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.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Saturday, April 19, 2008
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.
‘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.
Friday, April 18, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
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!'
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!'
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, April 14, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Friday, April 11, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 09, 2008
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.....
'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.....
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, April 07, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, April 06, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, April 05, 2008
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!
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.
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.
Friday, April 04, 2008
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.
‘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.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
HEADY DAYS 1969
I saw a sign in the local shop for dry cleaning; it costs £5.30 per item. Seeing that notice took me back to 1969, when I thought I was a woman - a fifteen year old piece of skin and bone with no breasts. Out in the wonderful world; my first a job was in a Glasgow boutique. Walls painted black, clothes rails hooked on chains that dangled from the ceiling and music on a loop so that we all knew which song came next; My Cherie Amour crawled through our minds, Proud Mary boomed, and Back in the USSR banged. We boogied Bad Moon Rising and blasted Alright Now out of the open glass doors; we were the biggest attraction in the street.
I was the youngest on the staff, and last in, so it became my job to take the shop-soiled merchandise to be cleaned at the nearest launderette with a dry-cleaning machine. I’d get on the subway with my bag, and a little pile of money. It was a good skive and got me away from the manageress! Shetland wool crew-necks had black lines across the shoulders from dust and customers’ grubby fingers, sliding the hangers along and along. I got to read my Mills&Boon in peace for an hour and smoke loads of fags before smoothing and folding and stacking the laundry back into the bag; the fumes from the chemicals would turn my head. Later in the day I’d have to iron everything and return them to the rails. I often wonder if shops still do that; or do they just sell off the soiled and damaged stuff cheap. That was another thing; I had to make repair whenever I could, invisibly – burst seams, hems, replace buttons…I even had to dye something once, I think; perhaps it had faded from being in the window. I’m sure I had to sign the official secret’s act.
After a couple of months, and with a few wage packets under my belt, I became a fashion statement. We would strut out at lunchtime, and sail through Central Station to the chip shop - sure that everyone was staring at us and turning green with envy at our daring style. We wore midi skirts, maxi skirts, tightly-fitted corduroy bell-bottoms and long-sleeved, narrow T-shirts with stars on; were made up with Miner’s Face Shapers and Rimmel Black Tulip lipstick (my father told me that if I ever collapsed in the street people would think I’d had a heart attack…my mother was mortified every time I left the house). We could only afford chips for lunch; most days I brought in bread for the toaster upstairs; I needed all my money for cigarettes – Players No10 were the cheapest, and if I paid child’s fare on the bus to and from work I could afford a pack of 20 a day. Sometimes I just stared out of the window and didn’t have to pay at all.
The Look was everything; I’d never been so stylish in my life. At one time we all had page-boy hairstyles, and we’d dot a few freckles across our noses with a brown eyebrow pencil. False eyelashes spiked from top and bottom, like long spiders’ legs; underneath we’d either draw or paint spiked lines – eyes were the thing. I have a vague memory of leaning on the handbag counter and looking up at boys who’d come in with their girlfriends. I thought I was stunningly beautiful, and, the sad look was in. When I was sixteen I assumed the world had been created just for us. It was a private club and we were the only members; no-one else could ever be as fabulous as us - except those who could afford to shop at Biba or Busstop.
The window dresser began to train me up, and the window became my stage; I would strike a pose, sitting on the floor at the feet of my mannequins…a doe-eyed dreamer, catching the attention of passing boys, sailors and unbeautiful teenagers. A new girl took over the dry-cleaning, though I still spent a lot of time at the ironing board, getting the packing-creases out of window stock. After many months I felt I was in control of my environment; choosing colour themes and styles gave me the confidence to argue with the manageress about sale items of the wrong hue going in my display. She didn’t have a creative bone in her whole body. I stormed out of my beautiful career and took a job in a café on West Nile Street. It was late 1970 and things were never quite the same again.
I was the youngest on the staff, and last in, so it became my job to take the shop-soiled merchandise to be cleaned at the nearest launderette with a dry-cleaning machine. I’d get on the subway with my bag, and a little pile of money. It was a good skive and got me away from the manageress! Shetland wool crew-necks had black lines across the shoulders from dust and customers’ grubby fingers, sliding the hangers along and along. I got to read my Mills&Boon in peace for an hour and smoke loads of fags before smoothing and folding and stacking the laundry back into the bag; the fumes from the chemicals would turn my head. Later in the day I’d have to iron everything and return them to the rails. I often wonder if shops still do that; or do they just sell off the soiled and damaged stuff cheap. That was another thing; I had to make repair whenever I could, invisibly – burst seams, hems, replace buttons…I even had to dye something once, I think; perhaps it had faded from being in the window. I’m sure I had to sign the official secret’s act.
After a couple of months, and with a few wage packets under my belt, I became a fashion statement. We would strut out at lunchtime, and sail through Central Station to the chip shop - sure that everyone was staring at us and turning green with envy at our daring style. We wore midi skirts, maxi skirts, tightly-fitted corduroy bell-bottoms and long-sleeved, narrow T-shirts with stars on; were made up with Miner’s Face Shapers and Rimmel Black Tulip lipstick (my father told me that if I ever collapsed in the street people would think I’d had a heart attack…my mother was mortified every time I left the house). We could only afford chips for lunch; most days I brought in bread for the toaster upstairs; I needed all my money for cigarettes – Players No10 were the cheapest, and if I paid child’s fare on the bus to and from work I could afford a pack of 20 a day. Sometimes I just stared out of the window and didn’t have to pay at all.
The Look was everything; I’d never been so stylish in my life. At one time we all had page-boy hairstyles, and we’d dot a few freckles across our noses with a brown eyebrow pencil. False eyelashes spiked from top and bottom, like long spiders’ legs; underneath we’d either draw or paint spiked lines – eyes were the thing. I have a vague memory of leaning on the handbag counter and looking up at boys who’d come in with their girlfriends. I thought I was stunningly beautiful, and, the sad look was in. When I was sixteen I assumed the world had been created just for us. It was a private club and we were the only members; no-one else could ever be as fabulous as us - except those who could afford to shop at Biba or Busstop.
The window dresser began to train me up, and the window became my stage; I would strike a pose, sitting on the floor at the feet of my mannequins…a doe-eyed dreamer, catching the attention of passing boys, sailors and unbeautiful teenagers. A new girl took over the dry-cleaning, though I still spent a lot of time at the ironing board, getting the packing-creases out of window stock. After many months I felt I was in control of my environment; choosing colour themes and styles gave me the confidence to argue with the manageress about sale items of the wrong hue going in my display. She didn’t have a creative bone in her whole body. I stormed out of my beautiful career and took a job in a café on West Nile Street. It was late 1970 and things were never quite the same again.
Monday, March 31, 2008
ABOUT MORAG
Morag is the most Scottish friend I have; she’s spent years on the high roads and knows, intimately, every hill north of Glasgow – not that she’s climbed them, no, she just likes her haggis spiced with local gin...and there’s been a terrible dearth of those items in the recent past. She’s been in hospital for almost five months now, with not a drop of anything but water over her lips the whole time.
I couldn’t begin to tell the long story but the short of it is that her guts are in an awful state. They have to keep chopping bits off, which doesn’t heal well and leaks into a bag. You’d think that in this age of plastic there would be some kind of instant plumbing you could buy in Aldi, now wouldn’t you?
In the last five years her husband, Hamish, has had the talk four times; been dragged off for a quiet chat with surgeons and given percentages and death-rates. She almost died twice in the last month alone. When I go visiting I never know where she’ll be at any given moment; intensive care, high dependency or her own little room on the ward (her home from home) – because she’s got MRSA too, of course...luckily not in the wound.
So why is she still here? What keeps her alive and why didn’t she die from all the operations, the coma, the traumas and infections? Because she’s a writer and hasn’t finished her book, or the play; I told her that I wouldn’t be able to finish it for her (can’t finish my own) because we are completely different writers.
She’s back in her room today and looking a lot better; there’s been a power of sleeping going on these last couple of weeks, and things are looking good. She and Hamish will have been married thirty-seven years next week - he’s one of the good ones. Amazing. (Mustn’t forget to make the anniversary card for her)
Crohn’s Disease is a bugger and Morag is filled with guilt because she’s passed it on to her son. I hope he doesn’t imagine himself in her position in thirty years; how could you live with that? Maybe there will be something by then.
I couldn’t begin to tell the long story but the short of it is that her guts are in an awful state. They have to keep chopping bits off, which doesn’t heal well and leaks into a bag. You’d think that in this age of plastic there would be some kind of instant plumbing you could buy in Aldi, now wouldn’t you?
In the last five years her husband, Hamish, has had the talk four times; been dragged off for a quiet chat with surgeons and given percentages and death-rates. She almost died twice in the last month alone. When I go visiting I never know where she’ll be at any given moment; intensive care, high dependency or her own little room on the ward (her home from home) – because she’s got MRSA too, of course...luckily not in the wound.
