WRITING

Letters to Psychic Pam is new. Yes, another project, but it’s just a little one; I have to write a letter every day to a fictional character for about four months or so, then it all sits together as a piece of work – what’s it for, where’s it going? I don’t know yet, but it tickled my imagination. I found the idea in the writing workshop site in my links and thought I could take it somewhere. The story is based on a real situation but I’m twisting and turning it into my own thing. They’re only about 500wds, and I don’t absolutely have to do one every day but, at the moment, I can’t wait to see what comes next.

I began the other day with 60yr old Isabel writing a letter to her psychic, asking for a tarot reading through the post. After creating the first one, I was worried about getting interesting stuff every day; when this (previous post) fell out of my head yesterday I sniggered all the way to the end. So, am looking forward to seeing what happens.

Other writers are always telling me to focus on one thing at a time but it seems that, after all these years, this is the way I work...and I am inching to the end of stuff. Maybe it’s because of the poetry; poets need to put work away for long periods of time so must have lots of projects – and I learned a bundle from sending work out far too early. I have some poems, started twenty years ago that are still not quite right; some of these have been rejected many times; they’ve been re-worked, moved back and forth from poetry to prose and back again. I know they have heart; a diamond inside them – I just need to find it.

I must be feeling my age; this is the second elderly MC I’ve come up with, but I like her – she is off her tartan trolly, and is in fact a stalker on two fronts. This will be fun.

Happily, I am writing every day, at the moment; sometimes just for the blog but that’s okay. Stress is not something allowed in my life, these days. I’m working slowly towards some kind of crescendo that will be a re-birth for me – then maybe I can quit the day job and play with words all day (I don’t need much money). Ideally, there will be some clay in there too; the idea of settling down in a new flat with space for all my stuff is exciting; photography, pottery, art and crafts. I can actually see it being just a couple of years away; it sits in a frame, well-lit, at the end of the corridor but I am sauntering towards it: not running. I’ll get there, eventually, without breaking a sweat; we wouldn’t want to appear too desperate, now would we?

LETTER FROM A MADWOMAN

Dear Psychic Pam

I was waiting for my little yellow bus today but a white one turned up instead. Things like that throw me off balance. Do you think it means something? Is it a sign that things are moving on without me? Our usual driver sat behind the wheel and spun my ticket out of the machine but there was someone in my seat. Somehow, the day is getting out of control. My hands keep attracting my attention; they look different – much, much older than they were yesterday, though I haven’t really noticed them for a while...so maybe it all started weeks ago, months even. Do you think it’s possible that I’ve been abducted or something? I mean surely I would’ve noticed these changes.

It’s all driving me crazy and I’m annoyed at myself for being paranoid, but when I saw that the big clock on the Pearce Institute was obviously new I nearly fell off the pavement; it was smashed before, wasn’t it? I’m scared to look in the mirror in case there’s a stranger there. So I’ve locked myself in my room – I don’t have a mirror in here but I need to avert my eyes from the glass doors of the unit. The news is normal, I think; it’s only me who’s a bit bonkers. I watched Who’s Line is it Anyway and got a shock when they put on the alien masks; there was a flicker of recognition in the back of my mind. If I’d known I was mad when I was over at the hospital visiting my friend I would’ve popped into A&E for a quick brain scan. Do you think I need one? Should I just get a taxi over there now, do you think? 

I know you can't really answer that.

Oh I don’t know what to do for the best so that’s why I’m writing to you Pam; you always help me to see the real world. I think I’m going blind – I have to keep rubbing my eyes to get rid of the film that makes everything blurred. I know I’ve asked you before but do you think it’s possible that I might’ve been taken? I don’t know how else to explain all the goings-on; I can hear music too – it comes from all directions at once...that must mean that it’s really on the inside, doesn’t it? My feet tap to it, honestly they do – when they think I’m not looking. When I catch them they freeze. It’s just occurred to me that it might be a circulation problem; that affects the extremities, doesn’t it? Are your eyes extremities too?

I know you’ll forgive me rambling on (you always do) and I hope you can recognise all this as something – hopefully nothing serious, and offer some advice. Even the coats hanging up behind my door seem to be twitching, and the cat has totally disappeared...and this is the tenth floor of a flat! Though I hear her sometimes. She wouldn’t take food from me the other day; do you think she recognised that my hands were those of a stranger? Who am I Pam? Do I sound different to you?

