitement and no chocolate! Must send an urgent message to Musician in the next room to get on his bike.

The photos were taken by my phone; after six months I am finally able to get them transferred to the computer – don’t know how I couldn’t do it before, duh! I’ve been forgetting about the camera on this phone; it was the reason I got the bloody thing, and I’ve never even tuned in the radio! Or used the little Bluetooth ear thingy. When I go up country, I’ll give it all a go; I’ll be sitting in the highlands somewhere, scribbling beautiful sound-bites in my new notebook while listening to Classic FM, after a chat on the Bluetooth thingy with thingy.

WHO AM I?

2008-05-04T16:29:00.003+01:00

THE SIX-WORD BIOGRAPHY

1
Lazy, creative, pragmatic, experienced runaway granny
2
Quietly-verbal, outrageously-opinioned, crafty crazy manic dreamer
3
Optimistic, spiritual, obsessive, cynical, determined hermit

I, voluntarily, picked up this tag from WomagWriter’s blog but I’m not passing it on – if you want it just do it. It reminded me of the 30 second pitch of your novel to an agent you meet in an elevator. Lots of magazines ask for little biogs and I’m always unsure as to what people want, so maybe an experience in snippets is in order.

Here’s one I did earlier:

I fell into middle age when I was 40; sensible overnight – payback for the years of sex, alcohol and trashy high-heels. I’ve been flat-shoed since I was 35 while my idiot pal stumbled around Gateshead in the snow, falling in and out of her multi-story footwear. Now I am soooooo the sparkling, intelligent, unruffled and together older woman; it all depends on where your priorities lie. My friend (of the high-heels) has a problem with self-esteem – and she’s slim and attractive: I’m fat and bursting with laid-back enthusiasm for life, and death - in order to feel happy with the outside body you have to live happily within it.

There is another one full of bragging publications which I won’t bore you with; I think it’s definitely time to spice myself up in a more amusing package, with a sprinkle of everything so watch this space. So, have I just set myself on yet another tangent? Perhaps, but who’s counting tangents? It crossed my mind yesterday to tidy up my pile; to list the novels, short stories, flash, poetry, plays, sketches blah blah blah; don’t forget the autobiography; the blogging; the ideas; the future projects; the half-done synopses; the floating bits; the old bits; the morphic bits; and always, the sneaky little tadpoles tickling my memory with half-remembered dreams…like the one last night where the bird leapt onto a (huge) motorised butterfly and began to attack it like a woodpecker! How did I get a brain like this? And what would it be like if I could remember all the dreams?

WRITING

2008-05-03T14:46:00.005+01:00

So, sometime next week I have to spend lots of time lounging around Waterstones with piles of animal psychology/behaviour books and Earl Grey. Oh it’s a hard life indeed; my very bad guy from the Josie & Rita novel is going to be some kind of expert on both. I’ve just been reading Susan Hill blogging about writing in cafes, but there’s no need for me to report on Costa because it’s the same all over and everyone knows that Waterstones is Paradise.

Interesting week coming up then, and TopCat is going into heat, see the vibrating tail! She’s vocal again, and rubbing herself on anything that’s not flat; my old shoes; bags; tables; my feet; and don’t forget the galloping through the flat in the middle of the night, leaping across me in my bed, up onto the windowsill above my head, THUMP, down again. For a little cat she makes some noise landing on the floor. Also, I’m planning on getting her a collar and lead; she’s never seen another animal (except my grandchildren) and I want to see what she thinks of grass – when the weather is warmer of course.

I got lots of bits of work done in work last night; been taking The Writer’s Workbook in with me. I buy these books and don’t use them, so now I’m giving myself a real slap – this is a good workbook, with some great ideas for writing…I think I’ve had it a year and barely looked in it.. Here are two exercises with potential:

1.
‘Keep a travel journal for a week. Detail every journey you make. Include maps and illustrations, snapshots or sketches. Talk about the souvenirs you bring back, like fluff from a carpet. Make the smallest, most banal or disgusting detail amusing and alive.’

2.
‘Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. Do not mention the son, the war or death. If worked hard enough, a wonderful image will be evoked, a real barn would stand before us but one filled with mysterious meaning. And another of his suggestions: a lake as seen by a young man who has just murdered his girlfriend. Do not mention the murder or the girl.’ (This is from John Gardner 1984) Change gender if you want of course [me].

This book has been catching my eye all week, from the bottom of a pile on the unit. Already I’m thinking of the travel journal and am cleaning out the camera, rubbing my eyes and preparing my lazy self for an onslaught of writing practices.