So why is she still here? What keeps her alive and why didn’t she die from all the operations, the coma, the traumas and infections? Because she’s a writer and hasn’t finished her book, or the play; I told her that I wouldn’t be able to finish it for her (can’t finish my own) because we are completely different writers.
She’s back in her room today and looking a lot better; there’s been a power of sleeping going on these last couple of weeks, and things are looking good. She and Hamish will have been married thirty-seven years next week - he’s one of the good ones. Amazing. (Mustn’t forget to make the anniversary card for her)
Crohn’s Disease is a bugger and Morag is filled with guilt because she’s passed it on to her son. I hope he doesn’t imagine himself in her position in thirty years; how could you live with that? Maybe there will be something by then.
WARMING UP
I've been very ill with a serious case of Lazyitus - well, where writing is concerned. My day-job keeps me on my posterior, so no exercise there either; actually the only action in my life at the moment is walking up the subway stairs on the way to said work. The really awful truth is that I live only one subway station away; yes, I could easily walk, and have done sometimes, but only when I needed to take a library book back - it's on the way.
A recent splurge in Flash Fiction has got me going again. I've gone back to the first novel to expand a very bad character, and that's been fantastic but quite troubling to find such madness inside my head. I've also fallen into another new book but managed to put it away after spending two weeks on the first chapter and socialising with a lot of the research - paganism is a great conversation piece. After I put it down something else came at me; I seem to be pretty fertile at the moment, so should probably prepare a good storage unit for future famine.
So, I'm away to warm up for blogging.
A recent splurge in Flash Fiction has got me going again. I've gone back to the first novel to expand a very bad character, and that's been fantastic but quite troubling to find such madness inside my head. I've also fallen into another new book but managed to put it away after spending two weeks on the first chapter and socialising with a lot of the research - paganism is a great conversation piece. After I put it down something else came at me; I seem to be pretty fertile at the moment, so should probably prepare a good storage unit for future famine.
So, I'm away to warm up for blogging.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
FASHION IN MY CHILDHOOD
When I was about ten, I made myself a skirt with a piece of red felt; I sewed it into a tube, hemmed the top and threaded elastic through for the waist then I hemmed the bottom with white cotton! Mum had taught me how to do a back stitch for seams, but hadn’t impressed upon me the importance of using the same colour cotton for invisible hemming. I didn’t notice the little white stitches dotted around the hem…and was out in the street, wearing my creation, in a flash. When my mother spied me posing in this MINI she dragged me inside and made me take it off…AT ONCE! I couldn’t see what the problem was…it was beautiful. She eventually raised the hems of my dresses a few inches, which didn’t make any difference at all; they still covered my knees…this would be about 1964 when it seemed that the whole world noticed what you were wearing.
She made all my clothes; another bone of contention in later years when fashion reared its ugly head. I hated almost all of the clothes I had to wear, but I do remember a pretty summer dress that had merry-go-rounds on it; that dress was made immortal in a patchwork quilt. Sundays were horrible; I was dressed nicely, and forced to wear a straw hat with flowers on the brim…the hat stayed on my head with the help of elastic string under my chin that itched and drove me crazy. I tried leaving that hat everywhere but there was always someone busy enough to find it for me. I even tried throwing it into the burn but the wind skited it along the bank and it landed safe on the grass. I spent half my time running away from those hats. I was sent off to Sunday school every week, wearing my hat. And, when every other child in the place was showing her knees below her dress, mine were ten inches up and under dresses that practically reached my ankles – this was definitely not fashionable!
She made all my clothes; another bone of contention in later years when fashion reared its ugly head. I hated almost all of the clothes I had to wear, but I do remember a pretty summer dress that had merry-go-rounds on it; that dress was made immortal in a patchwork quilt. Sundays were horrible; I was dressed nicely, and forced to wear a straw hat with flowers on the brim…the hat stayed on my head with the help of elastic string under my chin that itched and drove me crazy. I tried leaving that hat everywhere but there was always someone busy enough to find it for me. I even tried throwing it into the burn but the wind skited it along the bank and it landed safe on the grass. I spent half my time running away from those hats. I was sent off to Sunday school every week, wearing my hat. And, when every other child in the place was showing her knees below her dress, mine were ten inches up and under dresses that practically reached my ankles – this was definitely not fashionable!
Monday, October 08, 2007
BEGINNING - END & BEGINNINGS
Oooh, my friend Carrie and her man are back together again! He’s been and put an end to his past; closed down the shutters for good and the divorce is on its way. He’d been legally separated for years but recently came to the conclusion that he had to find out just how he really felt, so he went back to see if there was anything to be salvaged of the marriage. The break broke both their hearts; they’ve spent the last three months or so apart, and haven’t been able to completely cut communication – a painful friendship. Why are men so dense? They can’t see past their comforts; he’s lived with Carrie for five years and didn’t know that he loved her; was afraid to find out the truth because then he’d have to spill his emotions, ask himself questions and find the answers from a place he refused to acknowledge – his heart. And he is such a sweet man, one of the very few I’ve known; I never had one like him.
I feel sorry for his wife; she might have had high hopes for reconciliation – she had been asking him to return for a long time, which is probably why he was so confused. At least they both know now, and everyone can move on. There are no children involved; it’s all grown-up angst. He and Carrie will sit down now and negotiate their new future; they were happy together but he always had this weight around his neck, and she knew that he wasn’t completely committed to her. I sincerely wish the best for all three of them.
I feel sorry for his wife; she might have had high hopes for reconciliation – she had been asking him to return for a long time, which is probably why he was so confused. At least they both know now, and everyone can move on. There are no children involved; it’s all grown-up angst. He and Carrie will sit down now and negotiate their new future; they were happy together but he always had this weight around his neck, and she knew that he wasn’t completely committed to her. I sincerely wish the best for all three of them.
Sunday, October 07, 2007
MUSING ON THE MUSE
I think the word muse is old-fashioned, and suggests that writers sit at their desks, always waiting for it...like a 49 bus; and it's just not true. Writers write, then they edit and then they write some more before putting it away. All the writers I know begin from a prompt or an old/existing piece of work; they don't really sit facing a blank screen/page - that's a cliché.
You see this image of writers in movies, like say, The Shining; he’s sitting there with his mind out seeking inspiration and is taken over by an evil spirit. There is also the portrayal of this character as one of these, ‘I’m going to sit down one day and write a book,’ people, who believe that writers do indeed just sit in front of their typewriter and wait for this thing, The Muse, to strike.
Some poets wake up with a whole poem swimming inside their head but mostly they’re pulling images out of their diaries and notebooks to create a piece of work that will evoke some emotion from their readers. It’s amazing when you are gifted with a complete poem but it doesn’t happen often. Usually you are scanning around for a political element to sink into your anecdote or countryside musings; musings is a nice comfortable word which is a million miles away from a capitalized muse preceded by the definite article.
No, I don’t spend time waiting for my Muse; the usual reason for my procrastination is just bone idleness. I can’t understand why my head persists in this practice; it makes no sense. It is enamoured by the amusing situations and characters but when the words build into the tens of thousands it seems to take fright and run off screaming, and I have to drag it back. I’m closer to death than I ever was so I’d better try harder to get it under control; otherwise all these half-written tales will never be born. I remember one day, in the bathroom, when I was five months pregnant; I suddenly realised that there was no going back – it was going to hurt whatever happened; this lump would force its way out of my body, dead or alive, and I would have to suffer the pain. I need to align myself with this image and push these creations out. So why don’t I just get on with it?
You see this image of writers in movies, like say, The Shining; he’s sitting there with his mind out seeking inspiration and is taken over by an evil spirit. There is also the portrayal of this character as one of these, ‘I’m going to sit down one day and write a book,’ people, who believe that writers do indeed just sit in front of their typewriter and wait for this thing, The Muse, to strike.
Some poets wake up with a whole poem swimming inside their head but mostly they’re pulling images out of their diaries and notebooks to create a piece of work that will evoke some emotion from their readers. It’s amazing when you are gifted with a complete poem but it doesn’t happen often. Usually you are scanning around for a political element to sink into your anecdote or countryside musings; musings is a nice comfortable word which is a million miles away from a capitalized muse preceded by the definite article.
No, I don’t spend time waiting for my Muse; the usual reason for my procrastination is just bone idleness. I can’t understand why my head persists in this practice; it makes no sense. It is enamoured by the amusing situations and characters but when the words build into the tens of thousands it seems to take fright and run off screaming, and I have to drag it back. I’m closer to death than I ever was so I’d better try harder to get it under control; otherwise all these half-written tales will never be born. I remember one day, in the bathroom, when I was five months pregnant; I suddenly realised that there was no going back – it was going to hurt whatever happened; this lump would force its way out of my body, dead or alive, and I would have to suffer the pain. I need to align myself with this image and push these creations out. So why don’t I just get on with it?