Signed:  Very Worried in Glasgow (Isabel)

Ps; I’ll be waiting by the door for the postman.

A YOUNGER ME

It’s very strange, coming across these old pieces of writing and getting a glimpse into my old self; I’m glad I covered some of my thoughts. I remember me, at twenty-odd, standing in a bar, trying to capture remnants of old politics but nothing survived because they hadn’t been written down. I keep telling Amazon that she will regret not writing. So she has scattered bits of diaries (which are better than nothing) but the laptop makes all the difference; now it’s easy to nip in and type a quick note, and Bibo will save her. I can just see her old self cackling at the language of messages and outrageous statements of her twirling twenties.

I recently found Musician’s old diary amongst my stuff that survived the fire, and the skip; from when he was about seven. There was a line in it that said, ‘I hate Maggy Facha. She takes my mums muny.’ There are only a few pages covered. I don’t even have that from my childhood so whatever is dragged out of memory will be fashioned/tainted by this old head; and the thoughts and ideas are lost forever. My young life was spent reading instead of writing. Just imagine that teenager; I know that I searched for the right man to de-flower me for a good couple of years before he turned up, in bed beside me, sleeping; we woke together and consummated something in the middle of the night – and there were definitely no rainbows or fireworks...but it would’ve been very interesting to hear it directly from that me.

All the school reports I’d saved have disappeared; I wanted to embarrass my children while they berated their own kids for lack of attention, grubby and untidy work etc, but they were lost in the fire. So now, I am collecting biscuit tins to keep important bits in; mind you, at the moment said tins are full of crafty stuff and important documents are still lying around, unsafe in the world. I am so obsessed with memories and losing old pieces of our lives that I have multi-copied all the photos and my writing onto discs that are spread around everyone’s houses. All the old negatives are missing too; I always meant to check and sort them out.

I wish I had kept a record of illnesses and injuries; over the years the lives of three terrible children kind of blend and fade into each other that I only remember broken bones and a few stitches but not who had Chicken Pox or German measles. I began keeping diaries in the mid 80s but it was all pretty sporadic and there were an awful lot of hangovers and drunken ramblings (they’ve gone too). I don’t think there were many intelligent musings in them, so not a huge loss. If only I had been the perfect mother; I might have written up amusing daily reports to go down in family history – instead of grabbing as much personal time as I could while they slept. Things might’ve been very different with this old head on that younger me.

A BIT MORE OF THE PAST

1993 (from my journal, still on the train)

‘There’s the sea!’ Amazon stands up. We’re coming up to Berwick. I like the 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, looking out to sea. I’ve never been further than one night in Amsterdam.

TocToc is 16, Musician 12, Amazon 11…and I’m still alive. I dreamed the other night that I was smoking; I haven’t smoked for nine 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 Amazon 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, that there would be a social worker at the door who wanted to see Amazon…I thought I’d lose her. So, I went to put her back together but the bottom half had withered slightly. I managed to stick her together for the interview, which I don’t remember, and everything turned out alright! 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 alright, that someone long-dead watched over me and that a man loved me. She said I would move house but not far. I kept asking her how much it would cost and she kept 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 the 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.’ TocToc 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 Amazon 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.

RED FLAGS

I’ve just had a call from Hamish, on Morag’s phone; he was almost made a widower because a junior doctor and young nurse put Morag on a fluid that she was seriously allergic to! (to which even) Why don’t they flag this stuff up in great red letters? She went into anaphylactic shock and has been back in intensive care and high dependency. This makes me sooooo mad. After Amazon’s brain haemorrhage and subsequent pregnancy, she had to relate the whole story at every ante-natal visit because they wanted to know why the elective caesarean? NOTES are there for a reason.

This was one of my visiting days – I always have a fit when he uses her phone to call me. I mean, you see the name come up and pick up with a, ‘Hello dear,’ but different voices make your stomach churn. A couple of years ago, I answered the phone to Louise and her daughter’s voice threw me. She told me that her mother had died from breast cancer. I hadn’t seen Louise for maybe six months because I was travelling round Devon, but she was fine. There was a vague memory that she was going for a test...but, dead in six months! My god.

