I did it!

I did it :)

Back on the first of November I foolishly embarked on my second NANOWRIMO attempt, with a plot in mind about mob violence.

And that's what I started to write about - honest! But then I noticed that the writing was drifting away to a village setting, not quite the London riots I was envisaging.  Not only was it becoming a rural tale, there was a death - and no murderer caught.

So, Mob Mentality became Forgive Me Father over the course of the month - that's just the way it goes, and I believe it's best to go with the flow.

Now comes the really hard work, that of pruning and shaping, because I certainly wouldn't want anyone to read her as she is at the moment - she's an incoherent babble currently, and needs taking in hand.

But hey, be pleased with me - I wrote over 50,000 words in the last twenty nine days - whoo hoo!

Results are out - I made it!!!!

Well, there you go - somehow I managed to force this middle-aged brain to work sufficiently hard to obtain a first-class degree - yippee!!!

This last three years have been very happy ones, fully of reading and writing.  I've been obliged to read and discuss books by authors I wouldn't have otherwise chosen to read - Charles Dickens is amongst them.  Having studied some of his works and researched the period in which he lived, I now appreciate his efforts so much more, in fact I intend to read his entire output. 

I do have an old set of books that my maternal grandfather gave me about 40 years ago.  I've started to read them at various times, but the print is minute, and I think I must have been too young, for I only managed to read a few.  I couldn't appreciate the subtle humour, for example, nor realise the appropriateness of some of the many contrived names.  I still remember hearing a reading of one of his novels, Nicholas Nickleby, and being amazed at the school's name "Dotheboys Hall", being pronounced as Do The Boys Hall - so brilliant, yet as a child it was right over my head, I simply struggled to pronounce it!

I've read poetry, and written it.  What's more, I enjoyed reading some of it, and delighted in the inventive use of words when writing it.

I wanted to write.  I want to write for children.  My aim in becoming an undergraduate was to hone skills I already possessed to some degree, having written short, very short, stories since I was a child.  I used to write stories and create books for Rachel when she was small, though I doubt she remembers them.

I've been successful in smoothing some of the rough edges, though, naturally, the polishing could be said to be a never-ending process: when is an article or a story truly finished? 

When the Lancashire Evening Post published two of my short stories this January, it brought tears of joy to my eyes - somebody "out there" considered my work good enough to fill the centre pages of the newspaper!  So it's "only" a local newspaper - who cares?  Not me, it was a great boost to my morale.

I've listened to  lecturers for hours.  Sometimes I've agreed with what they've said, other times, maybe less so, but it's all been enjoyable.

All, that is, except for the Sunday before the final exam.  On that day the tears were of frustration - I enjoy exams, always have done.  But this was sooooo important, worth 50% of the module's mark, and my poor brain's not as fast at remembering things as it once was.

However, my fears were all for nothing - I managed to scrape 71% for it!!!!!  Despite walking away from it quite convinced that I'd blown it - there was so much I hadn't had time to write, but really wanted to include. 

So, I've succeeded in my dream of attaining a first, and had much fun along the way.  Now I need to get my MPhil/PhD application form in pdq as UCLAN will pay my fees for the next three years - yippee.  Postgraduatedom, here I come:-)

things DO come in threes!!

Do you remember our brief foray into "things coming in threes" on the day of my final exam?  Yes?  Good, because here is further proof!

I told you that my poor neighbour had her purse stolen one day last week, closely followed by a brick being thrown through the window a couple of days later.  Then it was our turn - we went to the car to set off to town only to find that some good for nothing hoodlum mis-guided person had obviously confused our car for their own and had lost their key.

Clearly, though, this wasn't going stop them, and they resorted to using brute force (along with their ignorance) to try to open the driver's door.  Having yanked the handle out of its frame, they abandoned the endeavour - maybe the security light came on and disturbed them, we'll never know, but they don't appear to have actually entered the car.

So, there we are, three things in about a week at our end of the road. 

I jokingly said to the police officer to whom I reported it that I thought it was time to move, but he very seriously assured me that this road is a 'very nice area to live in', so I guess I'll stay:-)

It's all over!

Well, I told you I'd let you know how I got on, so here's the short account of the morning ....

I thought I'd better have something more substantial than my usual home made fruit smoothie, so fried some organic mushroom and sliced pepper with tomato and served it up on two sliced and toasted gluten-free multi seed rolls.  So far, so good.

I was really enjoying my cooked breakfast when I felt a little pain in a pre-molar, ouch.  A bigger ouch every mouthful I took!  I realised that I must have a seed stuck in  my tooth, so went to excavate it with a toothpick.  I tried to just flip it out, but it hurt every time I touched it, then, horror of horrors, it started to sink further in to my tooth, alongside an old filling!!!  Seconds later, half my tooth was sitting in my mouth, along with the guilty, black seed, which appeared to be none the worse for its experience, unlike me and my poor tooth!

I managed to eat the remainder of my (by now cold) breakfast without chewing too many times on the "wrong" side of my mouth!  What a nuisance, and the exam was at 0920, so my plan was to have an hour in the library first, so no way I could contact the dentist to make an emergency appointment:(

So, I read my copious notes, and felt quietly confident that I know my stuff, so to speak.  Which is true, I've worked, not shirked, and my grades have been good.  I've loved my time at university, met some great people, and learned an immense amount.  But ..... my memory is not the best:( 

So, seated with several other lambs to the slaughter candidates for the exam, I put the three pens I'd brought with me on the table.  Three pens, you ask?  Yes, three pens, you never know what's around the corner.

The instruction came, complete the front of the exam paper.  I pressed the end of my pen down and whoosh!  It exploded!!  Small pieces of metal and a spring flew away from me on their own sweet trajectories.  Fortunately, all the pieces were gathered up for me, but, despite laughing, I was thinking "Oh dear, things go in threes, first the tooth, now the pen, what's next?"  Boy, I'm glad I'm not superstitious!!!!

It's OK, my friend behind me assured me, I've just broken my nail.  Whew, no problems then.  Or does it have to be the same person breaking three things?  Well, the second pen refused to write, too.  I scribbled frantically, but all I achieved was a hole in a spare piece of paper!!!!  How could this happen?

I pieced together the exploding device, and it wrote for a while, in fact I nearly completed my details before it died again:)  I re-repaired it, yes, of course it's a real word, people are always re-repairing things, ask anyone, and completed the front, I also filled in the details of the exam, room, module etc on the small form, and handed it in, then realised that I'd put April down, not May for the month!  Was that the third thing????

I turned over the exam paper and read the questions.  I kid you not, I was spoilt for choice!!  There were several questions I could have answered well, fortune was smiling on me.

Now I know fortune was laughing in my face:(  The third thing to go wrong was the sieve I have for a brain.  You know what a sieve is, right?  Yes, of course you do.  Sadly, all the mesh of wire that retains the stuff in the sieve all disappeared at once, so there was nothing left to hold all the information in, and it dissipated in the blink of an eye.  I expect the cleaners wondered what all the stuff was they found on the floor later, assorted wonderful words of erudition, jumbled and trodden on.

So, the questions were great, my answers, alas, were not so great.  I could have written for another hour or so, then maybe I would have mentioned Foucault, or aberrant discourses and the way in which they form.  As it was, my words remained pretty monosyllabic.  As a first year, I would have considered I'd done well.  As a third year - well, what do you think?