Thursday, October 04, 2007
WHAT A WORLD
I’d rather be a cleaner than a teacher; when people tramp all over your work they apologise, and sometimes ask your permission to continue. Students don’t usually say that they’re sorry for giggling in your class and disrupting the lesson plan you spent ages working out. Thank the stars I didn’t spend time in that area. I did quite enjoy popping in at Book-week and doing creative writing workshops, or reading something with the younger years. Teaching English to ten 10yr old Spanish kids just makes you paranoid. I couldn’t hack it – give me a mop every time.
I like adults; people should be born at nineteen, with all the angst already flashed through their dreams, although babies are nice – maybe we could have babies as toys. But I quite like four-year-olds, they’re funny, and intense. Though I have seen some awful little beasts on the streets here; I saw a male one last week, belting around on a bike, swearing and growling to himself. He looked about five! And I have seen worse on the streets in the west end of Newcastle; carrying their booty from houses the older boys had broken into. Even comparing kids in the same family, the cousins, my God! When Amazon took her lovely, only child up to visit the Loch Lomond mob she was traumatised watching ToughGuy put the half-nelson on her little red PowerRanger. My older son, TocToc has five children and they all just tumble over each other. One of them can be sitting watching television, quietly, and another will suddenly leap on him. It’s a mad house. Just watching PowerRanger’s face is great entertainment.
I don’t visit often – I like to talk to them on the phone. Though, maybe that’s why they all go a bit hysterical when they do see me. On their own they’re fine, and I would take them most places without having to go back and apologise. I once took three of them out, together…oh my God! Never again. Comedian was about two and I had him in the buggy. As we walked around the west end of Glasgow he leaned out, calling ‘Dickhead!’ at people passing by. I was mortified. My oldest grandson said, ‘Just ignore him granny, he’s a bad boy.’ But they are usually good, and they stop swearing before they turn three. When PowerRanger was about 14mths I held his hand at the top of the stairs, in TocToc’s house, and went to take hold of ToughGuy, he suddenly sat and slid down the stairs on his straight legs! I don’t know why I was surprised. My only granddaughter is three, and is as tough as any of them; they used to drag her around like a rag doll.
It’s a wonderfully strange world; I’m told that their teachers love them, but it wouldn’t be me.
I like adults; people should be born at nineteen, with all the angst already flashed through their dreams, although babies are nice – maybe we could have babies as toys. But I quite like four-year-olds, they’re funny, and intense. Though I have seen some awful little beasts on the streets here; I saw a male one last week, belting around on a bike, swearing and growling to himself. He looked about five! And I have seen worse on the streets in the west end of Newcastle; carrying their booty from houses the older boys had broken into. Even comparing kids in the same family, the cousins, my God! When Amazon took her lovely, only child up to visit the Loch Lomond mob she was traumatised watching ToughGuy put the half-nelson on her little red PowerRanger. My older son, TocToc has five children and they all just tumble over each other. One of them can be sitting watching television, quietly, and another will suddenly leap on him. It’s a mad house. Just watching PowerRanger’s face is great entertainment.
I don’t visit often – I like to talk to them on the phone. Though, maybe that’s why they all go a bit hysterical when they do see me. On their own they’re fine, and I would take them most places without having to go back and apologise. I once took three of them out, together…oh my God! Never again. Comedian was about two and I had him in the buggy. As we walked around the west end of Glasgow he leaned out, calling ‘Dickhead!’ at people passing by. I was mortified. My oldest grandson said, ‘Just ignore him granny, he’s a bad boy.’ But they are usually good, and they stop swearing before they turn three. When PowerRanger was about 14mths I held his hand at the top of the stairs, in TocToc’s house, and went to take hold of ToughGuy, he suddenly sat and slid down the stairs on his straight legs! I don’t know why I was surprised. My only granddaughter is three, and is as tough as any of them; they used to drag her around like a rag doll.
It’s a wonderfully strange world; I’m told that their teachers love them, but it wouldn’t be me.
Monday, October 01, 2007
A LITTLE FLASH FICTION
The Archangel smelled of Guinness and home-made steak pie. Eurythmics pumped ‘Sweet Dreams’ into the air and Delphine found herself sinking into the music, all the way to the bar.
‘What can I get for you?’ the man sitting behind the counter must have spoken.
‘You sent for me,’ she looked into his face; his eyes had tears hanging in them.
‘There’s only me, I don’t know...’
‘No, but I do.’ She let him pour a drink and took it with her around the room. ‘Do you mind if I have the arch? And this little space behind…yes, this is it.’
He stood up and heaved his shoulders back but his mouth wouldn’t work. Delphine put her hands on his, held them together and shook him awake.
‘What did you say your name was?’ he looked surprised that he’d spoken out loud.
‘I’m Delphine. Call me Del. I’ve just got to get some things from the car. Are you any good at DIY?’ She was out of the door before he understood what she’d said. And back again with her arms full of fabric.
‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ he rubbed his face.
‘Don’t worry about a thing Bruce, I just need you to nail some of this up for me.’
‘Look, Del is it? This isn’t the kind of place for you. Nobody comes here, it’s dead.’
‘Nothing wrong with dead; I like dead.’ She handed him lengths of purple voile, and told him where to pin it. ‘Can’t you feel it Bruce? Isn’t your hair tingling at the roots?’
‘Only ‘cause you’re scaring me shitless,’ but he laughed.
‘I’ve got needles and pins all over,’ she glanced up at him and they both shivered.
‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing…or you for that matter.’ He said.
‘Go and open the doors.’ She spread black velvet on a table under the arch; her hand swept tarot cards in an arc, images up. They lit the room. Delphine stood up and switched on a lamp that sparkled stars across the ceiling. Bruce returned and sat at the table with her.
‘Why are you here?’ his face trembled.
Delphine selected a card and placed it in front of him.
‘I am…the answer to all questions.' A jangle of horns, braking cars, slamming doors and shouting clamoured outside.
'Let the President and Prime Minister in first.’
‘What can I get for you?’ the man sitting behind the counter must have spoken.
‘You sent for me,’ she looked into his face; his eyes had tears hanging in them.
‘There’s only me, I don’t know...’
‘No, but I do.’ She let him pour a drink and took it with her around the room. ‘Do you mind if I have the arch? And this little space behind…yes, this is it.’
He stood up and heaved his shoulders back but his mouth wouldn’t work. Delphine put her hands on his, held them together and shook him awake.
‘What did you say your name was?’ he looked surprised that he’d spoken out loud.
‘I’m Delphine. Call me Del. I’ve just got to get some things from the car. Are you any good at DIY?’ She was out of the door before he understood what she’d said. And back again with her arms full of fabric.
‘I’m sorry, who are you?’ he rubbed his face.
‘Don’t worry about a thing Bruce, I just need you to nail some of this up for me.’
‘Look, Del is it? This isn’t the kind of place for you. Nobody comes here, it’s dead.’
‘Nothing wrong with dead; I like dead.’ She handed him lengths of purple voile, and told him where to pin it. ‘Can’t you feel it Bruce? Isn’t your hair tingling at the roots?’
‘Only ‘cause you’re scaring me shitless,’ but he laughed.
‘I’ve got needles and pins all over,’ she glanced up at him and they both shivered.
‘I don’t know what the hell I’m doing…or you for that matter.’ He said.
‘Go and open the doors.’ She spread black velvet on a table under the arch; her hand swept tarot cards in an arc, images up. They lit the room. Delphine stood up and switched on a lamp that sparkled stars across the ceiling. Bruce returned and sat at the table with her.
‘Why are you here?’ his face trembled.
Delphine selected a card and placed it in front of him.
‘I am…the answer to all questions.' A jangle of horns, braking cars, slamming doors and shouting clamoured outside.
'Let the President and Prime Minister in first.’
Sunday, September 30, 2007
PEOPLE WATCHING
I made myself go up town today and the sun came out. I’ve been crocheting blankets again; started at work the other night, in between calls. It’s time to build up a stock of stuff to sell, I mean I’m supposed to be finishing my website and that’s what’s holding me back, because I haven’t got anything, right here and now, to put up for sale. I’ve got all sorts lying God knows where but can’t get to it at the moment; some is in Spain and some, hopefully, wrapped up tight in the old flat. I saw wool at great prices in a big old department store last week so that was the first stop. Think I’ll get three blankets out of this, and the colours are stunning…have started already and am one ball down – 100gms in a couple of hours.
I’m not a window shopper; I tend to get what I want and scoot off, but I’d brought my notebook and the camera, to people-watch so…I sauntered into the Buchanan Galleries and had a lovely latte in Ben&Jerry’s. There was a group of guys break-dancing for the crowd; nothing spectacular but I had fun. I think it would’ve been more exciting if the music was louder; there was no atmosphere; I suppose the shops might have complained.