I am constantly amazed at how the world changes when I’m not looking; I expect everyone and everything to continue on the same level, to stay the same. When I left Morag on Monday she was almost sprightly, moving around, going to the toilet, talking up a storm. She knows her own body and all the medication, which is great because she has to be on top of all the stuff new and strange staff don’t know; there have been quite a few occasions when she’s had to stop them offering her the wrong medication. If she had been asleep when they’d given her that fluid the other night she’d be dead. She made them stop the drip but it was already too late.

I spoke to her for a minute so I think she’s okay but she’ll be on my mind all weekend now.

A GLIMPSE OF THE PAST

1993 (from my journal)

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. I’m watching a man with dark hairy arms. 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. TocToc, Musician and Amazon 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!'

WORDS

Ooooh, the scene I've been pondering these last few weeks suddenly fell out of my head last night at work. I had to get this bad character out of his flat after a row with his mother, and thanks to a prompt from my Flash 2 group it all came together; I often use their challenges with on-going projects. So, I was very happy to discover this character tearing the pages out of a bible and throwing them out of a window.

To me, that’s one of the most exciting things about writing - that feeling of freedom, of letting loose with no boundaries where you can make people do anything at all. When he tore those pages out of the book I couldn’t wait to get the window open, and could actually see the scraps of paper flying on the wind, up rather than down.

Also just discovered Scrabulous in Facebook; haven’t played Scrabble for years. I wonder if they have a version of Trivial Pursuit. I’m playing a game with Stella – isn’t it brilliant that you can do something as sociable as board games with friends who are 150 miles distant? She’s in Whitley Bay and I’m in Glasgow. Last time I saw her we were spending quality time with two other friends in The Biscuit Factory art gallery in Newcastle the other year...falling in love with portraits of Jersey cows.

Oracle and I had lots of time in work last night to chat and fell into words and prompts in creative writing; I’m going to set up an envelope of lines and words for him and he’ll do one for me. He’s trying to build a writing group but is having problems finding people; he’s afraid of those mad egotists who want to read their novels to an audience but won’t listen to other people’s work or take in criticism. We had a very strange woman in a Newcastle group who studied her own work and rustled papers and bags while others were reading – it’s so rude! I think that finding or growing the right people for a writing group one of the most difficult things in life.

Looking forward to work tonight; hoping to finish that scene. Off for tea and penguins now.

DYING WRITERS

The Irish Nomad (from my links below) has got me thinking about death; she blogged about the Irish writer Nuala O'Faolain who has just been told that cancer is killing her. My mind leapt to Julia Darling; she continued writing in her blog until she had no energy left - this is what a writer does, in my mind. I have added a link to her website, straight to the blog, which I've already reversed so it's easy to read from the beginning; before she even knew it was called a blog! It is a stunning testimony to her character and view of the world...and how she portrayed it in her writing.

She was such a laugh; I've just been reading some of it now and I miss her all over again; and Newcastle - no-one writes about the North East the way she did. And Live Theatre; Newcastle has an amazing theatre and poetry scene. I have tried to integrate since I've been back in Glasgow but it's not the same; there doesn't seem to be the same quality in the work being performed at open mic sessions (poetry). And, there isn't the same prolific playwriting going on either.

At the start of the blog she is writing 'TheTaxi Driver's Daughter', which reminds me of an hysterical morning in a writing workshop we both attended up at Newcastle Uni in the late 80s and early 90s; we'd been set an exercise to finish the phrase, 'The Tree of...' and pick words out of a box. Mine was 'Ready Meals'. I won't tell you what Julia had because it's in that novel. It's a great read.

That workshop was brilliant; run by Margaret Wilkinson and Gillian Allnut - boy they sent us on some fantastic trips, made us do weird and wonderful things in the name of Writing From the Inside Out. There's quite a lot of Julia's work on the website, and links to radio plays and interviews - loads of interesting surfing.

The radio interview where Nuala O'Faolain talks of her swiftly approaching death is so sad but compelling listening. It's Irish radio programme RTE. I think we all need a little conversation with death before the big event. You can really feel the silences and her struggle with emotion, but she controls herself and gets to make the most heartbreaking statements. I think there are few people who connect with you like this in your life; they make your mind work - both Nuala and Julia.  I haven't read Nuala yet but I will.

