The Word Cloud

this is plan "B"....travel writing........

I'll move it to critque tomorrow.....easier to edit on this section....

A few years ago now……

 

Steve practically lives there now. He’s spent months travelling around the place and comes home to drink my whisky and tell me I’m living my life all wrong… Cheers bud..

 

Finally I convinced Her-indoors to take a six week break from work and pack a bag for India. The visa process then was still simple. A British passport was still something you could use to slap insignificant peons away at some border posts but you now needed a visa for India.

 

After filling out the form online, printing thirty seven copies and taking at least a dozen criminal pictures with us to London we had them, Indian visas… They were minor works of art…. taking up a whole page in my passport.

 

“Republic of India”, I said to Her-indoors while wobbling my head side to side.

 

She laughed and said  “Shut up, you fool,before we get thrown out of the High Commission.”

 

The overnight flight was supposed to be KLM. I was looking forward to eight hours of export Heineken. Might even go for the record. I was gutted when we changed planes in Schipol and boarded a Continental Airlines museum piece. I’m sure it still had machinegun mounts at various windows from long ago missions over Berlin.

 

Boarding any aircraft for “exotic” lands is always exciting. More so when the “locals” ignore the hand baggage limits and start dragging washing machines and livestock onboard.

 

Our seats were three abreast and from the looks of the guy who sat down in the window seat next to Her-indoors we must have been in Cholera class. The cabin crew went through the pre-flight ritual while baskets and blankets were passed around the cabin. I counted at least four different languages in the adjacent seats to us. All seemingly involving large amounts of phlegm in their pronunciation.

 

Despite all this the aircraft lifted off on time and took up a south easterly course. Just me, her-indoors, three hundred and twenty Indians and four toilets…….

 

After an hour I had to swap seats with Her-indoors to sit next to Cholera boy who seemed to think his green teeth and bloodshot eyes were an aphrodisiac. I assured him that if he touched his nose again I would punch him in the face fourteen times. Finally he slipped off into some sort of coma which left his eyes open and rolled back.

 

He woke up a few hours later for the in flight food fight. I think he must have ordered the roast dog entrails with fermented cheese. I had a triple Johnny Walker Red with a Coke light.

 

The in flight mappy thing showing the aircraft's position on the entertainment screen seemed to be stuck in Azerbaijan. I watched the in flight film which sadly wasn’t Cast Away and kept the smiling American stewardess on the go for my whisky. The film was difficult to follow as Cholera Boy seemed to snore while he was awake as well as when he was in his coma.

 

Finally I could hear the change in tone of the engines and that sort of slight sagging sensation common when an aircraft begins to descend. Forty minutes later we landed and before we had even cleared the runway, people were dragging their washing machines and microwave ovens out of the overhead storage and trying to get out. We decided to wait out the tide and held our seats.

 

Cholera Boy began to make intermittent hissing and squealing noises while indicated that he should be first to leave the aircraft. He stood at his window seat and tried to push past us. As his hand reached for Her-indoors, I grabbed it and twisted his fingers back until I heard several cracks. He recoiled and managed to combine hurt, surprise and anger in one expression. I said “ No touching the woman.” and gave him my best colonial smile.

 

Customs reminded me of the stalls you see in stock yards for herding cattle to become burgers.  For Her-indoors sake I smiled and tried to make it all look routine to me. She asked if this was normal for “these sort” of places.  Not being long out of the Legion, I replied that we usually didn’t bother with customs when we took down an airport.

 

A very large Sikh in an immaculate white naval uniform approached me and said, “Forces?”

 

I replied “Just out”…

 

He beckoned us to follow him to the front of the queue and he took a large stamp from one of the immigration peons and stamped us in.

 

He smiled at me and bowed at Her-indoors and said “Welcome to India”

 

I nodded back to him and shook his hand and we gathered our kit and made our way out.

 

“How did you manage that?...Do you know him?”   asked Her-indoors.

 

I replied “I never met him before but I know him”.

 

Her-indoors smiled and rolled her eyes and said “an Indian Legionnaire”

 

I said “no, not Legionnaire, but Sikh, …..warrior caste,….different flag, same mindset.”

 

 

We made our way to the taxi rank after arranging our journey at the taxi office in the terminal. We jumped into an LPG powered Oxford and headed off into the pre-dawn gloom…

 

 

We were silent for the first ten minutes in the cab. The city was just coming to life and there was still a light fog covering most of the streets at ground level. Here and there, people began to pop up out of the mist. With thirty million or more, many many people just sleep on the streets in certain districts.  Her-indoors look out with the fascination of a five year old as people continued to pop up out of the mist.

 

Our cabbie was babbling swapping between quietly shouting about how shit the local government was and what a great bloke Nasser Hussein was as Captain of the England Cricket team.

 

As we moved away from the poorer districts around the airport, Her-indoors began to follow our progress on her guide book map. She commented several times to the driver about the route we are taking to the district of Colaba. He continued his in depth cricket analysis with me and totally ignored all of her questions. She asked him to make the next left to the street where our hotel was located and he just sailed right by still talking to me about the cricket.