I was only out about two hours; that feels like a whole day to me, but it means that I get to do lots of different things. Years ago I might’ve spent it all in one go, my time. I met an old friend in town a few years ago and we spent the whole day in Waterstones on Sauchiehall St, right on to a poetry reading in the evening and were practically shoved out of the shop at closing time, high as kites on caffeine!
Today was good and I was pleased that I didn't waste money; I popped into the Works and almost bought a scrapbook album, but I put it back on the shelf - it'll still be there in a couple of weeks. Then I vered into a pound shop but managed not to NEED anything, and headed off to the subway like a good girl.
When I arrived at the flat there was a handful of people standing outside the building beside an array of bouquets on the ground. I stopped and asked what was happening and they told me that the woman in the fire had just died; one of them was her daughter, she said that they’d switched off the machines this morning. Her mother had never regained consciousness; the smoke had caused too much damage to her brain. I could feel myself tearing up; I’d never met her but I was upset that this woman had died. She was only fifty-five. I was stunned that so much damage could have been done and we had not suffered at all. The people above and below had, to some extent, but the only thing that touched us was/is the smell.
In the ten weeks that I’ve been here I’ve only met people in the lift about four times. I met the neighbour next door yesterday for the first time. I don’t know the name of the woman who died but she has touched me. When I was a child I remember women from the area coming round now and again collecting for the family when someone had died. I said to Musician, ‘I wonder if there’s anyone getting up a collection for her daughter,’ and he looked at me as if I was mad. ‘Don’t get involved,’ he said. And when I thought about it, who would open their doors these days, to strangers asking for money, in an area like this?
As I began my new crochet I listened to the kids in the street, running around, playing some ball game, life going on as normal while the bunches of flowers sit beside the door, and above them the black gaping holes of the windows in the burnt-out flat.
Friday, September 28, 2007
SOUP
I was thinking about making soup; can you make soup in a microwave? I imagine so, I’ll give it a try, but my lovely vegetable peeler is in the burnt-out flat, so is the blender. When Pete and Joan’s family asked me what I wanted from the house I said I’d like the peeler; I felt it was already mine, and it would always remind me of my time there. I spent eighteen months looking after them – that’s longer than a lot of marriages; mine only lasted three months! The first one that is; by the time I waited for a divorce I’d decided not to go through it again, so when I’d had enough of hubby no.2 it was just a case of saying, ‘Don’t be here when I get back from work!’
I must make Amazon call the housing office and arrange for some kind of removal of our (very smelly) belongings. I’ve already thrown out all the soft stuff that had absorbed the smoke, anything that wasn’t in a bag or drawer. But, she can’t bear the idea of that awful smell coming into her new/temporary flat. She’s got a veranda; I suggested that we stack it out there and gradually get it aired, cleaned or whatever. I’ve got loads of pottery stuff and dishes that would need re-wrapping so I’m saving newspapers. For a while Amazon had convinced herself that she didn’t want anything that was left there but now she realises that she can’t afford to replace everything, that a lot of stuff can be cleaned.
I don’t know how far the repairs have gone; I’ve got a feeling that they are waiting for us to remove more stuff. At the moment all of my stuff from the storage cupboard is piled on PowerRanger’s bed. I still don’t know how my albums and photos have fared. Don’t know if they’ve replaced the floors yet or what. My grandson’s room was the only one that wasn’t soaked with the hoses so the floor and electrical stuff in there will be okay. The kitchen was soaked but my blender was in a cupboard. I’m going to call her now. I want home-made soup; I feel winter drawing near.
I must make Amazon call the housing office and arrange for some kind of removal of our (very smelly) belongings. I’ve already thrown out all the soft stuff that had absorbed the smoke, anything that wasn’t in a bag or drawer. But, she can’t bear the idea of that awful smell coming into her new/temporary flat. She’s got a veranda; I suggested that we stack it out there and gradually get it aired, cleaned or whatever. I’ve got loads of pottery stuff and dishes that would need re-wrapping so I’m saving newspapers. For a while Amazon had convinced herself that she didn’t want anything that was left there but now she realises that she can’t afford to replace everything, that a lot of stuff can be cleaned.
I don’t know how far the repairs have gone; I’ve got a feeling that they are waiting for us to remove more stuff. At the moment all of my stuff from the storage cupboard is piled on PowerRanger’s bed. I still don’t know how my albums and photos have fared. Don’t know if they’ve replaced the floors yet or what. My grandson’s room was the only one that wasn’t soaked with the hoses so the floor and electrical stuff in there will be okay. The kitchen was soaked but my blender was in a cupboard. I’m going to call her now. I want home-made soup; I feel winter drawing near.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
ANOTHER FIRE
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/glasgow_and_west/7015289.stm
This link shows a fire in my building...on my landing! When I came home from work last night I couldn't believe the sight that met me as the lift door opened, and the smell. It was horrifying because of the recent scare we had with Amazon's flat going on fire. I immediately looked towards my son's door and it seemed as I left it. The fire had been on the opposite side, just a few yards away but through the all-important fire-doors; two of them, thank the stars - the thought of going through all that again, with the smoke and water damage.
The CID have been round this morning asking questions and now the fire investigators are here. We've heard that one person who was taken to hospital is in critical condition. Musician has just been across and spoken to a fireman; they're clearing the flat out - it's been completely gutted. He'd been speaking to a woman last night who'd been trapped inside her flat with her son, terrified, not knowing what to do. Musician told me that he'd gone out on to the landing last night because he'd smelled the smoke and was stunned when he was enveloped in it. He said he knocked on his immediate two neighbours' doors and told them that there was a fire, but he couldn't go out into the lift area because of the heat and smoke. He said that when he touched the glass panels at the side of the door he could feel the heat. Now he's beating himself up wondering if he should've done something. I reminded him that he had asthma and that his lungs probably wouldn't have let him get very far.
I'm wondering why fire is in my life...is this a warning to me? I could turn myself into a frazzle analyzing omens or just be ready for anything; or make sure the smoke alarms are working! Actually this one is hanging off the ceiling. Must make him sort that out.
This link shows a fire in my building...on my landing! When I came home from work last night I couldn't believe the sight that met me as the lift door opened, and the smell. It was horrifying because of the recent scare we had with Amazon's flat going on fire. I immediately looked towards my son's door and it seemed as I left it. The fire had been on the opposite side, just a few yards away but through the all-important fire-doors; two of them, thank the stars - the thought of going through all that again, with the smoke and water damage.
The CID have been round this morning asking questions and now the fire investigators are here. We've heard that one person who was taken to hospital is in critical condition. Musician has just been across and spoken to a fireman; they're clearing the flat out - it's been completely gutted. He'd been speaking to a woman last night who'd been trapped inside her flat with her son, terrified, not knowing what to do. Musician told me that he'd gone out on to the landing last night because he'd smelled the smoke and was stunned when he was enveloped in it. He said he knocked on his immediate two neighbours' doors and told them that there was a fire, but he couldn't go out into the lift area because of the heat and smoke. He said that when he touched the glass panels at the side of the door he could feel the heat. Now he's beating himself up wondering if he should've done something. I reminded him that he had asthma and that his lungs probably wouldn't have let him get very far.
I'm wondering why fire is in my life...is this a warning to me? I could turn myself into a frazzle analyzing omens or just be ready for anything; or make sure the smoke alarms are working! Actually this one is hanging off the ceiling. Must make him sort that out.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
MY SLOT IN LIFE - HERE AND NOW
Well, I breezed into the new/old job and felt as if I’d come home; there were all these people still there, and they remembered me. I just slotted right in and felt soooo comfortable, it was wonderful…as though my space was waiting for me to come back.
The place has changed some, for the better, so I’m looking forward to stuffing my stuff into my little nook. We used to be able to see around the room from where we sat but now we’re in our own small world, a carved cave of shelves and cupboards, with electric sockets – I could even bring the laptop! But not now; now I need to make Xmas cards. You see, that’s what I like/need in my work; space and time to do my own thing while I’m getting paid to do something else at the same time. When I was looking after my old people I could do all kinds of crafty work or writing; I can do this here while waiting for calls. Last night I had a whole hour between calls at one point.
And from the first call I knew I had made the right move; I loved being back with my tarot cards, reading for someone, discussing problems and advising positive steps to take. I think of myself as a life-counsellor, giving people energy and hopefully the impetus to make changes in their lives. The cards are only a tool to make people talk about and pinpoint their problems. That is the best part of this job but there are those who spoil it and drive you to distraction; that’s why I left six years ago. They are the ones who call every day, every week and obviously don’t listen to the advice they’re given; they ignore what they don’t want to hear. In every industry there are those who make things difficult; in the psychic world there are questions and accusations hurled – not everyone is a charlatan. I know that a lot of poor people spend money they can’t afford trying to glean answers from the cards or the dead, but there are also other outlets that don’t receive the abuse that psychics get, like shopping and sky-tv-till-you-drop. There’s nowt as queer as folk, and you can’t tell them what to do with their money.