A BIT OF A RANT

2008-05-02T12:47:00.002+01:00

I'm spitting fur; the postman has just slipped a card through my door, saying that there was no answer. NO ANSWER my bloody foot - I've only been sitting here for two days waiting for my lovely books from Amazon! I called and complained, again. There were apologies but no delivery till Tuesday because it's bank holiday weekend. Ooooh, I want to string them up, these bloody lazy postmen...and there's a bloody lift!

On a pleasant note, I'm reading a wonderful blog called Maya's Granny, in my links below. I wanted to read it from the beginning so I don't know too much about recent posts, only that she's moved from Alaska to California because she's ill; actually in hospital quite poorly right now. But what a wonderful blog; very interesting and readable posts. I just pop in now and again and read a few - am at July 2006 and the one called friendship is lovely, funny.

SPAT BY TEXT

2008-05-02T01:45:00.002+01:00

MOTHER and DAUGHTER

D: 26.10.07 at 12.06 - Mum, what the heck am I doin. I can’t even get the court date rite. Wats gona happen now – it just feels like I’ve already lost him. I’ve got nufin. A wana just curl up n die.

D: 26.10.07 at 16.24 - Sorry 4 yellin at u mum, a don’t know wats the matter with me. I’m going now to collect hero. X

M: 26.10.07 at 16.41 - I understand. Don’t make a habit of it. Try not to worry.

D: 27.10.07 at 12.10 - Hi mum, gona do me a fava n loan me £25 til tues, a need to get gas n fags n sum food, n I was gona take hero 4 a mcdonalds. I’m in bed now – horable headache.x

M: 7.11.07 at 11.40 - Anser ur bluddy fone.

M: 7.11.07 at 16.53- If u dont let me no ur alive I’ll call the police tomoro.

M: 8.11.07 at 16.21 - So wats all this about. Bring my camera round here tomoro.

D: 8.11.07 at 16.27 - For goodness sake, why cant I be left alone wen I dont want to see or speak 2 any1. stop takin offense wen I dont anser the fon. Am just havin a bad week. I’ll b up tomz wi ur £ just like I said I wud.

M: 8.11.07 at 16.40 - U’ll be a long time dead bfore I do that again.

D: 8.11.07 at 16.44 - Wats that ment to mean.

M: 8.11.07 at 16.51 - Dead wi nobody caring to call to c if ur ok.

M: 9.11.07 at 20.13 - U let me down. I need the camra and the muny.

M: 10.11.07 at 21.34 - So I dont matter it seems. Wen did u turn into this selfish bitch.

M: 11.11.07 at 11.47 - Take my camra over today. I need it…as if that matters to u.

M: 11.11.07 at 17.31 - Bring my camra up here rite now. Wat part of I need it dont u understand.

M: 11.11.07 at 19.19 - Gimme the camra. U really dont want me comin up there.

M: 12.11.07 at 14.01 - I can only assume u’v lost it. Is that wat al this is about.

D: 13.11.07 at 15.16 - I got home n my neighbour said ther was sum guy shoutin up at my window. U’d better control that lazy good 4 nufin son of urs mum! I no it was him! I have bn hidin. Ur camera is fine. I went bk 2 the doctor, he asked if I had family support…I said NO. I’ll b up tomoz wi ur camera.

M: 13.11.07 at 15.19 - U dont anser ur fone or door to ur fuckin family support.

D: 16.11.07 at 13.36 - Hi mum, so I got a new job. Starts nxt wk. u ok x.

M: 16.11.07 at 16.02 - I’m goin to work in a haf hour. R u still comin up.

D: 17.11.07 at 23.32 - Mum, need a fava. I started work last nite – nite club – they want me again tonite. I need £10 to get a taxi n that. U will get al ur doe nxt wk. I swear.

M: 17.11.07 at 23.34 - Thot u wer comin over last nite.

M: 21.11.07 at 15.32 - Who r u and wat hav u dun with my dotter. How can we comunicate.

M: 21.11.07 at 19.50 - U’v turned into ur father and thats not a compliment.

D: 21.11.07 at 18.18 - Hi mum. Sorry a’v not got bk to u, I’m really tryin to get bk on my feet n bk to my old self, got debts everywhere but I’m workin n tryin. x

M; 22.11.07 at 11.46 - I need my camra 4 the birthday party on sat.

M: 23.11.07 at 16.10 - My camra and charger. Party cant be dun anytime. Its tomoro. I wont forgive if u dont bring it. And I’ll be at yours first thing in the morning.