People think I'm unduly pessimistic, but I was only confident of achieving 60 to 63%, I doubt I'm anywhere near that, so even if I do really, really well in the essay part of the module, I'll be lucky to be at a 2:1 level for this module.

Consequently, all aspirations to a further three years of academia are off.  I'll see what the local further education college is offering for September, and register with them for something.  There are lots of brain challenging opportunities out there - it's just a matter of searching them out.

And, I'll continue to write my short stories, maybe even a longer one.  Watch this space!

wish me luck!

Last time I caught sight of a newspaper the government question was still up in the air, and there's a hung parliament in my brain as well as in the country.  I feel like I've been reading non-stop, but, of course, that's nonsense - unless somebody else has been here hanging out the washing in the sporadic sunshine!  Sometimes I can understand why people try to gain a sneaky look at the exam papers - today has been a horrible day:(

The time has come, or at least, at 0920 in the morning it will have come.  I shall be seated, turning over my exam paper and hoping that there are two, just two, that's all I ask for, two questions that I'll be able to answer with such authority that I will get as near to 70% as it's possible to get, then my first should be 'in the bag' - provided there's a following wind, of course:)

So, wish me luck!  Cross your fingers that the books I know best will appear on the paper, and the subject areas I'm most comfortable with will be there, just waiting for my pearls of wisdom.

Oh, and I also planted some vegetable seeds this week - better late than never, as they say, and it's encouraging to see tiny specks of green peppering the rich loam - though that could be moss, I suppose!

Think of me tomorrow - I'll let you know just how terrible it was when it's over:)

where does the time go?

Where does the time go?  Who steals it away in the night, never to replace it?

I'm approaching the end of my three years as a mature student at UCLAN in Preston.  I am so very glad that I took my courage in both hands, phoned them up and attended two interviews to persuade the two heads of department that, at my advanced age, I was capable of returning to a learning situation.

Once my place was confirmed, I tendered my resignation from the post of Bursar in a school where I'd worked for nearly sixteen years.  I began working there on my daughter's ninth birthday.  The hours were perfect, not starting 'til nine thirty, which meant I could still drive her to school, and finishing at quarter past three, giving me a quarter of an hour to drive across to collect her from school at three thirty.  Only two days a week initially, but soon increasing to three days a week as the dreaded computerised system entered the education office!

So, another era comes to an end.  I've enjoyed telling people that I'm an undergraduate student when they've asked what I did - some people find it hard to believe that anybody would want to take early retirement to return to school!!

If you're thinking of doing it yourself - go for it - it's great fun.

I've always loved reading books of all sorts, but especially fantasy and long, involved series of books.  Now I have learned to read in a manner I hated whilst at school - trying to read between the words that are printed on the page, reading what is NOT written, as well as what is.

Working through this degree course has enriched my life, and given me a great deal of satisfaction. 

Had I not been attending my seminars, I would probably never have gathered the courage to send off a couple of stories to the local newspaper for publication.  Then I would never have experienced that unimaginable emotion that floods through when the message comes through that a story has been accepted - and then the other one as well.

Yes - it's enriched my life, and I shall miss it.  But hey, I've an exam to pass yet, and results to wait for, then the Graduation ceremony in July.  It's not over yet, so I'll enjoy it for a little longer :-)

new short story, I'm in the local paper

This is another of the reasons I've not been blogging! I sent it off to a local newspaper, and they're printing it today as part of their Saturday short story series - wow - I'm about to be published! You can imagine the way my face split in two!!!! Anyway, here it is, for your delectation and delight:

Daniel’s Trip to Blackpool

The day we went to Blackpool started out like any other day of the summer holidays; I wish it had ended that way too.

We had toast for breakfast. I had peanut butter and Marmite on mine – one of my favourites. I like it with chocolate spread too. The peanut butter, not the Marmite, of course. I caught sight of Mark, next door, waving. I waved back.

I looked at Mum, and she smiled. ‘Yes, you can go and play with Mark. Make sure you clean your teeth and straighten your bed first, though.’ ‘OK. Thanks Mum.’

# # #

We decided to play football on the green at the end of the road. There’s a small estate down there, and usually quite a few kids about.

‘Mum, can I go down to the green to play footie, please?’

‘Yes, OK; but stay on the green. Don’t go playing in the road. Promise?’

‘Yes, of course. We always stay on the green, you know we do.’

‘I know, but I also know how easy it is to be distracted. So, be careful.’

‘OK, Mum. Can I take some drinks with me? And some crisps?’

‘You can take drinks, but no crisps. You’ve only just had breakfast!’ She put her arm round my shoulders, and gave me a squeeze as she said it. I shrugged her off, of course. I’m eleven now, just, so I don’t need hugs any more. Mark doesn’t let his mum hug him.

I grabbed a couple of cans from the fridge door, and stuck them in a carrier bag with my old football. Then Mark was knocking at the door, and I was off.

# # #

‘Let’s play cricket.’ ‘But I’ve brought my football. We said we were going to play footie!’

‘Yeh, but I’ve changed my mind, I’d rather play cricket. Let’s get the wickets in, then when the other kids turn up, we can get on.’

The expression on his face told me that he’d get his way, as usual, so I just grabbed some sticks and rammed them into the baked soil.

That morning, however, there weren’t any other kids about. We soon got fed up hanging around with no-one else to play with, so we went back to Mark’s to play with his new Wii game. His mum said I could stay to lunch, so I had a toasted cheese sandwich with them.

After lunch, we went back to mine. The house smelt like Mum had been polishing; you know - that sort of warm smell that means the house is loved. Mum wasn’t one of those really house-proud women you see on the telly, but she cleaned up thoroughly once a week or so. Anyway, she was sitting down with a cuppa when we got there.

‘Hiya, did you get a good game in?’

‘Yeh, Mark’s Wii is fantastic. His mum had some really tasty cheese. You should ask her what it was, Mum; you’d like it.’

‘Why didn’t you ask her, then, silly? You were there eating it!’

‘Just thought I’d tell you, you’re always on the phone to each other, anyway.’

‘True enough, I’ll try and remember to ask her. Thanks.’ She smiled, and put down her cup. ‘I thought we’d drive out to the sand dunes for a couple of hours. What do you think? I mentioned it to your mum, Mark, and she said you could come with us - if you’d like to, that is?’

‘Thanks, Mrs Johnson, yeh, that’d be cool.’

‘Great, Mum. I’ll go and grab my camera.’ It was my birthday last week, and I’d got this neat 10 mega-pixel camera.

Mum gave me the keys so we could go and get in the car, while she got the picnic rug out from under the stairs. The cool-bag was by the door, so we took that out with us. We stowed the bag in the boot, but I kept my camera with me.

Mum was out with the rug in no time. She tossed it in the boot, and slammed down the lid. ‘Belts on? Ready to go?’

‘Yes, Mum. Ready to go.’ I kicked Mark’s leg, and nodded at his seat belt. He shrugged, and pulled a face. But then he put it on.

