The Word Cloud

Now, long ago when I was a very callow youth (I know, hard to imagine, but it’s true) I was invited to attend art classes at the university on Saturday mornings.  I used to be quite canny at pencil drawing, and that, coupled with the art master very possibly having a ‘thing’ for me, was enough to see me on a bus every Saturday morning with my Thunderbirds pencil case and bag of sherbet lemons.

 

I had been attending for several weeks, and sat amongst the other ‘proper’ students while we drew vases of flowers, old boots etc.  One week we were given graph paper to draw on, and so I did just that, drew on it as if it were plain cartridge paper.  The other students, however, were using the small squares to extend their drawings, so they were all elongated and out of kilter.  I thought that they just couldn’t draw very well!

 

Anyhoo, this particular Saturday there was no vase of flowers or old pair of boots as I set up my easel and paper, arranging my pencils ‘just so’ along the little shelf.  Then this blonde woman appeared, dressed in a loose fitting gown.  I was just thinking that she’ll catch her death like that, when off came the gown as she sat on this tall stool.  Well, she was all curves, and gorgeous and all curves, and smiley, and all curves, ya know!

 

Every one else began to draw.  The instructor had been talking about how we should look for certain things blah blah, but I had tuned him out ages ago.  I should mention here that I was fifteen and never seen a real life naked woman before.

 

Well, I actually surprised myself with my early drawing results, though I was concentrating like NEVER before!  Every so often I would take a sherbet lemon from its bag and pop one in my mouth.  We had been drawing for maybe half an hour, when I heard this gentle cough.  I looked up and the blonde vision was staring at me, smiling.

“Do you think I could have a sweet please? She asked.

I looked at her, and pointed dumbly at myself, then at my bag of sherbet lemons.  She nodded her head and smiled again. So, I put my pencil on the easel shelf, and walked the fifty odd miles across the floor to where she sat.

 

I held out the bag, and it was trembling like in a force nine gale, hoping she would take one quickly and then let me die in peace.  She spoke again.

“I’m not allowed to move, would you choose one for me?”

So, I eventually managed to pick a sweet from this fluttering bag, and held it out to her.

“Could you put it in my mouth for me?” she asked, smiling again.

By this time all I could see was this golden haired vision bathed in an eternal glow; and breasts, lots and lots and lots of breasts!

I held out the sherbet lemon in a trembling hand, and she puckered her red lips in slow motion, gently opening them a little wider to take the sticky sweet from me, her lips softly brushing the tips of my fingers.

“Thank you,” she mouthed.

I mumbled something in reply, I have no idea what, and then limped back to the security of my easel.  I had to move it around a bit, to cover certain, ermm, things.

 

I have no recollection of how the class eventually finished.  I do have a vague memory of them turning the heating down, as the temperature radiating from face was proving ample in that regard.

 

 

I was watching Russell Howards comedy show last night (hes not really my sort of comedian but my bf likes him) anyway he always does a serious piece at the end and this week he was talking about Post Pals. Its a website that lists very poorly boys and girls that you can send letters/postcards and little gifts to via addresses on the websites. I was really touched by what I saw on the show and decided to take a look for myself.

Well needless to say I spent the next few hours in tears looking at the profiles of all the sick little children in need of some smiles on there. Lots of them are suffering from multiple diseases, lots of which are incurable along with horrible cancers.

There is memorial page which shows some profiles of the children that have sadly already been lost, but who's lives where made that bit happier by the special friends they had on Post Pals. As I have nieces and nephews (whom I love to pieces) of similar ages to lots of the children (including those lost), it really hits home how lucky everyone is to have a happy and healthy child in there life!

I have already picked the first child I intend to have as my little post pal! Her name is Poppy, she will be the first but certainly not the last :o) I hope you all take time to look at the website and get yourself a pal, it takes so little time and energy from us and our lives and gives SO much to theres!