M: 24.11.07 at 11.06 - Times up. Ware is the camra. This is unbelievable.

M: 24.11.07 at 12.09 - I’m at your door now. U want to get round here before I get arrested.

M: 24.11.07 at 12.50 - Battry dead. Thanks.

D: 24.11.07 at 12.56 - U wernt nice today n dont turn it round on me. U say ur bankrupt as if its my fault. I asked u 4 £ cause I hav 0. I’d ask any1 else but thers no1. av no gas no food n now what, ur batterys dead! I’m in a mess. Ur even getting my last txt. Thanks.

M: 24.11.07 at 13.03 - U never bother to ask how I am. U always want sumthin. Its obvious now u’v cut me out of ur life.

M: 25.11.07 at 16.31 - I take it ur not bringing hero over today so I’m going to asda.

M: 27.11.07 at 14.28 - No need to worry. I’ll never fone u again.

M: 27.11.07 at 15.43 - Ur breaking my heart.

Isn’t that the truth! Families; who’d have them? They’ll kill you every time. Life is like a musical scale and within a family your head will certainly bang on every step of the ladder.

RAMBLING

2008-05-01T13:26:00.001+01:00

Hailstones, blundering rain and more hail made me take a taxi to work. Glasgow comes to a virtual standstill because everyone jumps on buses and taxis; I waited twenty minutes, thinking I’d be late for work - I didn’t have an umbrella left and wouldn’t want to be fried under one thank you very much. My God, the lightning! And enormous thunder right on top of it. The cat is too young to have experienced this before and her eyes were like marbles; as if it was them hearing the thunder, not her ears.

I wasn’t late; had time to pop into the shops for a bag of potatoes so I could bake one for my break. Another quiet night down the psychic mine; I’ve just spent the last 45 mins flicking through OK magazine – no idea who half the people in it are, but it’s nice to look at the lovely pictures…is it for people who can’t read?

Pink is top of my crocheting class. She created a hat and scarf in just a few sessions – think I’ve got her addicted too. So far I’ve got four of my co-workers crocheting and two have sloped off in the direction of cross-stitch. Welcome to the Psychic Knitting B. Angel is the baby; she’s never even held a crochet hook before; her efforts might stay willy-warmer-size.

It’s always great when you get a real connection with someone; I was talking to a woman on the phone and she was doing me! She asked if I had something pink and white around me. I was crocheting white on a blanket and yes, there was pink in there; it’s for my pregnant niece – a snuggling rug for her and her new baby later this year.

Amazon is pretty happy this week, even though the custody battle is still going on. She and PowerRanger got caught in the storm. He loved it! Just like his granny; I always ran outside to twirl in the rain while my friends cowered in fear. In my earliest memory I’m standing with my father, me on the sofa, laughing at the thunder and lightning.

It feels like this is some kind of turning point: summer arriving; Amazon and Him coming to a better arrangement; and me, finally on track. BLAM! Thunder wakes me up and forces me into movement. ZAP! The electric storm shoots a bolt right up my epiphany. I hear you; okay…I’LL DO IT IN A MINUTE!

ADDICTION

2008-04-30T02:48:00.003+01:00

Talking about fragments; I’ve lived through, and got out of, many phases so I’m sure I don’t have an addiction gene – for the simple reason that I’ve obviously moved on every time to the next one. But, is writing and art addictive in the same way as drugs and alcohol? I watched, Am I Normal? last night, and had to pause when someone pushed forward the idea ‘Just stop’. At first he sounded a bit belligerent and unsympathetic but by the end he’d caught my attention by saying that most people move out of one phase and into the next...and that a lot of addicts stop and move on, eventually too. This is true. And, we are definitely a nanny state.

If being creative is addictive then I’m very happy to be that addict. I’ve had many fun phases where I drank a lot but haven’t become an alcoholic (and we’re talking about waking up in hedges here). There was also the sex; and that was a bit of an addiction I suppose because I’d jump on any old bones if I felt like it – Carrie was always dragging me away from unsuitable men. I get bored if I’m not winning (which is why I could never be a gambler) and got fussier as the years rolled on - very rarely found strange men in my bed. That boredom led me back to education and a more creative life. Now, if anything is addictive, it’s education. I only had a few O’Levels in mind to get a better job, that’s all; I ended up with a degree in drama and it takes all my willpower to stop myself from continuing – I know that I hate teaching so there is absolutely no point in going further. (forgot the TESOL course I did in Barcelona)

All my life I have been searching for something outside of myself, always looking into the future; when I was seventeen I was desperate to find the man who would make me a full-blown woman – it took over a year! I was the oldest virgin I knew. The deflowering and short relationship was so unsatisfactory that I waited another year before attempting it again, which wasn’t any better. Maybe that gives some insight into the way my mind works where relationships and love are concerned. There’s a poem, here on the blog that I wrote for a competition about love; it is not completely biographical, though the conversation about killing the wife-beater is true, but I wasn’t the wife.