The weather was just right for the dunes. It was sunny, but there was a light breeze from the sea. We found a sheltered spot and spread out the tartan blanket. It has a waterproof layer on the back, which is really useful; you don’t end up with a soggy bum if the sand’s still damp. Mum had brought chilled juices, with a family size bag of Kettle chips and some fruit, so we had a little picnic.

I took loads of photos. One of those I took of Mum hangs on my new bedroom wall. She looks happy, shading her eyes from the sun and smiling at me. I can look at it now, but I couldn’t do for ages; it just reminded me of that never-to-be-forgotten trip.

# # #

Mark killed Mum on the way home. We were nearing Preston when he dropped his i-Pod. He took off his seat-belt to pick it up. A few minutes later, some pratt drove into the back of the car, and that’s how we found out Mark hadn’t bothered to put his belt back on. Mark went shooting forward and crashed into Mum, forcing her through the windscreen.

I could see Mum lying across the bonnet of the car, with Mark on top of her. It looked like he was hugging her. But everything was red and shiny and wet. Mum’s hair was spread out around her head like a halo.

My seatbelt held me in place. It took me a lifetime to undo it.

It was really weird. Like a film. Flashing lights. Men in uniforms. Ambulances and police cars. I didn’t hurt. Nothing was real. The front of a black car was inside ours; it was pushing my seat forward.

The driver was struggling out of his door, past a white balloon. He was shaking his head, his mobile held to his ear.

Everything was silent. They said it was shock. I could only hear myself, screaming like a girl, ‘Get my mum! Mum’s bleeding - please get her out.’

They did, but it was too late. They put a blue blanket over Mum. Over all of her. Mum wasn’t there any more.

I watched them talk to Mark. They put him on a stretcher, covered him with a blanket and gave him an injection. They put a mask over his nose. Why were they making such a fuss over him? I wanted to scream ‘He’s just killed my mum!’

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘Daniel.’ Mark’s just killed my mum. She’s dead. Mark killed her.

‘We need to take you to hospital, Daniel, to check you over.’

‘I’m alright. Where are they taking Mum?’ They can’t take her away; they haven’t tried to help her. But they’re helping Mark.'

‘Is that your mum, then? What’s her name?’

‘Amanda. Amanda Johnson. Where are they taking her? I want to go with her.’

‘Daniel, we can’t let you do that. You can go with your friend.’

‘He’s not my friend.’

‘Have you got a dad I can phone for you? He could meet you at the hospital.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know his number?’ ‘

What?’ They’re closing the door. They’re taking Mum away from me.

‘Daniel, what’s your dad’s phone number, love?’

‘It’s in my mobile.’ I took it out of my pocket and handed it over. None of this is real.

‘Hello, Mr Johnson? This is the emergency ambulance service. We’ve been called out to a road traffic accident. I’m afraid your wife and son were involved. I have to warn you, it’s a serious accident.’

I’ll wake up soon, and it’ll just be a normal day. ‘DAD! They won’t let me go with Mum. Tell them to let me, Dad! TELL THEM!!!’

# # #

I woke up in the hospital; Dad was standing next to me. His red eyes cried out the truth. He put his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. Something trickled down my face. I thought I must be bleeding, but my hand only showed wet. Then I was sitting up, and Dad had his arms round me, and we were both crying. A nurse put a box of tissues on the stretcher, then drew a curtain round us.

Dad said the police had told him that the driver of the black car had been chatting on his mobile, and not concentrating. He hadn’t seen Mum indicate for a right turn, and had crashed straight into the back of us.

If Mark had been wearing his seatbelt, Mum would still be alive. Now I wanted to kill Mark. How could he have been so stupid?

# # #

Everyone says it was “just one of those things”, and that “he’s paid for it”. He spent weeks in hospital; and he’ll always be scarred. Doesn’t change the fact that he killed her, though, does it?

Three weeks ago, a lady from Oxfam came and collected twenty black bin liners of Mum’s life. Our stuff went in a huge van. We followed it in Dad’s car. I looked back over my shoulder and could see Mark and his mum standing at their gate, watching. She waved, but I turned my back on them.

I like my new school, and I’ve got some new friends.

We never go to Blackpool.

Reflctions, new short story

I've been quiet for a while, what with one thing and another - this short story being one of the reasons - it's now been handed in as part of my creative writing portfolio.. Please read and enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Reflections

The poster outside the theatre reads: The Glitzy, the Glamorous, the Gorgeous - Jo Johnson. Final week.

Jo sits before the mirror, carefully applying lipstick. The dresser leaves; the costumes are hung in performance order, ready for the quick changes called for during the show. The dressing room is full of flowers; cards surround the mirror.

Jo gazes round; has it really been so long? Is it really time to retire? To hang up the sequins and satin for the final time? It only seems like yesterday that …

# # #

'Right, love, I’m just running Isobel into town to get a present for Mandy’s party this afternoon. Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?’

‘No, thanks, Mum. There’s nothing I want, and, besides, I have my end of year project to get on with.’

‘OK then, see you later, be good,’ Mum says, and they’re gone.

I didn’t want to go to town with them, just to hang around watching them riffle through every gift in the shops, and every book on the shelves at Waterstone’s. Besides, I have my project to finish. I’m two years older than Isobel, and Mum trusts me to be left at home on my own nowadays.

So, finally, I have the house to myself. This is what I look forward to; my special times. I switch the pc on, ready to work. Now I’m in Isobel’s room, opening the wardrobe door. She’d kill me if she knew what I was doing, but she doesn’t. I’m always very careful to put things back exactly where I get them from; she’s never guessed what I do when she’s not here.

Mind you, I don’t think she’d notice if I did put anything back in a different place. She’s quite messy. Stuff’s falling off hangers, everything’s higgledy-piggledy. Not like my wardrobe. I have everything hanging in colour order. It looks lovely and tidy when I open the door. My shoes are in pairs on the floor of the wardrobe, not like these. It’s easy to see how I get ready much more quickly than Isobel.

My fingers feel along the different fabrics until the faint prickle of the Lurex tells me I’ve found it. A tingle runs down my spine as I lift the hanger from the rail. This illicit borrowing never fails to excite me. I strip off my jeans and t-shirt, putting them neatly on the bed. My skinny body, slighter than Isobel’s, despite me being older, develops goose bumps.

I hold it out in front of me to admire it. I’d been so jealous when Isobel had been the Christmas Fairy at a fancy dress party last year. She’d looked lovely, but I know that I would have looked gorgeous. I have short blonde hair, with natural curls. Isobel’s heavy, dark plait just didn’t do the costume justice. Don’t get me wrong, Isobel did look beautiful. Everyone said so - but I would have looked stunning.

I remember that whenever we used to dress up when we were younger, I was always the girl, and Isobel the boy. I’ve always been daintier, with a rosebud mouth, and extra long eyelashes. She takes more after Dad, but I resemble Mum, and she was a model before she had us.

I slowly slip the dress from the hanger and spread the skirts on the floor. Now comes the best bit... I bend down and slide the smooth, silky lining up against my body. I’m now encased in a fresh, pink skin. I clip the wings onto the straps. The metamorphosis is complete.

The reflection in the mirror shows beautiful, golden-haired fairy Jo. Gold gossamer wings flutter gently. Fine ribbon straps lead down to the pink satin bodice, overlaid with gold mesh. Delicate and feminine; I feel so special in this dress. I’d like this to be my everyday clothes – no more jeans and t-shirts.