Thanks for reading guys!!

www.postpals.co.uk

Just saw a WC pals book genre listed as fantasy love story & made me chuckle... hopefully you'll see why... sorry about the crap lines for new paragraphs, struggling with layout... _____________________________________________________________ I had a interesting honeymoon which included a 3 day stint in the hospital. We were staying in Turkey in an incredibly dubiously awarded 5 star hotel that kind of looked like butlins circa 1950 - no offence. We had booked with some budget holiday company who's area's of expertise included providing crappy hotels and gastro entiritis. _____________________________________________________________ Being fair to the holiday firm they did move us to an actual nice 5 star hotel, once we had both become sick, but unfortunately due to illness 3 months prior to our wedding i had had some medication in the uk, that'd knocked my immune system in it's great fat glass jaw. _____________________________________________________________ It was at this new swanky hotel, forced to go no further than 16 yards from the khazi, that i discovered my medical supplies of imodium & rehydration sachets were spent. Joy, oh joy, i was told, when i asked for an 'apokrathy' (sp! lol) or a chemist for us normo's at the front desk, that they had there own doctor. _____________________________________________________________ So, i'm taken by the concierge to a room where the doctor will be summoned to tell me i am sick, not just normal people sick, but ride in an ambulance to hospital & have intra veinus lines of 'antibiotics' & 'fluids' stuffed into every available open vein sick. I don't like to do things by halves. _____________________________________________________________ Anyhoo i digress... Whilst waiting for the doctor, my concierge companion, dishonestly called my translater, because he can speak his native turkish and also german, which i cant, except to order beer and say i'm allergic to nuts, which i'm not, looks down at my book. Small talk ensues, "theee boook... abowwt??" he enquired. It was Christopher Paolini's 'Brisingr' all brand new and shiny, well the dust jacket with the all important picture of a dragon on was. the dust jacket however was in my room so it didn't get spoiled. "It's about Dragons" I say. Confused look. "big lizzards?" i try. More confusion. I mime a dragon, not very well, he looks around like he thinks the doctor might be more necessary than he realised. "It's about you know, Dragons, and knights of old (which it isn't!), and elfs, and i dont know, it's fantasy". "Aaaaaaaah!!!" He aknowledges finally, taps the side of his nose, chuckles & then says very, very wrongly "like the magazines!" _____________________________________________________________ I start to protest my innocence as in pure perfect comic timing the doctor walks in behind me and the concierge clearly thinking he's getting me out of a potentialy embarassing situation makes a sound reminiscent of "zzzzzzzzzzzssshhhhhhh!" to prevent the doctor from hearing my speech, then jabbers on to the doctor about what he thinks my symptoms are and makes to leave. The doctor leans over me, prods my stomach causing me to convulse & says "Hossspeeetaaalll", as the concierge looks at me over the doctors head, cocks his head at a jaunty angle & gave me the biggest wink ever. _____________________________________________________________ I'm not friends with Turkey...

Why is it that when you write more ideas for other books come to you. Two years ago I hadn't really thought about writing much. I've always WANTED to be an author, but until 2 years ago I didn't actually write anything. Sure I wrote sometimes for a magazine and occasionally did the odd script, but writing novels? No. Then a friend of mine heard me reading out some of my course work, it was creating writing and they siad that I should make it into a long story. Which I then decided to do. I wrote and I wrote. I then went on my old lap top and saw a story I wrote when I was eight. It wasn't that good adn didn't have an ending, so I decided I should re-do it. I was still writing the other book and I thought that I could tie those two books together. Then came more course work and another idea popped into my head. The 3rd book in the series was made. I had too many ideas for my first book then so I needed to have a 4th book so I could carry on the story of the character in the first book. One of the characters in the first book then really took to me and I had to write her her own book. That's 5 books in the series now. Not to mention the other 4 books that aren't to do with that series that I need to write. I've finished three books this year, so that's an accomplisment, but i have all those others to go! Plus my short stories! Why can't my brain stop?! I can't sleep at night! Oh, and I have the book I'm writing with my sister which we're making into a film so that I can get a better grade in GCSE drama.... and the scripts for the TV show I'm writing... and the magazine articals for the mag that my friend makes.... WHY?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Do You Keep A Notebook?

 

I was just chatting with Zomb00 about notebooks and thought it might be a topic of more general interest. The thing is, I don’t like t-shirts because they don’t have pockets for notebook and pen. What’s the problem? I’ll tell you the problem – an idea might come at any time, that’s what.

 

You’re on the loo – what’ll you do?

You’re in your bed – what’s in your head?

You’re on the train – what’s that again?

You walk in town – must write things down!

 

Notebook, notebook, how I love thee

Without you near, where would I be?

Without your help what would I do?

Notebook, notebook, I love you.

            (Tennyson, I think)

 

So:- do you have a notebook? Big one, little one? Carried everywhere, locked in a drawer? Plumber’s phone number in the back? Fragments of conversation at the front? Shopping lists in the back? Chapter ideas at the front? Thirty old ones chucked in a cupboard? Burn them to get rid of embarrassing bits? Index them for University of Texas researchers?

