Sunday, July 24, 2011


This is the sign on my door this afternoon:





*if you do disturb me, I promise you will spend the evening as a chicken trying to lay an egg

*Boy made me take out the last bit. He suggested it might be too tempting for some people. But it amused me anyway.

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

Public Service Announcement

Ladies and Gentlemen, I am giving you a heads up. If you don't take my advice and it all ends in tears, you can't say you weren't warned.

There is something going on in the Heavens.

I know of 8 women who have, within the last 4 weeks ended significant relationships.

This does not include the sudden deaths which have also been happening on a totally random basis.

Therefore, finish reading this blog post, and don't worry I'm keeping in short, go and find the person/friend/animal that you love best in this world and hug them. Tell them how much they mean to you.

Because I tell you what, these are shitty times. And in shitty times, we've really got to stand for each other.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

Words, Words, Words

I've always been an avid reader. That I've got two floor to ceiling bookshelves downstairs crammed with books and another three behind me now in my study, double stacked, suggests nothing's changed as far as that's concerned. I have Amazon on speed dial. Having a Kindle just makes things worse. I love books.

In case, you're late to the party on this blog, I am, what you might call, over-educated. I have two degrees. The first was a BA in Development Studies. I was going to save the world. Well, thankfully that didn't happen. Then I got a BA in Creative Writing.

Doing that degree, poorly financially resourced, poorly supported at home (to start with), nearly damn-well crucified me. That degree saved me. I ditched the bloke, wrote my little heart out and had a fantastic relationship, that was because I started blogging. I started with the intention that I would write a novel, I didn't like writing poetry and as for this modern art lark... I finished my degree with better marks for my poetry, loving my Creative Practice and with several ideas for a novel.

For me, writing a novel is a bit like my relationships with men. Seem like a good idea at the time, but I am completely unable to commit myself to the process. I learnt some mad skills doing the degree. I am an editor par excellence. I am also not a bad creative mentor. I get a real kick out of supporting a person through the creative experience. Any piece of writing can be made better. It may never be outstanding, but it can be made better.

My paid employment consists of copywriting for front facing customer literature and website copy. It's great. I get to plug myself into my iPod, get my head down and write. It's not heart-feeding stuff I write, but its still great to do. It amazes me that doing the Creative Writing degree has more than paid for itself. Even all of the grief.

My BA in Development Studies, although not a waste of time, it's function was to get me into Norwich, to kick start my life off as a single parent; rather than save the world. Looking at it from a distance, I can see why I can never do that. People make very simple situations, complicated. With many, many silly reasons why things cannot/should not change. And most of those reasons are either about fear or self-interest. Money, doesn't come into this. It really doesn't. My personality is such that I suffer badly from frustration in these situations. Often to the extent when it becomes very, very bad for my health. But, that's the good thing about growing up, I've learnt what I can and cannot do. I can't work within large, status-quo structures that say they are going to do something and then do everything not to. It's bad for everyone involved.

Recently, I've been working with an ex-colleague on his manuscript. He keeps telling me how much he's appreciated my input. Truthfully, he's doing me a favour. Being able to use my mad skills for pleasure, it really is my pleasure.

I blog, because I'm a communicator and I'm sociable. I copywrite because I need to earn a living. In the last couple of months, I realise that maybe it's about time I write something for me. Perhaps this is the right time.

Oh, and by the way, a small plug. Writing poetry is a skill. There is no space on a line of verse to waste. Every word must be precise and must pull it's weight. Writing poetry about heart stuff, is the hardest skill of all. It's a chasm the poet must negotiate walking an elasticated tightrope. Because, let's be honest about this, all the angst-ridden poetry you wrote when you were 15 lying in a darkened bedroom, is really a whole load of crap. Authentic in it's anger and sorrow and rebellion. But from a poetic point of view, crap.

Read this. Savannah, the awesome Marsh Mamma, recommended this to me. Personally, I think Mr Moose, was in my head when he wrote that. Observe a Master at work.

Thursday, July 07, 2011

The Problem with Nostalgia

The theme for the last few weeks has been somewhat a re-visiting of the past. Much to Boy's horror, I've been jiggling around to my favourite disco hits of the 70s. According to my iTunes doohicky, I've listened to Amii Stewart's Knock on Wood, 69 times in the last 2 weeks since I downloaded it. My Facebook friends when they found out what I was discoing too sent me loads of good songs to add to my playlist. Good times.

And then Cyberpete reminded me of one of my favourite tracks of my teenage years, by Laura Brannigan: Self Control. So I've been listening to that loads too. I then looked up some other favourites of mine. Including one of George Michael's early solo singles: Careless Whisper. At the time, I thought it was so dreamy. I'd fall asleep to it playing on my walkman. My 14 year old self, would read Mills and Boon and dream of the Prince Charming coming to rescue me.

The 41 year old woman has different ideas. I've deleted it off my playlist. It makes me grind my teeth. I do read the occasional romance, but the Princess is too busy kicking arse to sit down to wait to be rescued. I fall asleep listening to Richard Bandler telling me I'm awesome (and to give him more money). The video doesn't help, even with the Princess Diana lookalike, not far from the truth it seems.

It's an "I got caught doin' wrong" song. Whinging bastard cheated on his girl (he was 'straight' then') and friends of the cheatee clued her in and now he's singing the blues...or the new romantics. Eejit. He deserves everything coming to him and now I have no sympathy for him. Slightly strange, cause I don't believe that infidelity is the worst thing that can happen within a marriage. It's the whinging and whinning. Man the fuck up George! And stick with the vamp. She looks like far more fun.

Sunday, July 03, 2011

Sunday Morning at Casa de Roses

I sit here, I listen to the music du jour. It will be of no surprise to you, I'm in my pink, fluffy dressing gown, drinking the first coffee of the day. I've exchanged the first lot of casual and fond insults with Gee's brother. I've perused this week's Post Secret's secrets and have already had a little cry, for I have a soft heart and am a romantic sap.

The Boy and his GF are fast asleep. The Cat decides she's had enough of looking at me and wants to go look at them. She scratches on the door. I hear muttering from within, the door is opened a crack, the Cat slips in, the door is shut. I count to 10 and by the time I've got to 7, the Cat is scratching on the door again to be let out. I hear muttering from within. The door is opened a crack, the Cat slips out, the door is shut.

I look at her face, I start counting.

The Cat starts scratching at the door...

I think it's going to be one of those days.