I find the pink tights, tossed on the floor of the wardrobe, and carefully pull them up; it wouldn’t do to snag them! I pirouette, revolving like the ballerina in Isobel’s pink jewellery box. My shimmering, iridescent wings reflect back the sunlight streaming in at the window. I wish I could step, like Alice, into the looking glass, and be the fairy girl reflected there.

Oh, no! I can hear the car pulling into the drive! Where has the time gone? I slip out of the fairy finery and in seconds it’s back on the hanger, in the wardrobe. I grab my clothes, and dash to my bedroom to tug on my jeans and t-shirt. I didn’t have time to take off the tights, but she won’t be wearing them today. I can return them when she’s at the party. I pull on a pair of trainers, and rush downstairs, nearly colliding with Mum and Isobel in the hall.

‘Everything alright?’ Mum asks. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Did you get what you needed for the party?’

‘Did we? We found the most amazing handbag! It has compartments for everything, so Mandy won’t keep losing her things. It has little loops for lipsticks, and pens. And it’s in leopard print furry fabric. She’ll love it.’ I get the distinct impression that Isobel has fallen in love with it and would like one for herself!

Isobel runs upstairs.

‘I’m going to have a shower now, Mum. OK? Then my hair has time to dry.’

‘OK, sweetheart. I’ll start making lunch soon.’ She looks at me. ‘I’m making a cuppa, d’ you want one?’

‘No, thanks, I’m working on the computer.’ I turn away, and walk upstairs. I am actually doing my project in no time.

The tantalising aroma of sausages tickles my nose, my mouth is watering. I realise I’m hungry, and begin to type faster to get my work finished. Then Mum’s voice calls:

‘Isobel, Joseph? Lunch is nearly ready. Time to set the table, please, one of you.’

‘Right, Mum,’ I shout. ‘I’ll just log off, then I’ll be down.’

‘Thanks, Joe,’ says Isobel, ‘I’m just finishing drying my hair.’

‘No problem, sis.’

I run down and set the table. Jo is hung up again until the next time we’re alone.

# # #

That was the day I decided to come out with it. I’d hidden myself in Isobel’s closet for long enough. When she had gone to bed, and Mum and Dad were sitting with a bottle of wine, I took a deep breath:

‘Mum, Dad; I’ve got something I want to tell you.’

‘What’s that, son?’

‘You sound serious, sweetheart, whatever is it?’

‘I …I…’
‘Spit it out, lad, spit it out. We’re waiting.’

‘Well, you see …’ Despite my project on assertiveness, I can feel my cheeks burning, and my eyes prickling. My heart is pounding, my palms are wet.

‘Tell me, does this have anything to do with the fact that you’ve got Isobel’s tights on, by any chance?’

I look down. She’s right! I’d forgotten to take them off! A small patch of pink between my trainers and my jeans betrays me.

‘Well, er, yes, it does, actually.’ I feel like my heart’s going to jump out of my mouth. ‘I like wearing her clothes. I’ve been doing it for ages, when there’s nobody else here, and it feels right. I don’t feel like there’s anything wrong with me. I mean, I don’t fancy boys, or anything, but I belong in girl’s clothing. I’ve been thinking about it for ages, and just didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘Dad and I have wondered, you know, sometimes. Just little things you’ve said, or done.’

‘Then why didn’t you say something?’

‘You’d have been embarrassed, and insisted we were mistaken, that’s why.’

‘No I wouldn’t!’

‘Yes, you would! We had to wait for you to speak to us about it. Anyway, love, what have you decided, after all your deliberation? Have you come to any decisions?’

‘I want to go to drama lessons, and then, oh, I don’t know, go on to some sort of acting school, you know, like RADA, or somewhere. Not like ‘Fame!’ I don’t want to do musical stuff, I want to be Grand Dame. I want glitz and glamour. I want to wear fairy costumes, ball gowns, wigs and high heels.’

‘Good Lord! I’ll never hear the last of it when I get my next posting - my son wants to be a drag queen!’

‘No, Dad. Not a queen at all. An actor, specialising in cross-dressing.’ How could I get through to him? ‘I’ve been doing some research, Dad. Did you know that Danny la Rue was in the Navy, too? That should shut the ratings up! And he got an OBE. I’ve been looking to see where the local drama classes are, there’s one on Saturday mornings, in town. Can I go, Mum, please?’

I’m feeling quite calm about it now. It’s such a relief to have said it out loud. Mum and Dad look at each other. Dad still looks a bit worried, but Mum, well she’s absolutely fantastic!

‘Sounds like a good idea, to me. Don’t you agree, Jack? I’ll take you down at the weekend, and we’ll see what they’re offering.’

I could hardly believe my ears!

# # #

So, that’s how it started. I went to Mme. Estelle’s Drama Academy every Saturday. It was harder than I thought it would be, but I persevered. I couldn’t believe that Mum and Dad had been discussing me; I wished I’d screwed up the courage to say something sooner.

In the first play we put on after I joined the Academy, I was a support character; no lines, just a lot of standing around, trying not to look bored. The following year, I was chosen to be the leading man, and Mme. Estelle couldn’t understand it when I refused the part. She persuaded me to take it: ‘A leading man, at fifteen! Silly boy, you must take the part – actors need to accept all sorts of roles when they’re starting out. Be patient!’

Then, the next Christmas we put on a panto, and my dreams came true. I was the Dame. I was the Dame! I was in heaven!

As you know, talent scouts regularly tour the theatres, looking for the next star in the making, and one of them liked my work. Bob’s your uncle, as they say. I was offered a place at a stage boarding school, and haven’t looked back. It was difficult leaving home. I even missed Isobel, believe it or not, and was homesick for a couple of weeks. However, the work was so interesting, and, I have to say, hard, that I didn’t really have time to miss home too much.

Well, you know the rest; there are no secrets in this business. Now I wear frivolous frocks and sequinned satin almost every day, and I get paid for it. Handsomely.

I wonder what would have happened if Isobel hadn’t been the Christmas Fairy?

boasting, my words were chosen,

Congratulations to Christine from "Christine's Chatter" for her winning contribution:

Tthis is the photo for which the words were written. November 1, 2009, Write with Pictures.

Isn't it sad that so many children today don't realize that cakes, cookies and biscuits can be baked at home?





If it doesn't come wrapped from the supermarket, it's not "real" for some.





You can share so much with a child when you're baking - math, motor skills, sharing, mixing, tasting, creating, sharing secrets, the science and magic of raising cakes and dough - oh - and most of all - LOVE.





Keep on baking, people, keep on :)

boasting, my words were chosen, vegan ethic

I know I shouldn't boast, but I'm still at the stage where I find it amazing that somebody chooses my work above others!!! I liked this for its simplicity, yet the underlying message is there, for those that can, to see!

Thursday, October 15, 2009

Today's Writing Prompt: Nursery Rhyme
Rewrite a nursery rhyme. (Have fun with it!)
(Here's a link to a bunch of them, if you need to refresh your memory!)
One-Minute Writing of the Day:Writer: Christine

Baa baa black sheep,
How's it make you feel,
Knowing that you're there to be somebody's meal?