 

Do you write blogs in them (like this one)? Have you just been cooking quorn and vegetable curry, and kept breaking off to write this? (Thought so.)

 

Notebook, notebook, always there

You and me, we make a pair.

Notebook, notebook, soft yet tough

Shuttup Gerry, that’s enough.

Right, when it comes to a new idea I pretend to plan it out on a timeline with nice organised chapter-based word counts and that I know exactly what I'm going to do - when in reality I haven't the foggiest.

It's terrible writing etiquette to just badger away without any plans for the future, but I can't help it. One big problem that comes with doing this though, is keeping any shiny new ideas you have under wraps, until you find the right place for them.

If you have a basic plotline and characters etc, and then whilst writing come up with a dazzling subplot, like the one character has a secret illegitimate lovelchild or someone else is gay, then the problem occurs.

If you had a full 90,000 words and suddenly thought of this dazzling sub-plot at the end, you could easily weave it in wherever it suits you.

HOWEVER, if you're only 9,000 words in and you come up with a dazzling SP, it is so difficult to hold on to it until you have a proper word count, because you know it wouldn't really fit in right now, but you can't wait until the right time for it to slot in.

Writing it in a seperate document is all good and well, but then continuing with the main body of the story would mean having to add it in later, also meaning you have to alter the majority of it to fit in.

Anyone who wants to write a book is a nutter.

A rather stunning set of colour photographs from before the revolution, before WW1, before billboards, before non-biodegradable rubbish. The quality of the light is divine; the fashions, amazing. It's another world.

See here

So, i'll set the scene... I work at a golf club, i'm greenkeeper, caretaker, shop worker & chief cook & bottle washer. I'm afforded such positions of responsibility because i once caught a couple of staff members stealing and then revolutionised the way the boss did his day to day accounting so that people can no longer steal without us finding out. Ipso facto i became pretty much the only person my boss trusts when he's not around is me. That's great cos because job security is nice, but the burden of responsibility is a pain in the ass. He's been on holiday for a week & i just sat here and totted up my hours for the week (by the end of tomorrow) at 93 hours. (i poop you not...) That may account somewhat for my medical issue earlier in the week & i know it's probably illegal in the world of working to work that many hours, but it's also illegal in the world of marriage to be homeless & as we've just had our first child (12 weeks old) and my wife gets paid no maternity pay, it is therefore dads job is to work like a slave for a year or so (yay for me! :-/ & no it's not illegal - trust me :-s and yes we get SMP [statuary maternity pay] & i'm not ungratefull but it's like £80 a week & it doesn't spread far) ... I'm not bitching, i have just booked some holiday to have a rest so don't feel too sorry for me. We're going camping cos we can get a weeks holiday for the three of us for £40... I wouldn't have it any other way really. I don't mind being the one who does all the money earning work & any one of the babies smiles is worth it all (plus the wife deals with the poo - ha ha) anyhoo... I digress... I think i'm obviously suffering from overworked stress or stopped-smoking-grumpyness because this morning an hour into my shift i was nearly obliged to tell some to go and 'garfunkle' himself... and that was at 9 am... i worked late last night cos the grass has been growing like buggery since we've had all the rain & i've done loads of cutting all week & wanted the course to look nice for the weekend so i cut the greens last night at like 7.30 & then came back in at 5:30 this morning to cut the fairways & finish off some rough before starting my 12 hour shift in the shop. All was going fine for the first hour until some turnip saunters in without so much as a good morning or at least an aknowledgement of the salutation i had proffered & says "9 senior holes, have the greens been cut this morning?" "oh,! I say "No, they haven't". "Great... So they're going to be slow are they?" says he, in a really condisending voice that actually made me want to leap the counter & beat him to death with a golf club. "well, I'm sorry" i replied, in as arsey a voice as i could muster " i thought it would be good enough if i cut them last night before i went home at 8pm in an attempt to see my wife & child before i came here today at 5 to start my second 14 1/2 hour shift in a row." It was only at this point i actually began my rant which for the sake of anyone choosing to read this i've edited it out to stave the boredom... suffice to say i gave him both barrels & honestly i'm a nice bloke, i don't do nasty shouty man very well, but this guy is a proper grass-hole. His only reply to my telling him subtly to sod off & die was "Have you got round to bothering to put any rakes in the bunkers?" He totally ignored everything i said!!!! "that'll be £9 please..." i replied.