I was talking to someone in work tonight and she asked me how often I used my laptop, ‘Every fifteen minutes!’ I said. ‘If I could hang it around my neck like an usherette’s ice-cream tray, I would.’ She’s a normal person, she doesn’t understand; she thought I was kidding. I am using Opera (don’t ask me what it is, it’s an internet thingy) and I can have all my special pages open at the top of the page…and just click click click, back and forth all day, night etc. it’s bloody marvellous! So you are all at the hover of my mouse (when I do that a picture of the page flashes up) and if that isn’t the sign of an addict then I don’t know what is. I know I’m getting worse but I don’t care; I’ve even begun to talk about writing to people who don’t do that kind of thing and can see the pity in their eyes – they think I’m madder than I actually am.

TRAVELLING

2008-04-29T00:07:00.006+01:00

I’ve been on the road for years, well the best part of five, and the idea of settling on solid earth is fascinating; my mind is running with streams of images and the possibilities are endless – there will be no patterns on my walls; I want to be surrounded, in that new place, with memories. I also dream of organisation and industry...from me. Hope lives here.

19th April 2005
On a Virgin train to Bristol

Grey clouds under white; the sky is thick with British summer-time. I’m travelling backwards; there’s more time to think about what’s before you, like tiny lambs that are just a crumb on the landscape, and screaming fields of rape blaring at you. Across the world a grandson is stomping around beneath a blue sky and I’m on my way to join him. This trip, I’ve learned to tell the difference between the songs of the robin and the blue-tit, and a larch tree from a birch (not silver – I’m not that bad). Also I was reminded how to make a white sauce; I haven’t done that since I was in school. I come away from this month in Devon a wiser woman.

May 18th 2005
Back to work in lovely Budleigh Salterton

It always surprises me when I arrive at a new place that even though the house might be sparkling and clean there are basic stuff that isn’t done; when I got here the out-going carer was listing and worrying about everything and anything, but the mugs were stained and the fridge full of white-label food! And the washing-up liquid was watered down again. I like her but she is bringing the client down to her level rather than keeping them at the level to which they are accustomed.

May 21st 2005

I'll do a writing exercise to jump-start the novel again; haven't touched it for many, many months - every time I decide to work on it I change the format or the focus or some bloody thing or other; I can't even get to the middle of it never mind the end! I'm not just a lazy writer; I'm a lazy everything; artist, potter, photographer. The job I do to earn a living consists of me keeping the elderly company in front of their telly! I try to be some kind of productive by crocheting or sewing patchwork - life is just too diverse. I can't finish anything, except blankets.

June 2nd 2005
Budapest for Bree’s hen-party.

The first meal I had was Chinese! Lovely, and only 900ft which included a glass of beer; that’s about £2.43, in a little fast-food buffet just along from St Stephen’s Basilica. So far, I’m not terribly impressed with the city. My hotel is pretty crumbly and tatty, in fact quite a lot of the place is like that - Budapest could do with refurbishing. Now I’m sitting at a pavement café and have just paid 700ft for a cup of tea! It was Earl Grey though. I’ve got to sort this money out. I think bloody Travelex have done me; I just don’t know where it’s all gone, and now I’m confused about the value of the forint.

1st December 2005

God knows what I’ve just eaten on this plane…and what the hell is Emmental cheese? At first glance I thought it said elemental. There were 14 E numbers in that sandwich, and it tasted like nothing, with a hint of ham. 7 euros for a sandwich and a cup of tea!

Jan 1st 2007
Three weeks in Glasgow

Again I wonder what the hell I am doing, wandering around the world, homeless, rootless, when I’m fast approaching sixty; and then I think, I’ve got years to sit doing nothing in some old-folks home. Though I’m sure I’d have them all doing arty-crafty stuff and turn the place into a growing concern, selling artwork, greeting cards and performing poetry. I’m beginning to fall apart; tomorrow, someone at the gastroenterology department is going to chuck a camera down my throat and check for inappropriate behaviour of my body against itself. I’ve been tidying out some of my life, trying to remember stuff and get it written down for my children, and I have got rid of a lot of junk - but I keep buying more.