Congratulations on another win, Christine! Clever and dark.... I like it.

Boasting - my words were chosen

Well, as you can see, another short piece made the grade :) It is such a good feeling when someone you don't know decides that my writing is goodl thanks C Beth :)

Friday, October 9, 2009

Friday Fiction: Wedding
Write a brief bit of fiction, with a wedding as the setting.Friday Fiction is your opportunity to write a short (short, short, short) story. Many participants use more than one minute for Friday Fiction prompts, and I open up the One-Minute Writing of the Day contest to entries of various lengths.Click on the "Friday Fiction" tag beneath the post to see more examples of Friday Fiction writings.

One-Minute Writing of the Day:Writer: Christine

I eally didn't want to be a page boy, not even for my lovely sister. Then I found out I had to wear a skirt. Calling it a kilt doesn't stop it from being a skirt. You can imagine the fun that gave my mates at school.

Now everyone's here, in this cold marquee, smiling and drinking champagne, while I have an iced cola - great.They all look so happy, but then they don't have a breeze blowing where no breeze should blow, and bare legs under a pleated skirt. The velvet jacket and tartan bow tie just add insult to injury.

Now they want me to smile for the camera! Who do they think they're kidding?I think I'll use this dirk to carve my name in one of the trees outside. Yes, that'll make the day go better.

Maybe I could force just one smile for them...

Congratulations on another win, Christine! One thing I really enjoyed about your response was that it was set at a wedding, but wasn't about the bride and groom. And it definitely made me smile.

short story, dead man in the loft

When the builder told me he had to move a dead man in the loft, I was taken aback, to say the least. I'd been in the loft several times, and nary a corpse had I seen!

Once he'd explained to me what he meant, I decided that therein lay a story for children, and since one of the modules I'm taking this semester at uni is Writing for Children, this was serendipity, indeed.

This is the first draft of the story that evolved from this chance phrase, I hope you'll enjoy the idea, and bear in mind that it is only a first draft!

There’s a Dead Man in Our Loft


The builders arrived yesterday. Two of them, wearing clothes so scruffy Mum wouldn’t let us be seen dead in them! Tufts of grey wire sprout out of the back bit of Frank’s baseball cap. Paul’s bald. I always thought that your hair turned grey then fell out, but Paul’s much younger than Frank. Maybe he’s had chemo-therapy; Dad’s friend Eric’s hair fell out after he’d had chemo, and he was only 30.

Mum’s going to have a baby, and our house is already full! There’s me, I’m Amy, my sister Brenda, and my brother, Chris. And there’s Mum and Dad too. We’ve got three bedrooms, but one’s only tiny. Chris has that one, and I share a bigger one with Brenda. There’s no room for the new baby. He’s a boy, so the scan says, so we’re having the loft converted into a “Master Suite” for Mum and Dad. Chris and baby Danny will have Mum’s old room, when it’s been decorated, of course. They won’t want a room with roses all over the walls!

* * * * * * *


I was deep into my Nancy Drew mystery, when I heard Frank, the builder, asking Mum if he could have a word with her. He was speaking very quietly, and for some reason, whenever I hear people speaking softly, my ears have this habit of trying extra hard to hear what’s being said.

I wish I hadn’t heard what Frank said to Mum, though! I don’t know what to do about it.

‘Mrs Jenkins, could I have a quick word with you? We’ve uncovered a bit of a problem.’

‘Oh dear! What sort of problem? It isn’t going to hold up the building work, is it? The baby’s due in four months, and I really need to have the bedrooms sorted out before he arrives.’

‘It’s nothing we can’t handle, don’t worry. We’ve come across this problem before. There’s a dead man at the far end of the loft needs moving.’

‘What?’ Mum’s voice went quite high, then she sort of laughed, nervously. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. There isn’t a dead man in my loft!’

I heard them walk upstairs, so couldn’t hear what they were saying any more. I felt like somebody was squeezing my tummy muscles, and I found I was holding my breath. How could there be a dead man in the loft? Was it like when they found the Princes in the Tower? Had a body been shut up to die in the loft space years ago, when the house was new? Or had a burglar broken in and died up there, starving to death with a broken leg, unable to climb back up the chimney?

My mind played all sorts of little film clips really quickly, trying to make sense of it, but couldn’t. What did it mean? Who could I ask? Should I tell someone, or not? Does it count as a secret? Should I phone the police? I decided I’d tell my best friend, Zoë, about it, and see what she thought. I bet she hasn’t got a corpse in her loft!

* * * * * * *

I was sitting, reading, when somebody else’s hand turned the page for me! It was a hairy, withered-looking hand, with long, yellow nails. My own scream woke me up. The thudding in my chest was so loud I though the house would wake up, but nobody moved. I wish they had woken up, my skin was all goosey, and I was scared. I pulled the duvet over my head, and closed my eyes tightly. I must have gone back to sleep, eventually, because next thing I knew Brenda was opening drawers and cupboards with her usual clatter.


‘Zoë, come over here, I want a quick word with you.’ I stopped, I was speaking like Frank! ‘Zo, quick, I need to talk to you before we go in. Let’s go over there for a minute.’

‘Hi, Amy. What’s up? You look a bit flushed! There’s no need to pull me, I’m coming!’

‘There’s a dead man in our loft! I don’t know what to do.’

‘Don’t be silly, Amy, there can’t be a dead man in the loft. Your whole house would be stinking and full of flies. I’ve seen films where they find bodies, and there’s always big bluebottles, and they use the larvae to see how long the body’s been dead.’

‘But I heard Frank tell Mum. He said they had uncovered a problem, there was a dead man and they had to move it.’

‘You must have misheard him. There can’t be a dead man in your loft. There just can’t. How would he have got there?’

‘Maybe he was burgling the house, fell and broke his neck, and just died. Nobody would look for him in our house, because nobody would have known he was there, would they?’

‘Noooo, no, I suppose that’s possible.’

‘Or maybe he was entombed, like the Pharaoh’s slaves were.’

‘That’s not very likely, is it? Though sometimes when old houses were built they used to put a small animal, or child, in the walls for good luck. But that was in really old houses, and yours is only about 200 years old. And I don’t think they did it with grown men, only children.’

‘The thing is, Zo, what do I do? Should I phone the police? Or will that get Mum and Dad into trouble? Even if I make an anonymous call, I’d have to tell them the address. Then when they come to the house they’ll hear my voice and know it was me sneaking on my parents. So that’s no good.’

‘I don’t think you should do anything yet, the bell’s about to go. Let’s go and line up, we can think about it in class, it’s art first lesson.’

‘You don’t think Dad could have killed anybody, do you? He does get very cross sometimes.’

‘Don’t be daft. Your dad wouldn’t kill anyone. Everyone gets angry sometimes, but we don’t go around killing people!’

The whistle silenced us, but my thoughts were still whirling round like Sher Khan’s eyes in the Jungle Book, making me feel dizzy. We muttered to each other while we painted, but Zoë didn’t know what to do, either. I decided that I would look in the loft when I got home, and see what I could discover before I did anything else.