The other reason that this all fits in is that there are psychics and tarot in both of the novels I’ve got on the go; I didn’t plan it, it just happened and I hadn’t really noticed – perhaps I see it as just part of reality. And, the beginning I’ve written for Susan Hill’s CW course is going in that direction too. I think I’ve been guided back here for a reason and am where I am supposed to be at this time in my life. I hope that the new piece I’ve begun isn’t another novel; I can’t deal with three at once…I don’t think.
The place has changed some, for the better, so I’m looking forward to stuffing my stuff into my little nook. We used to be able to see around the room from where we sat but now we’re in our own small world, a carved cave of shelves and cupboards, with electric sockets – I could even bring the laptop! But not now; now I need to make Xmas cards. You see, that’s what I like/need in my work; space and time to do my own thing while I’m getting paid to do something else at the same time. When I was looking after my old people I could do all kinds of crafty work or writing; I can do this here while waiting for calls. Last night I had a whole hour between calls at one point.
And from the first call I knew I had made the right move; I loved being back with my tarot cards, reading for someone, discussing problems and advising positive steps to take. I think of myself as a life-counsellor, giving people energy and hopefully the impetus to make changes in their lives. The cards are only a tool to make people talk about and pinpoint their problems. That is the best part of this job but there are those who spoil it and drive you to distraction; that’s why I left six years ago. They are the ones who call every day, every week and obviously don’t listen to the advice they’re given; they ignore what they don’t want to hear. In every industry there are those who make things difficult; in the psychic world there are questions and accusations hurled – not everyone is a charlatan. I know that a lot of poor people spend money they can’t afford trying to glean answers from the cards or the dead, but there are also other outlets that don’t receive the abuse that psychics get, like shopping and sky-tv-till-you-drop. There’s nowt as queer as folk, and you can’t tell them what to do with their money.
The other reason that this all fits in is that there are psychics and tarot in both of the novels I’ve got on the go; I didn’t plan it, it just happened and I hadn’t really noticed – perhaps I see it as just part of reality. And, the beginning I’ve written for Susan Hill’s CW course is going in that direction too. I think I’ve been guided back here for a reason and am where I am supposed to be at this time in my life. I hope that the new piece I’ve begun isn’t another novel; I can’t deal with three at once…I don’t think.
Monday, September 24, 2007
A BOUQUET
Thought I'd add a touch of spring to our lives seeing as winter is blundering swiftly towards us; it's been raining on and off here for the last couple of days. I took my coat on Saturday and ended up taking it off and having to drag it around town with me - the sun arrived and stayed all day! My other excuse for using images instead of words is that my finger nails are clicking on the keyboard...and I'm in procrastination mode too.
Friday, September 21, 2007
SING-A-LONG
I’m singing Abba’s 'I do I do I do' as I write this. One of the guys from my writing group got married on Tuesday so he brought in a box of favours today, with cake and everything. I chose a CD of the music they had at the ceremony and party; it’s classic cheese, including YMCA, Shania Twain and Amarillo – of course it was a civil partnership. So, a great start to the day; cake and favours of chocolate pretending to be sugared almonds, and now relaxing on my bed with the lovely Shania wailing (with me) ‘From This Moment On’, and twiddling with sunset photos I took from my window the other night…ooooh, and just as I speak there’s another one just beginning. Life is nice tonight.
Oh, and I think I've managed to change the settings of comments so anyone can leave one without all that hassle.
I got a new job; going back to the psychic world of tarot reading. I start on Tuesday so will be spending the next few days pouring over my books to refresh my memory. And the only job application I haven’t missed the deadline for is that of the lollipop lady; my colleagues from the call centre job voted and said that they want me to do that anyway, so it’s kind of serendipitous that I’d missed all the others. It’s only temporary, till Xmas I think so it would be an interesting experience…maybe a little wet, but I quite fancy it for a laugh. God, my life is just a barrel of laughs – I’d be dead by now if it wasn’t.
I picked up my ordered books at the library; The Hours, The Awakening and The Quiet American so am looking forward to browsing. I’ve just finished reading Margaret Atwood’s Penelopiad; and I didn’t love it. It was okay, but it didn’t evoke any laughter or tears – maybe a little smile, once; but it’s only small and I read it in a couple of days.
Actually, the next few weeks is looking good, and I’m going to give myself a right good talking-to….oops, I’ve gone off, singing along with The Hucklebuck’…a little bit of that …a little bit of this….’
I went off a little while ago with, ‘you spin me right round baby right round like a record baby right round…’ I LOVE THAT! Not sure if I can remember who sang it.
I am loving all this forum stuff with Susan Hill’s writing course but it’s all just more procrastination for me. But then it’s all about writing and literature so it’s allowed, but I really need to take myself in hand. I should announce a deadline; that usually works for me. A map would be better. I’ve found a nice big table for my room so maybe I’ll work on a plan. When I hear of all those writers who sit down at a certain time and make themselves stay in the chair till they write something I want to do that; I want a more ordered life – things would move on if I was more regular in my habits…but people wouldn’t recognise me, I might disappear. Maybe I like being a whacko.
Also today, I discovered that some of my writing group have been hiding the fact that they belong to a craft group! I NEED to join; I’m only ever happy if I’m spread farther than cheap margarine.
Doing the Time Warp now.....
Thursday, September 20, 2007
GROWING-UP PAINS
Amazon was over here today, checking out my little space in the minefield that is Musician’s flat. She was impressed enough to suggest more visits; the space Musician inhabits, ie, living-room, is a maze of wires – a bit like a spider’s web, where he sits in the middle and spins his music, moving bits of something here, there and everywhere. She never comes here – and that hurts his feelings; he’s the sensitive middle child, and gets upset when she tells him his place is bogging. So now she knows that some kind of clean has entered the building she’ll pop over now and again. I usually have to walk the several streets it is to her flat, so I’m happy; now I can continue my layabout life and if she needs me she can come here.
The stress and depression is still hanging over her; she had the follow-up doctor’s visit this afternoon and he made slight changes to the meds she’d been given a few weeks ago. I reminded her that these are only temporary measures until she can get back into a better sleeping pattern and relax into the pressures of the custody battle. She still hasn’t been back to the burnt-out flat; we need to get our stuff out of there so the workmen can repair it – she can’t bring herself to face it again, yet.
I’m glad I’m old and have dropped my passion off along the way; I wouldn’t want to have to go through all that LIFE again – relationships and children and money and all that STUFF. I don’t really worry about money, even now, because I am only me, with no dependants. My children are dealing with their lives and there’s not a lot I can do to help except support them (and drag them to the doctor now and again) and dish out advice. I brought them up to be individuals: not just my children; but it is painful to watch them suffer all these slings and arrows.
One of my sisters-in-law is struggling with her son; it’s a real bitch of a fight where she’s trying to hold on to him, keep control and he’s choking-to-death. There’s nothing anyone can do and it’s heart-breaking to watch; the pain they’re causing each other is awful. He’s 22 and should have left home by now but was so comfortable, even in the confines of his prison. I should try and talk to her; point out that when parents get to where she is they often behave worse than the child ever did and move everything to enormous proportions. Of course he’s not a child now but she is absolutely blind to that fact; she continually brings up all her hard work in taking care of him, which included paying his phone bills and buying him anything he thinks he wants/wanted. He doesn’t want to hurt her but won’t or hasn’t been able to cut himself off even though he hates living there. She won’t listen to anything anyone has to say anyway, so there’s no point – we’ll have to wait till the end of the play to see what happens.
The stress and depression is still hanging over her; she had the follow-up doctor’s visit this afternoon and he made slight changes to the meds she’d been given a few weeks ago. I reminded her that these are only temporary measures until she can get back into a better sleeping pattern and relax into the pressures of the custody battle. She still hasn’t been back to the burnt-out flat; we need to get our stuff out of there so the workmen can repair it – she can’t bring herself to face it again, yet.
I’m glad I’m old and have dropped my passion off along the way; I wouldn’t want to have to go through all that LIFE again – relationships and children and money and all that STUFF. I don’t really worry about money, even now, because I am only me, with no dependants. My children are dealing with their lives and there’s not a lot I can do to help except support them (and drag them to the doctor now and again) and dish out advice. I brought them up to be individuals: not just my children; but it is painful to watch them suffer all these slings and arrows.