I am 14 and still fatherless, the last time my eyes has gazed upon my father was at 3 years of age, 
 I defiantly don't miss him, one because how could you miss something if you have never had it to loose,
if he wanted to see me he would of found me
and when my mum and him broke up, he broke up from me too,
I have only one rule of wisdom, hold on to something good, 
because you will never know until you have lost it and then it is gone for good,

I properly never see my dad again, because he comes from the middle east but at least I can settle my mind with something, at least I didn't know him before I lost him!
 

There's a black dinosaur on Southsea Common. He stands sixteen metres high, looking out to sea, watching the ferries to-and-fro across the Solent. He's close enough to the hovercroft to wear a fine mist of sea-spray as it pulls up on the beach. It sparkles like a diamond cloak on his fibreglass skin.There are a few folks taking photographs of him and one family are picnicking on the green grass between his front legs.
 
I've invited Karen and her seven year old twin boys over from Brighton for the day to meet the Ultrasaurus. She phones from Brighton station in a blind panic.

'You won't believe this. I've forgotten my sodding purse.'

This is pretty much par for the course for Karen.

'I'm in the queue at the ticket desk. There's something called a silk arrangement where I can travel if you agree to pay for the tickets at your end. You ok with that?'

'Of course.'

I can hear her talking to the guy at the desk. Then she's back on to me. 

'He says you have to buy the tickets and then get the station to fax them to me.'

'Fine.'

'But there's an arrangement fee. An eighty quid one.'

So, we scrap that idea and I decide to take eight year old Rhu over to Brighton instead. No picnic with the Ultrasaurus for us today.

There's an old lady at Portsmouth station, struggling to get her two bags onto the train. I give her a hand and as she smiles her thanks I can see the beauty that she must have been. Clear sighted light blue eyes, milky white skin and the cheek bones of a ballerina. She smells of lavender and soap and her cream mac is crisply folded on top of her bags.

Rhu and I help her off at the other end. She's travelling on to Eastbourne and needs to make a connecting train departing from platform eight. It's at the other end of the station and we don't make it in time.

'Never mind. I'll get there. We always get where we're going to in the end, don't we?'

She's the one reassuring me. Calm, wise words that see me on my way to Karen's house, clutching the cool-bag full of goodies that I'd thrown together before leaving the house.

Rhu and I have a lovely day with our friends. Karen's just returned from a writing retreat in Crete and has cracked the end of her novel. She's tanned, relaxed and buzzing with creativity. It's easy to get caught up in her enthusiasm for writing and I end up agreeing to accompany her to Crete next summer. She makes everything seem so possible and I begin to believe that I can crack the end of my story, work out the plot, bring the whole thing together.

The train journey back home isn't so lovely. In place of our nice old lady are four drunks, on their way to a night out at the casino. They're loud, foul-mouthed and obnoxious to other passengers. Skin head haircuts and tatoos contribute to the general feeling of menace, but it's their air of invincibility that intimidates me the most. A middle-aged man boards at one station and takes the seat opposite Rhu and me. Unfortunately, this puts him directly in their line of fire. He's a bit of a misfit, dressed in drab, ill-fitting clothes and has a nervous tic that makes him twitch a little. They don't waste anytime in laying in to him as he fiddles with the armrest.

'There's no seatbelts on here, window-licker.'

I can't help myself. I flick a contemptuous glare in their direction, catching the harsh, angry eye of the speaker. He looks away and backs off a little. The nervous man gets off at the next station. Unfortunately, they don't. But they leave me and Rhu alone and direct their drunken commentary towards the ticket inspector, sprinkling it with a fair bit of crass racist abuse.

'I can smell curry. Is there a paki on here?'

It's hard to believe that dinosaurs like these still exist, but here's my proof. Rhu is unsettled by them and cuddles in to me, nestling his blond head against my arm and feigning sleep for the remainder of our journey. The chocolate cookie that I bought for him at Brighton station remains on the table, half-eaten.

I'm glad to see the back of them when they finally get off, lighting up cigarettes and belching loudly as they walk past me. They leave their lager cans and chip wrappers on the stained table. It seems bigger than any of the other tables on the train.

I want to put them straight out of my mind, and focus my thoughts on the lovely old lady for the rest of the trip.

 I  wonder whether she found her way safely home to Eastbourne.  No, it runs more deeply than that. I need for her to have found her way safely home. Just as the nervous man will. Just as Rhu and I will too.

Somehow, I feel certain that she did.