* * * * * * *

Once I got home, I told Mum I had some homework to do, and went upstairs to my room. I could see Brenda and Chris out in the garden, Mum was in the kitchen, so it was all clear. I crept up the new staircase into the loft on tip-toe. I felt like a crime scene investigator, looking for evidence – I love all the CSI series. The afternoon sun through the new roof window made the loft space look golden, not like a crime scene. I sniffed the air deeply, but couldn’t smell anything rotten. Nor could I see any bluebottles, or any other sort of fly. I couldn’t see any little white maggots wriggling around, either, though I was quite glad about that. I can’t look at the TV screen when they show the maggots, and have to wait until Mum or Dad tells me it’s OK to watch again.

There weren’t any cupboards that might have hidden a body, and the chimney was quite narrow up in the loft, so nobody could have got in there. Where could this dead man have been found? Unless he’d hung himself, but I couldn’t see any hooks in the rafters above my head, just a few dusty spider’s webs, long since abandoned. And Frank said he’d uncovered a problem, but Daddy would have found a man just hanging there when he put the Christmas decorations away each year.

* * * * * * *

‘How’re the builders getting on with the loft, Mum?’ I asked when we were having our pizza, later.

‘Don’t talk with your mouth full, sweetheart, you know it’s rude. They’re getting on alright. They’ll be taking up the old boards and laying the new floor joists tomorrow.’

‘It’s odd having another staircase. The new banisters look really pale, like the ghosts of the other ones. Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to mention ghosts.’

‘Why on earth shouldn’t you mention ghosts? You know there’s no such thing, really.’

‘Well, yes, but after this morning …..’

‘After what, this morning? Did someone say something to you about ghosts at school?’

‘No. Sorry, I heard what Frank said to you. I wasn’t listening, I just heard him.’

‘Heard what, sweetheart? You’re not making much sense.’

‘I heard him tell you about the dead man, Mum. Then you went upstairs, and I didn’t hear any more. Was it a very old man? I’ve been thinking about it all day. Where did they find him? Where is he now? Will there be a post-mortem? Are we in trouble?’

‘Whoa, hold on!’ I couldn’t believe my eyes, Mum was laughing! ‘There isn’t a body in the loft, love, it’s not a real dead man.’

‘But Frank said …’

‘I know, I was confused too! Oh, you poor girl, worrying about dead bodies in the loft all day. Oh dear!’

‘Stop laughing, Mum, stop it!’ I was all mixed up. I was angry because Mum was laughing at me, relieved because there was no dead man, and embarrassed because I’d got something wrong, and, what was worse, told Zoe about it. I could feel my cheeks glowing, and my vision blurred. I sniffed, and stood up quickly to leave the room before anyone noticed.

Mum followed me out.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart, I wasn’t laughing at you.’

‘Seems like it to me.’

‘No, I was laughing because I’d thought exactly the same as you! Who was he, what was he doing in our loft, how did he die?’

‘Well, it’s not funny.’

‘No, it’s not. Except that it is when you know what Frank was talking about.’

‘Why? What did he mean if he didn’t mean a real dead man, what other sort is there? A live dead man?’

‘No, come up to the loft with me and I’ll show you the dead man.’

‘I’ve been up there. There isn’t one.’

‘Oh, yes there is, come on.’ She took me by the hand and squeezed it. ‘Come on.’

At the top of the stairs Mum pointed to the other side. I couldn’t see anything except a couple of dirty cups next to a pile of bricks.

‘What?’ I asked, still a bit cross.

‘Do you see the bricks over there, like a little wall, under the long piece of wood?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s what builders call a dead man. A pile of bricks that isn’t actually a wall, it just supports the beam. And the beam supports the roof.’

‘But he said it was a problem.’

‘Yes, it is. He has to take down the bricks and replace them with a huge chunk of wood so that we can have a nice, neat wall across that end, otherwise it would have to have a kink in it. That’s what he meant. Frank had to bring me up to show me, just like I’m showing you, because I’d never heard of it either. So we’ve both learned something new. Now, let’s go and finish that pizza, shall we?’

* * * * * * *

I’m going to have to think very carefully about what I’m going to say to Zoe. Maybe I could pretend I knew all along, and was just teasing her.

boasting, my words were chosen, creative writing sites

It never fails to give me a thrill when my words are chosen on one of the site, much better than a box of chocolates or a bouquet of flowers. This was on One Minute Writer. Thank you C. Beth :)



Here is my small offering on "Connection"



One-Minute Writing of the Day:Writer: christine



Her nose was a tinge purplish.

Her hair dark and spiky.

Skin slightly ochre tinged, but oh, so soft.

Lips puckered gently, but soundless.

Her eyes opened wide and found me.

I was lost in their depths from that moment.

"Well, Mum, here I am, let's get on with our lives."



Congratulations on another win, Christine! This was a beautiful description of such a miraculous moment.
Posted by C. Beth at 5:00 AM



I was saddened to see that Pictures, Poetry and Prose has been (temporarily, I hope), suspended due to unfortunate home circumstances of the site producer, Laura Beth. I wish her all the very best in her search for a suitable position, and hope that her wonderful site will soon be up and running again. It has inspired me so much, along with C. Beth's One Minute Writer site.

As an embrionic writers I count myself lucky to have discovered these sites, both of which I appreciate as a method of sharing my writing with others, and enjoying theirs in return.

creative writing, short story

Today, in the creative writing seminar, I read out the first draft of a short story which I'd come up with in the holidays.

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop, the usual chuntering had stopped. Everyone enjoyed it, appreciating the way it grew darker as it progressed. I felt like a real writer :)

Yes, there are flaws; an anachronistic glitch was pointed out to me, I need to upgrade video to dvd! But they genuinely liked it - yay!!!!

Here it is, so you can share it too - let me know what you think .......

Box of Secrets

My box of secrets lies under my bed. It is huge and heavy. It’s a travelling trunk that belonged to my Grandfather in the 1920s. He used to travel around the world for his newspaper column, so it’s a little tatty, but I’ve had it since I was two, and I can’t imagine ever not having it. The big, brass lock is engraved with his initials; CAD, Charles Arthur Dobson. My name is Charlie Dobson, I was named after Granddad. The big, brass key is heavy. I keep it hidden behind my Biggles books on the top shelf of my bookcase in the corner of my room.

It was given to me to keep my Duplo, then Lego, in when I was small, to stop my bedroom floor being covered in small plastic pieces. I grew out of Lego long ago, but the chest has stayed. Now I keep my secrets in it. We all have secrets, don’t we? Things we’d rather other people didn’t know. I’ll tell you a few of mine. I know you won’t divulge them to anyone else. You’d better not.

When I was eight I was run over by a car. I was in hospital for six weeks with my leg pinned together. No football for me that summer. Once I came out of hospital people noticed that I wasn’t acting the same as I had before I’d been knocked down. I was snappy, and would fly off at the slightest thing. I even hit my mum one day; she’d said ‘No.’ when I asked to watch a video.

‘But why, Mum? There’s nothing on TV.’

‘I think you should go in the garden for a while and get some fresh air, love. You might not be able to play football, but there’s a lot of other things to do.’

‘Like what?’

‘Well, there’s the hoop-la in the shed. There’s the darts board on the back of the garage door, you’ve always loved playing darts. You could try your bike. The doctor said you could do most things now, as long as you don’t overdo it at first.’