MONEY OIL

You receive an unexpected bill that you can’t pay; burn a green candle, mark a copy of the bill with money oil, visualise yourself paying it, ask the gods to help you. Add a piece of Sympathetic Magic by writing PAID on it, then burn it and send your request to the universe.

Angel, Shan and I were pondering the question of money oil; what was it? Another quiet night in work; we swung in our chairs as I entertained them with my pagan research. It was decided that to make money oil you’d have to put a magic number of coins, in a jar of oil, maybe sunflower, and just let it stew. But I said I’d google it when I got home.

Of course, nothing is that simple...and then again; see what I found!

Magical Oil Recipes
by D. Sylvan of the Sibylline Order.

The following recipes are measured in drops, blended with enough base oil to fill a 1/2 ounce bottle. I prefer sweet almond oil, but olive, avocado, or jojoba will do. Olive is the cheapest but also has a smell of its own that may interfere with the recipe.

Fast Money Oil                    Even Faster Money Oil

7 drops patchouli                    10 drops patchouli
5 drops cedar                patchouli is a great money-draw
4 drops vetivert
2 drops ginger


So I’m just popping out for some Patchouli.

WOOLY PICTURES

WOOLY THOUGHTS

I couldn't get my wifi to work this morning and went off in a huff, thinking, I'm not staying in here with no internet! I took myself up town to buy wool. Oooooh, it's lovely. I've got three blankets on the go in work right now; I was trying to use up the old stuff that's been lying around for ages - that means that they are interesting!

If you're ever in Glasgow and want to buy wool, pop into Watt Bros on Sauchiehall St. I needed white cotton to do a doily thing for my boss so had to get it in John Lewis (hardly anywhere sells wool these days - shocking but true). I prowled the shelves looking for the cheapest and it was £2.50 for 50g! Anyway, there I am, standing in the queue to pay when I notice this woman with a handful of assorted balls, which I imagined were for blankets or craft work; I whispered to her that she'd find better bargains in Watt Bros and shook my huge carrier bag at her. She was three behind me in the line, so I don't think the whisper was invisible.

The sun was shining, I hadn't worn a jacket; this is when Glaswegians go mad, thinking that summer is just around the corner but the old Scottish adage is...'Ne'r cast a clout till May is oot!' I felt elated and free, brave in the face of chill air; when the sun landed on me it warmed the dark corners of my memory - dreams of flip-flops and strappy tops. I've cooped myself up in that room every weekend with a machine on my knees; suddenly the other day I realised that I was in danger of Deep Vein Thrombosis if I didn't get some exercise. The fifty yard walk from Buchannon St subway is better than nothing, it's a start.

It was unbelieveably quiet in work tonight and I crocheted up a whole 100g ball between calls. There was only three of us on, and no food being passed around - so I was a good girl. I'll take the camera into work tomorrow and catch the WIP.

USEFUL FRIENDS

Whenever I need to know something I wait till I'm in work to ask Oracle; he is the font of all knowledge. For instance, there was a news item the other month about mercury that I couldn't get my head around; think I first heard of it on a writing forum and posted an answer, 'What! What! What?' So, before I'd even taken my coat off I asked him, 'What's all this about mercury?'
'Oh retrograde,' he said, and went on to explain that the planet Mercury affected communication on Earth some months of the year but that this time it was lasting longer than usual - hence the newsworthy-ness.

I turned to Shan and said, 'For God's sake don't tell him I thought everyone was talking about mercury: not the planet!'

Oracle is also the very proud owner of a sonic screwdriver, which he is never without.

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

Herman has friends who get him to house-sit while they're away; now they've got a fabulously enormous flat screen telly on the wall - which, added to their cute little garden, makes visiting much more attractive. (We both live in flats and have portable TVs) So it feels like we're at the cinema when in front of anything bigger than 24"....and sitting in a garden, drinking wine is just sooooooo decadent to us poor townies.

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

I don't need feeding but Angel often brings me food; when she makes Shepherd's Pie there is always a dish for me, so I put away whatever I brought into work for my break, or offer it to someone else. Last week it was roasted chicken portions. I must get myself up off this bed and cook something for this wonderful woman. She gave me a recipe that I've been longing to try; maybe tomorrow I'll shop. The trouble with this job is the generosity of others - they are keeping me fat!