One of my sisters-in-law is struggling with her son; it’s a real bitch of a fight where she’s trying to hold on to him, keep control and he’s choking-to-death. There’s nothing anyone can do and it’s heart-breaking to watch; the pain they’re causing each other is awful. He’s 22 and should have left home by now but was so comfortable, even in the confines of his prison. I should try and talk to her; point out that when parents get to where she is they often behave worse than the child ever did and move everything to enormous proportions. Of course he’s not a child now but she is absolutely blind to that fact; she continually brings up all her hard work in taking care of him, which included paying his phone bills and buying him anything he thinks he wants/wanted. He doesn’t want to hurt her but won’t or hasn’t been able to cut himself off even though he hates living there. She won’t listen to anything anyone has to say anyway, so there’s no point – we’ll have to wait till the end of the play to see what happens.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
OLD OLD OLD
Well, I think I’m finally falling apart; I was at the hospital yesterday morning, at the face clinic and I am suffering from DMT which means, Dysfunctional Mandibular something. She said that my jaw might not return to the way it was; I should get my mouth open wider than it is now, but don’t think I’ll be facing a future that includes Big Macs. They had to take impressions of my teeth to make me some kind of shield that I’ll need to wear at night to gently relax the tissues in my jaw area. Apparently, I’ve been overworking my poor old jaw, because I have to chew on one side – there being no teeth on the bottom of the other side! Long and convoluted, I know, but let this be a warning to those of you out there chewing on one side…GIVE IT A REST!
The making of the impressions was pretty hysterical, considering I can only open my mouth about half-an-inch! It was painful, still is. I hardly slept last night, kept waking up with acid in my throat, having to sleep sitting up and coughing it away. My body is fast approaching ancient; I can see myself being fed through a tube – that’ll keep the acid-reflux at bay. I shudder to think what it’ll be next. Last night was my own fault; I had cake about ten o’clock. I need taking in hand – I still haven’t had a vegetable since I left Devon! I blame it all on Musician – if he had a cooker and a fridge I’d be able to cook proper food. He did have a fridge, I bought it for him, but he blew it up a couple of months ago; cleaning the icebox with a knife’ll do it every time. He is definitely not mine, this changeling.
I find myself disappearing into the land-of-lie-about-all-day; I’ve watched several movies today and my excuse is that I was tired after last night. Tomorrow, I will go to the library; I will go buy the house-warming present for my brother-in-law; I’ll have lunch with Morag; and I’ll walk instead of taking a taxi. I didn’t do any writing today but I did last night, and am half-way through ‘End of The Affair’. Feeling old and decrepit but still optimistic.
The making of the impressions was pretty hysterical, considering I can only open my mouth about half-an-inch! It was painful, still is. I hardly slept last night, kept waking up with acid in my throat, having to sleep sitting up and coughing it away. My body is fast approaching ancient; I can see myself being fed through a tube – that’ll keep the acid-reflux at bay. I shudder to think what it’ll be next. Last night was my own fault; I had cake about ten o’clock. I need taking in hand – I still haven’t had a vegetable since I left Devon! I blame it all on Musician – if he had a cooker and a fridge I’d be able to cook proper food. He did have a fridge, I bought it for him, but he blew it up a couple of months ago; cleaning the icebox with a knife’ll do it every time. He is definitely not mine, this changeling.
I find myself disappearing into the land-of-lie-about-all-day; I’ve watched several movies today and my excuse is that I was tired after last night. Tomorrow, I will go to the library; I will go buy the house-warming present for my brother-in-law; I’ll have lunch with Morag; and I’ll walk instead of taking a taxi. I didn’t do any writing today but I did last night, and am half-way through ‘End of The Affair’. Feeling old and decrepit but still optimistic.
Sunday, September 16, 2007
DISTANT DRUMS
Yesterday, a dull Saturday morning in Glasgow, Govan rang to the sounds of 24 orange bands parading through the streets; I could imagine all the pillows over hung-over heads – I mean it was 11am for God’sake! My head was clear and zinging with caffeine. It took them almost half-an-hour to pass. What I like about high-rise-living is the view and the muted street noise; not that muted really; we’re only eight flights up. I stood at the window and watched as they drearily marched through the grey day…and there might have been a little rain in the wind.
My mind flipped back to my youth, when I played a drum in a marching band. My family were a mixed bunch of Catholics and Protestants, and when I joined the band my mother went mad, ‘Wait till your granny hears about this,’ she said. My granny loved it! I used to pop in to see her after practice on a Sunday and she’d get me to ‘give her a tune’ on my drum.
Drums feature several times in my life; when I came back to Glasgow, after living in Newcastle for 15yrs, I joined a drumming band in Barrhead called ‘Wummen Drummen’. I absolutely loved it; it’s hard to describe what it feels like to be part of that huge beat and rhythm. Even now when I hear drums in the street I come to a standstill…I have to find them through the crowds and stay for at least part of the performance – this drives my family and friends insane; they’ve been hurrying me away from things like this most of my life, and I suppose I was such a people-pleaser that I’ve always let them. I should have made them sit with me sometimes rather than me always having to move on to the next thing with them – there never seemed to be any time in any of their lives to just stop and listen, to pay attention to what was going on around them. In my life as a young mother my children were always hurrying me out of bookshops and charity shops. Now that I’m free, I can sit where I please as long as I want, but sometimes it’s a lonely life.
My mind flipped back to my youth, when I played a drum in a marching band. My family were a mixed bunch of Catholics and Protestants, and when I joined the band my mother went mad, ‘Wait till your granny hears about this,’ she said. My granny loved it! I used to pop in to see her after practice on a Sunday and she’d get me to ‘give her a tune’ on my drum.
Drums feature several times in my life; when I came back to Glasgow, after living in Newcastle for 15yrs, I joined a drumming band in Barrhead called ‘Wummen Drummen’. I absolutely loved it; it’s hard to describe what it feels like to be part of that huge beat and rhythm. Even now when I hear drums in the street I come to a standstill…I have to find them through the crowds and stay for at least part of the performance – this drives my family and friends insane; they’ve been hurrying me away from things like this most of my life, and I suppose I was such a people-pleaser that I’ve always let them. I should have made them sit with me sometimes rather than me always having to move on to the next thing with them – there never seemed to be any time in any of their lives to just stop and listen, to pay attention to what was going on around them. In my life as a young mother my children were always hurrying me out of bookshops and charity shops. Now that I’m free, I can sit where I please as long as I want, but sometimes it’s a lonely life.
Friday, September 14, 2007
ANSWERS
I did get some answers on my question about the novella, and have come to the conclusion that it is really more related to the short story than the novel. I thought I should read more so asked if anyone knew any off hand and got two so far which I'll try to get from the library today. My local writing group meet there so it's all quite handy. I've been popping in on this group for the past year, whenever I was in Glasgow, and it never occurred to me to actually join the library. It wasn't till I wanted a Grahame Green book for Susan's writing group that I thought of it! They didn't have one of his books on the premises - it's a deprived area, but I would have thought he'd be there.
Gotta go now but I might be back.
I'm back. Had a fabulous morning with the Ibrox Writers up in the library; a wealth of great writing appeared, and I got help with three little poems I'd dragged out of a dark cupboard - by the end of today I might be able to move them to the Done folder. I'll give them a few weeks there before sending them out to earn their keep.
Picked up the Grahame Greene I'd ordered, End of The Affair, and am very impressed with the first chapter. I did as Susan suggested and read it slowly, going back over the first page a couple of times, asking myself if I knew what he had done there and how he did it. Very clever the way he kept the focus and kept us waiting to find out what we wanted to know from the first sentence.
by the way...I might not have mentioned that I'm participating in Susan Hill's writing course.
I had to put in an order for the two novellas I wanted; this is a pretty small library; but I only waited a couple of days for the Grahame Greene. The up-side is, they have a lot of computers. I had to take a disc with me today so I could print something; I need ink for BOTH my printers, and now I'm not earning at present, I can't afford to spend money on ink. When I went into town yesterday I had to chuck myself on the bus home quickly before I could spend anything. I can't get past Waterstone's, WHSmith or pound shops.
One of the writers in my group reminded me that she'd like to look at the old novel that I've shelved; she's really good at picking out rogue elements in a piece of writing and I had asked her to be my first reader a while ago. She's not best pleased that I'm not working on this, but as I tried to explain my reasons to her, I began to understand myself, what is going on here - she thinks that my art is mirroring my life in that I'm all over the place. It felt good to work this out. I said that at the moment I feel, if I can sort out the structure of the Bluebeard novel and park myself at chapter four, then I can go back and do the same for the other...then perhaps work on them in tandem. I really don't think I'm ever going to be able to stay on one thing at a time. But that's alright, as long as I can concentrate on what I'm working on at the time. I suppose one of them will eventually take the lead. Nothing is ever plain sailing in my life.
Gotta go now but I might be back.
I'm back. Had a fabulous morning with the Ibrox Writers up in the library; a wealth of great writing appeared, and I got help with three little poems I'd dragged out of a dark cupboard - by the end of today I might be able to move them to the Done folder. I'll give them a few weeks there before sending them out to earn their keep.
Picked up the Grahame Greene I'd ordered, End of The Affair, and am very impressed with the first chapter. I did as Susan suggested and read it slowly, going back over the first page a couple of times, asking myself if I knew what he had done there and how he did it. Very clever the way he kept the focus and kept us waiting to find out what we wanted to know from the first sentence.
by the way...I might not have mentioned that I'm participating in Susan Hill's writing course.