‘But I want to watch the video, Mum. I don’t want to go outside.’

‘I said “no”, Charlie. That’s the end of the matter. Please go outside and get some fresh air. If you don’t want to play, then take a book outside. I’m going to vacuum the house, and I don’t want to be vaccing around you. Off you go, please.’

Next thing I knew, Mum was on the floor, a red river gushing from her nose.

‘Mum, are you ok? I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry. Mum, Mum? Wake up, Mum!’ I grabbed the tea-towel and held it to her nose. I felt awful. I could see drops of water on her t-shirt; that’s when I realised I was crying.

I was so relieved when she started to move, and her eyes opened. ‘Oh, Mum, thank goodness you’re alright. I’m so sorry, Mum. I don’t know what happened. Your nose is bleeding. Are you ok? I’m sorry, Mum, I’m sorry.’

‘It’s ok, Charlie. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.’ She said, but she didn’t look it.

Her face was so white you could see all the freckles that normally are hidden by her tan. And the blood! I felt sick, now, there was so much of it. I just stayed crouching there, until she started to get up. Then I leapt up, and helped her. She was a bit unsteady, and I pulled one of the stools from under the breakfast bar for her to sit on.

‘What shall I do, Mum? Shall I make you a cup of tea?’ That’s what adults always do, isn’t it, when something’s gone wrong? Make a cup of tea.

‘Yes, please, love. That would be nice.’ She said. ‘Come here, though, first.’

I turned back to her, and walked over. She pulled me to her and gave me a hug. ‘Don’t worry, son, you didn’t mean it. I know that. Make me a cuppa, and get yourself a glass of orange. I’ve been meaning to talk to you, so we’ll have a little chat and a drink. Okay?’

I nodded, and went to switch the kettle on. I put a tea bag in a mug for Mum, then opened the fridge to get some juice. By the time the switch clicked off I’d poured it out, and got the milk ready. I made it quite strong, just how she likes it, and took it into the lounge, where Mum was sitting. She’d been and changed her t-shirt, and washed her face, so she didn’t look as bad, but her nose was swollen and bruised. I sat down next to her, I felt like a little child.

‘Charlie, love, since you came out of hospital you’ve been finding it really difficult to control your temper, haven’t you?’

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak, I felt like crying again, and boys don’t cry.

‘Well, I spoke to Dr. James yesterday, and he’s arranged for you to see someone who’s going to talk to you, and explain how to manage better. Then you won’t hit out at people, or be so cross when little things go wrong.’ She smiled at me to show that she wasn’t angry with me. ‘You know how sometimes, when soldiers come back from the war zones, like in Afghanistan, they suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome? Well, the accident has affected you in the same way. The counsellor will explain it better than I can, but apparently, after an accident that wasn’t your fault, it’s quite common to feel like you do. I’m taking you to see her tomorrow morning. Her name is Angela. Okay, honey?’

‘Yes, okay. I’m really sorry, Mum, I didn’t mean to hit you.’

‘I know, sweetie, I know. It’s okay. Dr. James says Angela knows all sort of tricks you’ll be able to use to help get back to normal. Let’s enjoy our drinks, shall we? Then I think we’ll both sit and watch a video together. How’s that?’

‘Yes, great. Can I have a biscuit?’

Mum nodded, and I ran off to get the biscuit tin.

Angela, my counsellor, explained all about “traumatic shock”, and said that what I was going through was common. It was more like an illness, not me being naughty. But she also explained that it was up to me to conquer it. Nobody else could do it, but she would work with me, until we’d found the best way for me. She called it ‘Anger Management’, and I saw Angela twice a week for the first month, then once a month for a while, then again after six months, and she said I was fine.

The best way we found for me to stop exploding when things went wrong was to write down whatever it was that had annoyed me; fold the paper up into a tiny ball, then bury it in the garden when I got home. Once it was buried, I had to recognise that it had gone, and was over with. I had to forget it and move on. Mum gave me a section of garden where I could bury my notes, and that’s what I did. At first. After a while, I was just burying pieces of blank paper; my real notes I locked away in my trunk. I also locked away my log of the retribution I’d taken against anyone who annoyed me.

Take Brian, for instance. He kicked a muddy football at me one rainy day in September. He kicked it at me, not to me, and my new coat was filthy. I asked to be excused during the afternoon lesson, and took his new jacket and stuffed it into one of the cisterns in the girl’s toilets. It wasn’t discovered for ages, not until someone complained about the toilet not flushing very well.

Then there was Arshid. He knocked over my Coke©, then laughed. That pissed me off, so later, when nobody was about, I peed into his glass of orange juice. I could hardly keep from laughing when he drank it later! Keeping my “Retribution Record”, as I called it, really helped. I never lash out at people now, no matter how mad I feel at the time. I heard somewhere that “revenge is a dish best eaten cold”. I know what it means now. Sometimes it takes weeks for me to find the perfect opportunity to take revenge, but that’s fine, it’s all the sweeter for the waiting.

If I can, I take something to remind me of my revenge; like a souvenir you’d bring back from a holiday. It might be a button, like the one off Brian’s coat, the lace from a football boot, taken so that Bobby couldn’t play in the school match final. They’re all locked away with my log book. I got that idea from an episode of one of the CSI series, where the murderer kept souvenirs of all his victims. Sometimes there’s nothing I can take to remind me, so I make a more detailed entry in my Retribution Record; I can relive it better, then, when I want to sit and gloat.

So, now you know my secret hiding place and some of my secrets. You’d better remember my name; and if we meet, be careful not to upset me. I always take retribution. Be warned!

boasting, my words were chosen

The Path
Photo by Jim Pankey "WildSpirit"
Jim's Photography can be found at Picasa and Fotothing
~
Suggested prompt...
~
Offer your creativity in any way you are inspired today by this delightful photograph.

I wrote the following simple words for this photo post:

We all follow a path. Old, young, rich, poor, black, white, whole or damaged.

.

Whichever path we take is the right path for us, there is no other.

.

Sometimes we walk in brightness and light and all goes well. Sometimes we walk in shadow, and things seem hard.

.

In the dark times remember the light, it's still there - we need light to cause shadows.

.

Walk onward to find the light ahead, draw strength from the light you left behind.

.

Whe your path runs in the light, store some up for the dark times you hit, then you'll never run out.

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This path is your path, make it a good one :)

back to uni

Today I saw many faces and had to raid my memory banks to retrieve the names that matched them - a bit like a child playing matching pairs with playing cards, you know, where they are all upside down, and you turn up two cards, if they match you get to keep them, if not they are turned upside down again. Keep going, remembering where all of them are until you've bagged the lot. Remember now? I think we used to call it Pelmanism, but don't quote me on that one.

So, it was a bit like that. Faces I hadn't seen since uni finished at the end of April, trying to put the correct names to them. I'm so bad at remembering! Goodness knows how I've managed to get to the start of my third, and final, year there. It's not as if I don't like the people, but their names just disappear. If you don't use it, you lose it, so they say, and that seems to be the case with names.