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

to be continued.....

PRESSING THE PLAY BUTTON

I had lunch with Tilly a couple of weeks ago; haven't seen her in over a year. She looks amazing - must be all the sex; she's back with her old flame and the weight just falls off. ME makes her life hell at times but it seems to be sitting quietly behind her right shoulder at the moment; she still needs a walking stick though.

Her younger son is getting married in August, before the older one ships out for Iraq. I don't think (I know) I wouldn't want even one of my sons in the army, never mind both. She was an army wife so she has remnants of that mind-set still, I imagine. But it must be hard, especially with all that's going on these days. And then, all that has always been going on somewhere.

So she's planning this wedding, in a matter of months, with no money, as you do. I remember grudging the nine quid I had to pay to get married! That's all that remains in my mind about it; the £9 must've been for the licence. The bride-to-be was with us for lunch, and she's lovely. I think it must take something completely extra to make a good army wife. I made an excellent oil rig worker's wife but there is a great difference between two weeks apart and two months...on a regular basis.

Tilly and I met when we worked in the Psychic Centre about ten years ago, when she had lots of time to dabble in the arts of the white witch. Over the years the ME has worn her down and she doesn't have the energy for extracurricular activities, though sex changes all that; it has a very healing effect on her. I do worry that all this activity around the wedding is going to do her in completely though, no matter how well she appears to be. Come September I think she'll be exhausted.

I think the time we give to people we love creates more energy around us; I've been wasting my time on myself and am knackered - I need to go buy some running shoes to make up the distance between me and my family. I must put this laptop down and socialise; get out of this bed, this cave, this homeless pause that is my life right here and now.

WEATHER MOVEMENTS

Glasgow is hot stuff, apparently; there’s snow all over Britain and, again, we escape – so I don’t suppose I can really complain about the weather since I’ve been back. They were deep in it in Aberdeen last month and all we had was a five-minute flurry, enough for me to say to my grandchildren on Easter Monday, ‘Oh look, it’s snowing!’ My son bought sleds for his kids the other year and so far they’ve only managed to use them once, and that was just frost.

I’m sure there used to be more snow, when I was a child. Every winter we made slides on the pavements; great black slashes that we polished, standing like tight-rope walkers, flying down the street, faster and faster...terrifying the life out of the elderly – who put salt on our fun. Of course beating the snow into a death-trap wouldn’t be allowed nowadays; and I’d be amazed if the kids even knew what a slide was. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not advocating the right of snow to lie around my life and make me scared to go out in case I fall and break a hip: I’m just noting the difference.

The worst thing about this country is the weather; sometimes summer consists of a handful of warm weeks in May, which will have disappeared from our memory by July. I remember one year, maybe 1978, waiting for a summer that absolutely never arrived! I’m sure I would’ve seen it, because I was looking. My son was two and I had washing on the line every morning; that’s why I know the sun didn’t shine – I lived in a very bad area and had to sit out and guard the washing...so I had a pretty relaxing year but no tan.

I’ve spent the last five years between Devon and Spain and almost nine months have passed since I came back here – it’s been a long winter. I have recently become aware that I know England better than my homeland of Scotland, so plan to change that this year by exploring the wilds of the islands and highlands with my camera. I am ashamed to say that I haven’t been further north than Fort William or Inverness and Ullapool...and the only island I’ve set foot on is Millport (which is the town, I can’t even remember the name of the island).

Meanwhile, I have half a metre of pale grey fleece around my shoulders to save on heating; summer is bound to be here soon and the thought of catching great images of the Western Isles in the coming months fills me with enthusiasm, if not heat.

WHAT WILL BE LEFT?

If you throw away my words after I’m dead I’ll disappear completely. I want to leave something; need to be more useful than a flash of selective memory in the minds of family and friends. I’d love it if some future relative unearthed my scribblings and were entertained and hopefully stimulated enough to make changes in their lives, because of me; I hope to be more than an image in a scrapbook (of my making).

The other night, I watched the dead body programme; a new Horizon for the future of our parts, where medical schools can put in an order for a bunch of knees or a clutch of forearms, with hands attached. Apparently there is a huge market in human spares; the actual parts are not for sale – the cost is for the work involved in the butchery process.