I had to put in an order for the two novellas I wanted; this is a pretty small library; but I only waited a couple of days for the Grahame Greene. The up-side is, they have a lot of computers. I had to take a disc with me today so I could print something; I need ink for BOTH my printers, and now I'm not earning at present, I can't afford to spend money on ink. When I went into town yesterday I had to chuck myself on the bus home quickly before I could spend anything. I can't get past Waterstone's, WHSmith or pound shops.
One of the writers in my group reminded me that she'd like to look at the old novel that I've shelved; she's really good at picking out rogue elements in a piece of writing and I had asked her to be my first reader a while ago. She's not best pleased that I'm not working on this, but as I tried to explain my reasons to her, I began to understand myself, what is going on here - she thinks that my art is mirroring my life in that I'm all over the place. It felt good to work this out. I said that at the moment I feel, if I can sort out the structure of the Bluebeard novel and park myself at chapter four, then I can go back and do the same for the other...then perhaps work on them in tandem. I really don't think I'm ever going to be able to stay on one thing at a time. But that's alright, as long as I can concentrate on what I'm working on at the time. I suppose one of them will eventually take the lead. Nothing is ever plain sailing in my life.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
IMPRESSIONS
I was so impressed with myself yesterday; I wrote a whole piece, edited and polished it to what I hope is publishable standard, then emailed it to The Guardian. It's in letter form, an 800wd first person account for their Saturday supplement family page. So my fingers will be well-crossed until I hear from them. I also got around 500wds on the novel; a good day, for me.
Even today, I'm still on that roll; got another few hundred words on the novel using the same exercise we worked up together in my flash group - everyone who used it has come up with something great. I'm a seriously happy scribbler tonight, though annoyed about something else; I asked a question in a thread, in a writing forum, if anyone knew the difference between a novella and a novel, forby the size. There was only one answer, which didn't make me any the wiser. I'd just finished reading a fabulous novella by Susan Hill called 'The Albatross', and was so impressed with it; how tight the focus and the writing was, how it grabbed me and wouldn't let go - still won't. I suppose the best person to ask will be Susan but she'll be really busy right now with the writing course. I'll ask her later. I really wanted to know how the structure differs from a novel - maybe I should read more of them and find out for myself.
A serious money day today; had to visit the cheque-cashers for a pay-day-advance so I could put the cash in the bank to cover my loan repayment. Poverty here I come, back on that roundabout again. But I am working towards a new job so hopefully I'll be earning by the end of next week.
On a lighter note, all the lovely Asda shopping was delivered this morning. Isn't it wonderful to wake up at 10am and answer the door to bags of groceries that you didn't have to get yourself!
Even today, I'm still on that roll; got another few hundred words on the novel using the same exercise we worked up together in my flash group - everyone who used it has come up with something great. I'm a seriously happy scribbler tonight, though annoyed about something else; I asked a question in a thread, in a writing forum, if anyone knew the difference between a novella and a novel, forby the size. There was only one answer, which didn't make me any the wiser. I'd just finished reading a fabulous novella by Susan Hill called 'The Albatross', and was so impressed with it; how tight the focus and the writing was, how it grabbed me and wouldn't let go - still won't. I suppose the best person to ask will be Susan but she'll be really busy right now with the writing course. I'll ask her later. I really wanted to know how the structure differs from a novel - maybe I should read more of them and find out for myself.
A serious money day today; had to visit the cheque-cashers for a pay-day-advance so I could put the cash in the bank to cover my loan repayment. Poverty here I come, back on that roundabout again. But I am working towards a new job so hopefully I'll be earning by the end of next week.
On a lighter note, all the lovely Asda shopping was delivered this morning. Isn't it wonderful to wake up at 10am and answer the door to bags of groceries that you didn't have to get yourself!
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
WORKSHOPPING
My local writing group organised a day of workshops last Saturday. I had the greatest day; just being in a workshop, talking and writing is better than the best carrot cake you can imagine; better than whole bottles of Tia Maria, Drambui or 12yr old whisky! And a free lunch to boot. I felt sorry for some of the group who had to look after tables of books, hand-crafted cards and the tombola; some of them were bored out of their pencil cases. I was in my element; the tutor on my workshop was an American poet called Gerry Stewart…and she got a lot of work out of me. I left the table with a whole poem and the makings of another two on the same theme; which was living with my son, right now, this minute. This is the rough poem:
VISITING
Wires beating rhythms up walls, throbbing
Natalie Imbrulgia into speakers
out of tweakers – woofers.
Middle Child undivides my attention.
He’s cooking scrambled egg with cheese –
the maturity blares around my tongue.
Time sings here and my hands are soft
from squeezing T-shirts in his long bath.
He has nothing, and he shares it all with me.
I get high as a kite at writing sessions, especially if I come away with lots of work. I’ll let all this stew now in my notebook and see what happens. I usually can’t write about the present; I find myself waiting years to tell a story or use my life and experiences – that’s probably why most of my writing is about death and sex! Except this.
She talked about using themed verbs in our writing; I’d forgotten that my son was a musician so have just added those above on the day – I’ll need to work on them and find out more about tweakers and woofers so I can use them intelligently. Maybe I’ll interview him, yeah, that would be fun; I’m sure he’ll manage to slip a black hole in there somewhere – the thought of inviting him to SPEAK is terrifying.
VISITING
Wires beating rhythms up walls, throbbing
Natalie Imbrulgia into speakers
out of tweakers – woofers.
Middle Child undivides my attention.
He’s cooking scrambled egg with cheese –
the maturity blares around my tongue.
Time sings here and my hands are soft
from squeezing T-shirts in his long bath.
He has nothing, and he shares it all with me.
I get high as a kite at writing sessions, especially if I come away with lots of work. I’ll let all this stew now in my notebook and see what happens. I usually can’t write about the present; I find myself waiting years to tell a story or use my life and experiences – that’s probably why most of my writing is about death and sex! Except this.
She talked about using themed verbs in our writing; I’d forgotten that my son was a musician so have just added those above on the day – I’ll need to work on them and find out more about tweakers and woofers so I can use them intelligently. Maybe I’ll interview him, yeah, that would be fun; I’m sure he’ll manage to slip a black hole in there somewhere – the thought of inviting him to SPEAK is terrifying.
Monday, September 10, 2007
COMPLAINTS & EXCUSES
My excuse for not writing in here last week is….my nails were too long. I can’t bear the feel and sound of fingernails clicking on the keys, sometimes slipping from one to another and just generally making a mess of everything. So, I soaked some washing in the bath, squeezed and swirled till the said nails were pliable then I cut them all off. Now I’m whizzing around the keyboard like a wild thing, loose and fancy free…and unemployed. I’ve now got five application forms to fill out; will force myself into it tonight, when my bum is numb from sitting here surfing.
I had a few lovely drinks with Herman Saturday night; we got to sit out in the garden with our little tubs of melon (reduced), glass of wine and enjoy the strange and wonderful feeling of Glasgow sunshine. He’s house-sitting out in the burbs north of the city; quiet and lush grass under my bare feet. And the luxury of a huge telly to ignore while we babble on about god-knows-what, and my future, both work and medical; I’m still locked up – nothing wider than a finger can get between these teeth.
I spoke to a doctor from the face clinic on the phone the other morning, and told him how worried I was about being lock-jawed for three weeks, and whether I’ll stay like this forever, and is it wise to leave me until my appointment on the 17th. He said I’ll be okay. I’m just wondering how they’re going to get my jaw going again after all this time. I told him that I was thinking that my jaw might just fuse and never move again. I think he thought I was mad, but I had the impression that he was about fifteen and had mistaken me for his old granny, and was therefore invisible.
So, I had to drink white wine; I didn’t want a repeat of the last red wine episode with the projectile vomiting – I would’ve drowned. And, I had to get on a train and travel by myself to get home so didn’t want to end up toooooo pissed. So there was me, standing at the train station and admiring my sobriety and the fact that I’d only drunk one bottle when Herman disabused me of that; he just hadn’t brought the bottles into the living room. Well I was pretty well-oiled, but got home safely, and am still alive.
We met about eight years ago when we were working in the psychic centre. One of us had the bright idea that I go back there to work, for now. I think it was me; I was worried about my poor old references having to be bothered again for all these jobs I’m going to be applying for; I won’t need one there. So, I called them this morning…and they remembered me. There’s probably going to be an opening in a couple of weeks and in the meantime I can refresh my skills with the lovely tarot cards. I think this is all a great idea because there’s a lot of psychic and pagan stuff in the novel; it’ll be good for me to be steeped in it all again. I’ve spent most of this morning studying and playing with some of my cards. I’ve got three packs here but no books; the books are all packed away somewhere and I know that some of them GOT IT in the fire. But I’ve got stuff in the laptop, enough for now. One of the packs hasn’t been used but the book is still somewhere in the box; it’s called The Greenwood Tarot – some amazing images, but different from most other tarot so I’ll need to find the book. My other two are old favourites; The Shakespeare Tarot and the Native American Deck. I’m really looking forward to doing this. Wonder if the place has changed much.