I'm the same with street names, names of towns and cities, countries, you name it (sorry, unintentional, honest!), and I can forget it. This at least proves that it's nothing personal, doesn't it? Yes, good, glad we're agreed. Please remember we had this conversation if I ever meet you for a second time, and can't remember your name. It will save any embarassment :)

So, there we all were, a bunch of second and third year students, hanging on every word our esteemed lecturers uttered. Well, not quite, obviously, we're students. One guy turned up only following a prompt from a student (yes, I know, they get paid to turn up, we just go out of duty), and the other was standing in for an absentee and simply went through parts of the handbook on screen.

But at least I got to look at the faces, and try to remember some names. Actually, it was good to catch up with some people and find out what had gone on over the sumer break, and discuss what was about to happen over our final year.

It's so hard to believe that this is it. The third and final year. I'm so lucky to have been able to persuade them to take an aged female like me on to the BA course, and to have proved myself capable of completing the workload. If any of my lecturers are reading this "thank you" for your input, and for helping to make the last couple of years so enjoyable.

So now the work really begins. I have a new lecturer to get to know next week. I've heard that she's successful and lovely, so I'm looking forward to it. She will be helping me to write for children.

I'm also looking forward to seeing Dinesh again, and discovering the gems he has to divulge this semester to improve my prose writing skills.

I've been very fortunate with my lecturers over the last two years. It makes a huge difference to have an approachable, knowledgeable member of staff in front of you. I've appreciated what I've learned from each of them, and know that I've improved as I've gone along, thanks, in part, to their valuable feedback.

If any of you are about to embark on a degree course, and would like a little advice, mine would be very simple.

1) Enjoy it - you're there for 3 years, select modules which interest you, it's your degree!
2) Read the tutor's comments on your essays etc. They're written to help you, and if you look on them that way, instead of thinking "Oh, they don't know what they're talking about, that was a good essay.", they become a useful tool to help you improve.
3) Take advantage of every course going that might help you - advice on writing a good essay, advice on time-management etc. A couple of hours or so spent on those are worth it, they'll help for then next 3 years!
4) Make sure you use the correct citation style from the beginning, that way you don't have to re-learn anything later.
5) Use your first year to lay down the skills you'll need in those vital final years. Much better to use this time to build up your confidence. Make your mistakes now, whilst it doesn't affect your degree marks!
6) Talk to your lecturer, or personal tutor if you're uncertain about something academic. It's a part of their job to help you. They are one of the best resourses the uni has to offer, it makes sense to avail yourself of them. You're paying for it, after all.
7) Aim high from the outset. If you don't achieve what you've aimed for, at least you'll still be quite high. If you aim for a 2:2 and don't achieve it you'll be miserable, and if you do achieve it, you'll wonder just what you might have done if you'd aimed just that little bit higher!
8) Enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.
9) Enjoy it some more; it's a great opportunity you're giving yourself.

boasting

This is more boasting - just another story with a twist in the tale!

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Street Food
Photo by Kane HsiehVisit his blog - Crimson-G-B~Suggested prompt...~Write a poem or story that has a street vendor in it.
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Monday to Friday he gathers his stock. Saturday he sets up his stall in the "Epicurean World" Street Market.

Monday to Friday he visits flats in slums. Dirt-filled parvements, cracked and unkempt beneath his boots. Landlords who take cash from their tenants, but give little in return.

He answers the desperate pleas of the slum dwellers 'This place is crawling with roaches. Please come and get rid of them.'

Like a magician in reverse, he magics away their problem. Leaving with a bulging, wriggling sack.

At home, he lights the gas under the pot of oil every night. As the smoke begins to rise he tips in the contents of the sack. The hiss, and bubbling soon subsides. He fishes out the contents, and sprinkles them with seasoned salt. Soon, his cotton-lined baskets are full.

Saturday morning, bright and early, he sets out his stall. He has an awning to protect his wares. He whisks the covers off his baskets, and awaits the eager buyers.

Freshly fried cockroaches. One man's problem, another man's delicacy.

christine

boasting, my words were chosen

This is the photo and suggested prompt on the Pictures, Poetry and Prose site on Sept. 4th, followed by my little effort, which was chosen (admittedly from a small selection) - we take crumbs where we may! :)

Photo by Jim Pankey "WildSpirit"Jim's Photography can be found at Picasa and Fotothing~Suggested prompt...~
Offer your writing at the beach today.
A story set at the beach, a memoir about a trip as a child to the beach,
a poem for a cute lifeguard, anything your like, do get creative.________________________

OK kids, are you listening? Today I want you to find the colour red. Do you remember what it looks like? Remember the coral we saw this morning? With the anenomes all over? Yes, of course you do. Well, they were red.

Now, spread out, no getting in each other's way, there's no need for that. I don't want any squabbling about who did, or didn't manage it. I'll be above you, watching.

The one who gets most hits gets first choice of the fish shpper, later. OK, ready to go? Remember, extra points if you get front and back of the same person, and you lose points if you don't hit the red.

Spread those wings. Ready, steady, fly!

christine

I wanted to write something unexpected, and taking a bird's eye view, and playing with their thoughts was what popped into my mind. I hope it raised a smile :)

time flies, where did summer go?

Where did the summer go? When did it disappear? The sun is shining out there, and it's very pleasant (I know because I've just returned from walking to the supermarket), however, it's no longer summer. There's a crispness to the air, and that faint aroma that autumn brings with it.

I'm lucky, I actually think autumn is lovely. The glorious "goodbye" gradations of colours on the deciduous tree leaves, tumbling to the ground. Cheerful crimsons, outrageous oranges, yummy yellows, bronzy browns, claret, gold, amber, bronze - all that richness and opulence to take pleasure in.

A glorious free display which always cheers me and fills me with wonder at nature's majesty. I have a friend whose attitude is diametrically opposite to mine. She feels depressed as the leaves change, seeing only decay and death. I see the plants preparing themselves for sleep, ready to waken again in the Spring. Waving goodbye in their glad-rags before they slumber. A time for peaceful regeneration.

How do you feel about Autumn?

new short story,

I've just been on the Pictures, Poetry and Prose site, and I wrote this short story to accompany a photo of a long, lonely road. You can log onto the site from the icon on the right, if you are interested in seeing more of mine, and other people's writings:)
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The Hitch-hiker

I'd been ambling along for an hour down this arid road before I flagged down the car. Many had passed by, they always do, but they’re not all right for me.

This one is right. A young girl. Not too pretty, not too young. Just right. Vulnerable. Open to being waved down by a good-looking hunk like me. No point in being modest, I am a handsome devil.

We chat about this and that. She hasn't been down this road before. For me it's a road well-travelled. I describe the beauty of the area. She relaxes.

I tell her I'll treat her to an ice-cream at the next lay-by, which is just ahead, round the next corner. The van belongs to my cousin, I tell her. It’s where I was walking when she stopped to pick me up, as I do every weekend. I didn’t tell her that, though. I told her I was aiming for the next town, 10 miles on.

We'll draw up, he'll hand over two cones. One will contain a little something extra, along with the chocolate flake. She'll be asleep before she knows it, and I'll be a hundred dollars richer.

She'll come round, trussed up in the back of his truck. I'll be on my way in her car to have a little fun.

My cousin will have his fun later. I've never asked just what he does with them. I really don't want to know. No, really, I don't.

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I'd love to know what you think!