So, do you want to leave your body to medical science? Yes, I think I might. There was a mention of a website at the end of the programme, www.bbc.co.uk/horizon. I popped in there and eventually found the site I was looking for, with the information on how to put yourself in the hands of probing students. This is the link to The Human Tissue Authority. http://www.hta.gov.uk

It’s not just the working, warm parts that are useful and necessary:

After you die they can strip skin to be used as grafts

A spine costs $900 and is used for testing orthopaedic implants

In the US corneas are worth $6000 a pair for transplanting

Forearm & hand is only worth $383; used for surgical practice; learning techniques, like keyhole

Tendons can be up to $1000 each

Shoulders are complicated to remove, $510 each. They’re used for orthopaedic research and surgical practice

So, treat this as a kind of living will. My body doesn’t really matter to me. Of course I might be too old, or riddled with something that would make them reject me when the time came; there might be a glut of cadavers. In that case just stuff me in a rented coffin, straight from the morgue to the fire...with no services or witnesses. I won’t be there - I’ll be in the pub with you!

Though, wouldn’t it be great if, by then, there’d be a way to extract thoughts and memories from our brains; complete productivity.

A MARRIAGE

I'm spending the day in bed with my lover, the laptop: not going to visit the Polok mob and being sociable, again. Happily, there's a chunky chicken stew bubbling in the slow-cooker. I want to play in my blog; just discovered labels, and a lot of the old stuff needs sorting. Well, that's my excuse; I never worry about these hermit periods that dot my life: I do often give a second glance to my eating habits, which become stranger by the year. Breakfasts this week have included: beef stew; marshmallows; Tuc crackers followed by custard creams; Hamwiches, without bread; but the most normal was probably cheese sandwiches made with Scottish rolls.

I must go up town tomorrow and buy a pair of decent walking shoes (lost mine in the fire) so I can walk to work and get a smidgen of exercise. I blame the laptop; I just can't bear to take my eyes off it. I thought Amazon was going to borrow it last night and was distraught at the thought; when I arrived home from work at 1am and saw the beautiful beast smiling at me from its place by my bed I almost sobbed with relief. I've only come to notice this passion in the last year and now I'm ready to embrace it, go public - make some kind of anouncement.

I AM IN LOVE WITH A MACHINE and if it asks me to marry it I'll say YES!

LUCK

Morag is doing well; she told me yesterday that she was given permission to feel cautiously optimistic. She looked good and is a little more mobile; lost a couple more tubes and drugs plus the catheter...going to the toilet!

I remembered to make the card; it's their aniversary today so she and Hamish will spend some time together tonight, watching telly. Because she's a long-stay patient, and in a separate room, the staff don't mind if he stays past visiting time.

She was telling me that Hamish had a phonecall from the fraud squad the other day; the bank branch, asking him if he was in America. 'No, no I'm not,' he said. They told him that someone had captured his details and used his card in Walmart, spending around $1,000 and $11 in MacDonalds! Well done his bank; this had been spotted almost immediately. Apparently, the thieves try to spend £1 to test if the card number is valid and if it's a hit they can copy the card. Hamish only lost that initial pound and now the bank's fraud team will pass it on to the police.

So happy aniversary you two - I hope there are many more to come.

EVOLUTION

My shoes are too big. I bought them in Aberdeen the other month, at the end of a tiring and boozy weekend with Carrie.
‘This is the best time to buy shoes,’ she said, ‘when your feet are swollen.’

Apparently not, for me - it must’ve been the accumulation of champagne, white wine, lager, vodka & coke, Tia Maria and Cointreau & lemonade...of course, the cakes and chocolate wouldn’t have helped either, nor all the standing at bars. They were reduced to £2 in Primark and I have worn them with socks and trousers so think I’ve had my money’s worth. I love them; pretty kind of silver ballet slippers, more metal-coloured than shiny – definitely not suitable for climbing trees.

I haven’t had a drink since, so my feet sit lightly in the shoes and flap them on and off as I turn my chair in circles. It’s been pretty quiet recently at work; I’ve crocheted a lot of blankets and am now on to handbags which I line with curtain fabric to give them body. One has ended up looking like something that Terry Pratchet would give to a witch’s assistant for collecting squirrels’ secret hoards (or maybe Magpie feathers).