April 29th 2008
From my cave

I might have stopped moving, for now, but I’m still travelling in my mind; I see the lovely new flat, the stretch of floorboards and empty walls – Loch Lomond, are you ready for me?

SCRAPS

2008-04-28T13:23:00.004+01:00

In searching for scraps of work to build a blog post I found this poem I wrote for Carrie’s 50th birthday earlier this year; I made her a scrapbook of our holiday in Gran Canaria.

CARRIE

My friend spreads her branches
all the way from Aberdeen
down the wind to me.

A tree with hands like rafts
and a heart to slice for stepping stones;
she is my wand.

We are driving music, rock legends
for grown-up women
and elegant drunks.

Stages of our growth are evident
in albums, in sequences, in
sentences finished.

The future flashes images of dreams
and rings around trunks till
zimmers surround us.

And this, is a funny find; I have no idea where it’s from, except a vague recollection of a game we played on WF in Writewords...yeah that was definitely it. Different people gave the POV and subject. Actually it was Facebook. Oh, I am getting old.

Here’s my piece: handbag from pov of poor student.

My God, she must’ve made this. She’s crocheted it with straw; never seen anything like it; little fans or shell shapes with bobbles, and bloody bells. Bloody hell, but it is kinda cute. There’s hardly anything in it - eight pens is a bit excessive. I like the fancy rosettes on the front. Cosmopolitan: that must be some kind of label, not for her though; that wouldn’t describe her – she matches her bags. It’s scary how she discovers the stuff she wears and cooks up. I think one day this bag will be in a museum; someone will take it apart and analyse it all to hell – and come out with bollocks. It’s practically empty and I can’t find what I’m looking for.

‘Where’s your purse Mum? It’s not in here.’

THE REAL RANDOM FACTS

2008-04-27T13:09:00.011+01:00

Tagged by Poppy, so this is a chance to do the 6 random facts over again; the last ones were a cop-out.

1.
I have the most ridiculous things for breakfast; tradition has never made an impact on my life, except where porridge is concerned – salt not sugar. After the first (now, only) coffee I start to think about what to eat, and there are no limits; when I was a lush/drunk, in my thirties, it was often cold curry from the night before (lots of coffee) and craving for cold samosas would drive me around the west end of Newcastle searching little corner shops. I always have or try to do what I want, in the moment. I’m sitting here eyeing up the choice of:

White chocolate; orange Areo; toast; cream crackers and cheese; toast with sliced chicken; or marshmallows - I think I'll begin with them.

2.
I like the CSIs and would sit through millions of them, one after the other, all day and night. I wonder if there’s a name for the kind of person I am; I once watched the whole set of Buffy in a week – that’s a season a day; more than twenty episodes in each. I am perfectly happy with my own company and the added dimensions the laptop and TV can bring. My son and I are rubbing along together in this tiny flat, very happily, as two similarly occupied individuals; separate but together; I write and watch drama: he creates music and plays computer games. We also make use of Instant Messenger; he demands food. I demand that he gets on his bike and go get chocolate!

3.
When I was twenty, Roseanne and I led a starving life in Manchester; not through any kind of altruistic or creative leanings, but because we spent all our money on drinking, parties and night clubs – there was none left for things like food. We were living in a women’s hostel (which is now a nice hotel) which was pretty much a prison at the time; we made lots of friends, who readily shared their food with us; one woman worked in a butcher shop and used to bring me bacon. This is not the first time I cultivated friendship in order to eat; we had just left a job in a hotel in North Berwick where I had to sell my body to both a chef and a night porter to keep hunger at bay – staff meals were terrible.

4.
‘Do it to Marion too,’ was something I said often to my parents, apparently. M-a-r-i-o-n was my imaginary friend. So, after swinging me between them my parents had to swing her too; they had to lift her on buses; search for her in shops; and tuck her into bed. The only memory I have of her now is the name, and how I said it; she was part of my life for over a year and this is one thing I regret not investigating closer – there are a lot of things I should’ve paid attention to that my mother could’ve shed more light on. Why didn’t I think that stuff was important enough to dig it out of her and write it down? I did once tape her talking about her family but it was already too late because she was forgetting names, though she reeled off a huge list of cousins in the order they were born. That tape is lost now. So, I will just have to re-imagine Marion; I don’t know if she was a child too or something quite else.