I had a few lovely drinks with Herman Saturday night; we got to sit out in the garden with our little tubs of melon (reduced), glass of wine and enjoy the strange and wonderful feeling of Glasgow sunshine. He’s house-sitting out in the burbs north of the city; quiet and lush grass under my bare feet. And the luxury of a huge telly to ignore while we babble on about god-knows-what, and my future, both work and medical; I’m still locked up – nothing wider than a finger can get between these teeth.
I spoke to a doctor from the face clinic on the phone the other morning, and told him how worried I was about being lock-jawed for three weeks, and whether I’ll stay like this forever, and is it wise to leave me until my appointment on the 17th. He said I’ll be okay. I’m just wondering how they’re going to get my jaw going again after all this time. I told him that I was thinking that my jaw might just fuse and never move again. I think he thought I was mad, but I had the impression that he was about fifteen and had mistaken me for his old granny, and was therefore invisible.
So, I had to drink white wine; I didn’t want a repeat of the last red wine episode with the projectile vomiting – I would’ve drowned. And, I had to get on a train and travel by myself to get home so didn’t want to end up toooooo pissed. So there was me, standing at the train station and admiring my sobriety and the fact that I’d only drunk one bottle when Herman disabused me of that; he just hadn’t brought the bottles into the living room. Well I was pretty well-oiled, but got home safely, and am still alive.
We met about eight years ago when we were working in the psychic centre. One of us had the bright idea that I go back there to work, for now. I think it was me; I was worried about my poor old references having to be bothered again for all these jobs I’m going to be applying for; I won’t need one there. So, I called them this morning…and they remembered me. There’s probably going to be an opening in a couple of weeks and in the meantime I can refresh my skills with the lovely tarot cards. I think this is all a great idea because there’s a lot of psychic and pagan stuff in the novel; it’ll be good for me to be steeped in it all again. I’ve spent most of this morning studying and playing with some of my cards. I’ve got three packs here but no books; the books are all packed away somewhere and I know that some of them GOT IT in the fire. But I’ve got stuff in the laptop, enough for now. One of the packs hasn’t been used but the book is still somewhere in the box; it’s called The Greenwood Tarot – some amazing images, but different from most other tarot so I’ll need to find the book. My other two are old favourites; The Shakespeare Tarot and the Native American Deck. I’m really looking forward to doing this. Wonder if the place has changed much.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
IT'S A HARD LIFE AND THEN YOU DIE
I've been sitting here all morning, surfing: not writing, and watching Topcat chase two huge flies around the room. She caught one between her paws on the window ledge, and her whole body froze; she raised one paw a fraction and peeked at her prey, then she ate it.
I think I'm going to the burntout flat with Amazon today. I've been too busy with the job to go there and didn't realise that she was in such a state because everything had just folded on top of her. She didn't tell me anything and I was getting annoyed, thinking that she was just being lazy, and that she had fallen out with me - she wouldn't answer her phone. When she finally did pick-up she couldn't speak for crying. This was last Thursday; I asked to leave work and turned up at her flat in a taxi only minutes after talking to her. I'd tried to get her to go to the doctor and she finally got me off the phone by agreeing to go after she freshened herself up. I knew she wouldn't. I made her take a bath and dragged her there in a taxi, and went in with her to make sure she told the doctor about all the symptoms she'd been experiencing. She's all twitches; almost like someone with tourettes syndrome - except for the swearing.
The doctor says it's probably stress, related to the custody battle and the fire; and the good thing about that is that there will be a definite end to these problems. So she gave Amazon something to take before bed that will relax her and help her sleeping patterns, and hopefully the nightmares will go too. It's agonising to watch your daughter go through this kind of pain; I'm trying to keep it together so I will be a good support but it's so hard when my face wants to collapse into my throat. And of course there is the guilt because I returned to Glasgow to help her and ended up focused on myself and a new job; this working life will kill me. Maybe I need a nice man to look after me so I can give more time to my children. But when would I have time for him, or me? And when will my children not need me? When I'm dead is the answer to that.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
DOWN BUT NOT OUT IN GLASGOW
I managed to stay in the job for one and a half hours this morning, then I sloped off for my tea-break and kept right on walking...around the corner to Cafe Nero, stopping off on the way to buy a job paper. I just couldn't bear it for a minute longer; that lonlieness in a room full of people, all connected and talking into the ether - none of them speaking to each other. When I think of my days with my old people, even the thought of constant BBC1 is appealing; numb-bum syndrome is looking very attractive.
I've called several job options and asked for application forms to be sent out, including one for a part-time lollipop lady! That's a nice sociable job, isn't it? I want to talk to real people, bump shoulders and swap stories. I also called the WEA; I worked for them years ago, tutoring all kinds of stuff, but this time I'll restrict it to only those I love; creative writing and scrapbooking. I know that I hate teaching, but I can handle those - they are the only subjects that make me high as a seagull on the wind.
Perhaps I can make myself do a bit of writing on the novel - no excuses now that time is no object. I really think I will end up back in carework, though one of the jobs I will be applying for is a housekeeper in a temporary house for relatives of cancer patients in hospital.
I've called several job options and asked for application forms to be sent out, including one for a part-time lollipop lady! That's a nice sociable job, isn't it? I want to talk to real people, bump shoulders and swap stories. I also called the WEA; I worked for them years ago, tutoring all kinds of stuff, but this time I'll restrict it to only those I love; creative writing and scrapbooking. I know that I hate teaching, but I can handle those - they are the only subjects that make me high as a seagull on the wind.
Perhaps I can make myself do a bit of writing on the novel - no excuses now that time is no object. I really think I will end up back in carework, though one of the jobs I will be applying for is a housekeeper in a temporary house for relatives of cancer patients in hospital.
Monday, September 03, 2007
FIRST DAY GRIPES
I was soooooo bored today, doing the first ten-hour shift, my first day of real work. It's not as sociable as I thought it would be; I was a little lonely. Though mostly, I was on the phone, slaving my brains out trying to solve problems without asking for tooooo much help. So really, there was only a few minutes now and again when the phone didn't ring and I could swing around in my chair, looking out of the window. And poor old Billy-bob wanted a window but he's stuck way inside the room, in a different team on his lonesome. I never got to speak to him because he's on an earlier shift. A very flat day all round.
I kept picturing myself leaving and not coming back, but I can't afford to walk out on a well-paid job before I have another one in place; and I can't just leave just because I'm bored. So, I'll be there tomorrow, for another ten-hour shift, counting the pounds in the pay-packet - admiring the lovely figures on my payslip.
Must speak to someone tomorrow about going part-time before I do something stupid.
I kept picturing myself leaving and not coming back, but I can't afford to walk out on a well-paid job before I have another one in place; and I can't just leave just because I'm bored. So, I'll be there tomorrow, for another ten-hour shift, counting the pounds in the pay-packet - admiring the lovely figures on my payslip.
Must speak to someone tomorrow about going part-time before I do something stupid.
Saturday, September 01, 2007
TIME, BEER & ROSES
I'm feeling a whole lot better about the job now; I had the fantastic idea to ask if I could go part-time, so it doesn't look so daunting. If I'm knackered just working 4 weeks 9-5, what would I be like ploughing through ten hour shifts? When I first looked at the rota these huge shifts seemed to be across five days but it's only 9-5 Saturday and 10-2 on Sunday. Hopefully I'll only have to do this one week; am sending up little prayers for part-time status. I won't have a life otherwise; won't have time to write, to finish the novels, play with my arty-farty stuff. I look at the pile of scrapbooking goodies I haven't had time to even open and wish I was ten years older and retired!
We all went for a drink in town last night; first time I've been in a pub for a couple of years, I think. Back to lovely pints of beer; went down a treat but I was kind of nervous of getting seriously pissed and being sick - never a good idea when you have lockjaw. I hadn't been in the Horseshoe Bar in an age, but I'd never been upstairs in the karioke lounge. It was amazing. Our two young men got up to sing and were fabulous; Billy-bob was brilliant at 'Bed of Roses' and got a standing ovation, which we started. A great night out to seal our new friendships.
I haven't had the energy to do anything here all week, even to put down the stuff that happened with Amazon on Thursday...I'll get to it later tonight, maybe.
We all went for a drink in town last night; first time I've been in a pub for a couple of years, I think. Back to lovely pints of beer; went down a treat but I was kind of nervous of getting seriously pissed and being sick - never a good idea when you have lockjaw. I hadn't been in the Horseshoe Bar in an age, but I'd never been upstairs in the karioke lounge. It was amazing. Our two young men got up to sing and were fabulous; Billy-bob was brilliant at 'Bed of Roses' and got a standing ovation, which we started. A great night out to seal our new friendships.
I haven't had the energy to do anything here all week, even to put down the stuff that happened with Amazon on Thursday...I'll get to it later tonight, maybe.
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