I’m swinging on my twirly chair at work, contemplating the artex ceiling and thinking, I don’t need to wear make-up, nail varnish or jewellery; all my embellishments are inside my head. I am The Faraway Tree; my mind just climbs up my limbs and leaves through the hole at the crown, into space; an installation to populate with word-art; a fabulous Etch-a-Sketch. I suppose this puts the interpretation of the statement, I want to be a tree, in a completely different light. Oh for Dame Wash-a-Lot and the fruits of all seasons; my life would be empty without Enid Blyton.

I often wish my visitors were insubstantial, less demanding. I’m not crazy, just very enthusiastic about things; if I can’t see it then I want to know what its thinking. Life isn’t easy; sometimes we need a little stimulation, it helps with circulation, especially if you have a sedentary job, which I do. The most satisfying thing about being single is the selfishness you are allowed to get away with; it gives you a sense of being in control.

People ask me if I’m lonely, and what do I do with my time and do I want to go sit in the local pub with them or spend my Saturday nights in clubs watching fifty-year-old women wobbling around like misshapen Barbies to bang-bang music. No; I’m in clover and this field is mine. Nobody’s getting on a lawnmower and cutting my grass, unless I request it.

A woman on her own is travelling; she is definitely not a ballerina, twirling herself dizzy on a musical jewellery box to the tune from The Bodyguard.

STILL WITH THE PENIS

This poem is about twenty years old but is now so dated that I don't think anywhere would take it. Its place is here, uncovered, with all the others in the post below.

BALLADE FOR SINGLE WOMEN


Cavaliers on the weekend tour
we keep eyes peeled for well-heeled
men with wallets, and hair just groomed.
My hot lips squint from lurching cheers
in clouded rooms, guessing careers
comparing body parts to heights
though any one might test the means
come the end of the long long, night.

Sliding from cocktail to bar, Whores
they call us. We laugh at sneers
slant eyes across pints of Coors
nudge elbows ‘Had him last year -
condommed to the armpits, no fear’
and necks stretched against boisterous bites
walled up dark lanes with trembling knees
come the end of the long, long night.

Now bare-back riders buck no more
no sucking and jumping bones, dears –
safe sex penetrates…no encore.
Fingers don’t feel the same here,
turns the spear into a gloved peen;
in these diseased years thighs are tight
the months are passing, now eighteen
come the end of the long, long night.

Envoy

So cancel my ticket to ride
blow sweet kisses, goodnight good knights,
sing softly of white wine and beer
come the end of the long, long night.

PENISES ON SHOW

I watched this guy the other night, working his way through a tv programme about penis size, penis envy and fear of what’s normal. He himself had come to terms with his 3 ½ inch member and even had a plaster cast made of the little beast. Apparently, he’s a comedian, so is dealing with his problem in public and trying to force other men out of the woodwork; there are thousands of them willing to chat, complain and moan about it online, incognito.

No-one would talk to him, well women did when asked what they thought about the question of size; there were mixed answers but most of them imagined a minimum of five inches. The men he tried to involve in conversation about their prize possessions were astounded and too embarrassed to seriously take part. But by the end of the programme he had over a hundred men send him photos they’d taken of their ‘chaps’ with their mobile phones, which were then mounted on a white-walled space and shown to the public.

Can you imagine this room, wall-to-wall penises; all shapes and colours, close-up and very personal? He had to coerce the first group into the room; they’d been huddling in the foyer with drinks, scared of being in the same room as a multitude of naked dicks/cocks/chaps/members, whatever you want to call them – they didn’t want to face it or each other. But, by the end of the showing he had persuaded quite a number of these visitors to enter a little curtained booth and take Polaroid snaps of their BITS which were also pinned up alongside the main exhibits.

All the way through this, every time the interviewer mentioned his little package, I was remembering two brothers that Carrie and I had in the 80s; when we compared notes the next day we were astounded to realise that in their case it ran in the family. In those days I measured dicks by doing one potato, two potato; a female fist might only be about 2 ½ inches high – these brothers only reached half a fist! I have to say that in a case like this SIZE DOES MATTER.

I think the end result of this programme was very arty; what a stunning thing is a room full of penises...they were so cute!