MONEY OIL

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

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

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

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

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

Fast Money Oil                    Even Faster Money Oil

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


So I’m just popping out for some Patchouli.

WOOLY PICTURES

WOOLY THOUGHTS

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

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

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

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

USEFUL FRIENDS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued.....

PRESSING THE PLAY BUTTON

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

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

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

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

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

WEATHER MOVEMENTS

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT WILL BE LEFT?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tendons can be up to $1000 each

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

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

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

A MARRIAGE

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

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

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

LUCK

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

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

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

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

EVOLUTION

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

STILL WITH THE PENIS

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

BALLADE FOR SINGLE WOMEN


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

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

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

Envoy

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

PENISES ON SHOW

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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?

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.

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.’