5.
I much preferred my father to my mother and when he died I was devastated. We had so much in common that my mother hated; Benny Hill, Monty Python, Cook & Dudley – our sense of humour left her cold and she would clank about the kitchen whenever they were on. I was nineteen and he had just turned forty-eight, that day. He died at the exact time he was born. I’d been sleeping on the sofa, looking after him – he had emphysema, we knew he was dying but weren’t ready for it right then. It was a very strange feeling, losing him like that; as if someone had slammed a heavy door in my face. I know I went all peculiar; I couldn’t speak to anyone, not even my friends; couldn’t lift my eyes to people in the street in case of some kind of acknowledgement or something. I think maybe I was hiding from his death.

6.
I worry about what’s going to happen to the bits of writing I leave behind; unfinished, unread. Will they just disappear back into the universe... for someone else to find? I hope so. It would please me immensely if someone could finish them for me. I was thinking about Julia Darling’s unfinished work last week, wondering what happened to it and how it could be finished for her, keeping her voice intact; now that’s something I would love to do, and in a purely selfless and invisible way. I do hope that one of my grandchildren, or their progeny, get the writing bug and can use what’s left of me. So I’m leaving my work to them and my body to science. Sorted.

TAGGED AGAIN

2008-04-26T21:06:00.007+01:00

Mock Duck tagged me so I’ve got to relate 6 random facts about myself:

1. I hate all sport; even computer games.
2. I like watching musical-acting-all-dancing competitions on telly.
3. I know England better than I know Scotland (my homeland).
4. My eyes are not as blue as they used to be.
5. My hair is not as thick, or as red, as it used to be.
6. My, formerly very shapely, ankles have disappeared.

I tag: Tania WriterGirl Amy Barjoker

SURFING

2008-04-26T18:37:00.005+01:00

This link is a wonderful surfing find. Check it out; and there are others on the site. I've just spent half an hour prowling in the oddest places. I might be back with more.

and... Scaryduck

and... Funny dogs

TAGGED

2008-04-26T02:08:00.006+01:00

titaniawrites tagged me with this bookish meme:

1. Pick up the nearest book.
2. Open to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people, and acknowledge who tagged you.

So, from the stack on the window ledge above my head I pull

Haunted by Chuck Palahnuik, ’is a novel made up of stories; twenty-three of the most horrifying, hilarious, mind-blowing, stomach-churning tales you’ll ever encounter.’

I’ve only read the first few and it is pretty good and horrible. He’s the guy who wrote Fight Club.
The format is quite strange so I can’t work out the title of this section – it could be Dog Years. I must go back to this, and finish it.

Here are the next three sentences:

Mr Whittier, our old, dead monster.

Mrs Clark, our new monster.

‘Today, the Matchmaker says, ‘is going to be a long, long day.’

- not a lot of typing here!

I tag:

Charlotte Duckworth Anne Brooke MarlaD

The Irish Nomad Mock Duck

THIS COLLAGE OF LIFE

2008-04-24T14:19:00.002+01:00

The letters to Psychic Pam are going well; I’m having an hysterical time and looking forward to seeing them all printed out in a few months. Some of them seem as if they’ll fit in better later in the sequence. Got five done now. This seems to me to be a great and very sneaky way to write.

I’m also thinking of putting a spurt on with this novel so have great plans for next week; gotta go see the Pollok mob on Saturday and was thinking of a stroll up Loch Lomond way on Sunday – with a few grandchildren. I want to take photos of Balloch for one of the other novels; the Susan Hill project. I’ve never really taken the time to look at the place properly; always just been passing through somehow – couldn’t name a shop or pub, but there’s a great chippy beside the train station. Quite a bit of that book is set in the area and I’ve barely set foot on the loch-side, I’m ashamed to say - it’s only fifteen miles away!

I’m doing a photo collage for a woman; I took the pictures of her children the other week but couldn’t get a perfect one with all three, hence the collage/art idea – supposed to be going out today to buy a frame but too lazy. There’s always tomorrow – gotta have it done for Saturday!

God, isn’t my life always about the last minute? Yes oh yes. I’m almost finished the blanket for my nephew. Angel was striking poses with it wrapped around her last night in work so I’m going to take the camera in tomorrow night and capture her. If she says it’s okay I’ll post one.

I was reviewing April in my head last night and feel that I’ve been pretty much full of death and destruction (aren’t I always?) but not in a depressing way, I don’t think. On the whole I’d say I was a very positive and optimistic person; cynical too, but that’s allowed in this climate.