 

As the fare is pre-agreed, there is no scam potential and he had just missed it.

 

Her-indoors looked at me and said “He’s ignoring me and he missed the turn back there….do something”..

 

I said “I think it was just back there drive, can you turn around please…?”

 

“Yes Sahb, vright away Sahb, turing now” and he turned the car around…

 

He turned on to the street where our hotel was and Her indoors shouted to him “This is it, right here please”

 

….and he drove right past it still rambling taxes and cricket. Her indoors turned to me and gave me the stare….

 

“Hey drive, it’s just back there” I said quickly…

 

“Turning now Sahb. Vely good Sahb.” And he stopped in front of our hotel…

 

Her-indoors hissed, “Don’t you tip him” and steamed into the lobby while I sorted fare out.

 

“Memsahb very unhappy today Sahb.” He offered…

 

I said “it’s the heat”

 

He said “let her rest then take her out for nice dinner Sahb”  as he pocketed twice the agreed fare…..

 

“Drive, I loved the colonial Walla bit….have a safe trip home”

 

He laughed and tipped the money to his forehead in a sign of local superstition and said in a Birmingham accent, “Cheers mate”

 

Entertainment is where you find it.

 

 

 

 

How would you sum up your life?

I feel at the moment my life is balanced on the edge of a cliff. Behind me the foundations and earth of what my life has been so far – there are mountains with peeks almost touching the clouds but crevaces so deep and rocky they scar the landscape.

What’s behind me I cannot change. But as I look forward – the cliff, the sea, and the unknown. I find myself trying to choose a path.

Do I try to stay at the top of the cliff with the inevitable rocky slope ahead, but try to find the least rocky path, hoping never to reach the dark water below? Or do I acknowledge that rocky path and just get down that cliff as quickly as possible until I reach the sea, and explore what’s inside?

My university contacted me last week to tell me that because I did my Legal Practice Course with them I could now take advantage of an offer they were running.

I can now upgrade my diploma in Legal Practice (the qualification you need to be a solicitor in the UK and the reason we do the Legal Practice Course) to a Masters in Legal Practice.

All I have to do is write a 20,000 word dissertation on an approved topic (and pay the course fee, a rather large £900.00). Normally to get this you need to take classes, exams and a dissertation, but because of my Diploma I can skip bits :)

So I get to do something I love (write) about something that interests me (legal mumbo jumbo). Sounds made of win to me.

I’ve got until February but I’ve already picked a topic (if it’s approved), I’m going to write a 20,000 word rant about Clark and Jackson and the Conditional Fee reforms.

Saturday morning. …It was my turn…… No doubt about it.  The weather was perfect for golf, washing the van, even cleaning the gutters….It was not perfect weather for the big fortnight shop.  

 

Her-indoors had done it the last two times. I had dodged it two weeks ago by doing an Apache rain dance in the living-room while pretending my knee was playing up. She had given in.  …. But today, she was meeting her man-hating mates for lunch.

 

They would go to one of those trendy, stainless steel and plastic places where I would have to push three bar stools together to sit comfortably.  They would order a £30 bottle of wine and an £8 lettuce leaf  and spend the afternoon all speaking at the same time and not hearing anything any of what the others had said….and have a marvellous time.

 

And I had to get the shop in.  I manfully watched the super rugby on Sky on Saturday morning. I put on my oldest rugby shorts and an old gray T shit giving her the impression I had forgotten I had agreed to go shopping today. She just played through it and focused on getting ready for her afternoon out.

 

Eventually she came down and handed me what I thought was the Thompson guide phone book….it was the shop list…Fuck me... it will take a month…….

 

The list was organized into the exact sections in the supermarket….almost by aisle. There were alternates, size recommendations, price comparison notes…..It was worthy of an Open University degree.  She went through it with me at pace, pausing only to stare or nudge me when my gurgling noises became too loud.

 

And with a kiss, and a final smiled warning about us really not needing another six crates of cider, off she went…..

 

Right then… the van is nearly empty of toxic waste and rotting lunches.  Lets go…how long can it take?

 

The car park…where Lewis Hamilton must have learned how to undertake with his eyes closed…. Where 20 stone women push four shopping trolleys across two lanes of traffic and still can manage to make obscene gestures to you as you try to get by.

 

Dozens of unused but policed “family only” parking spaces.  Mental note….bring small grandson next time…..  There! … THERE! THERE! THERE!  Yes,  a quick Jenson Button downshift and a London weave and my white van is safely in a space…. Some family in a car nearby honk their horn and give a friendly wave in admiration. Or at least I think that is what they are doing….

 

 

I pull out six shopping carts which seem to be either mating or welded together, and manage to get one loose.  And just like that, I’m almost in.

 

 

The ideas of common sense, logic, or even the highway code are not applied at the supermarket.  It is all Darwin.  The entrance was guarded by a bewildered RAC road tech doing his humiliation training under an orange umbrella. I can see in his eyes he would rather be changing a lorry tire in the rain on the M25.  Beside him are several stressed looking young people handing out pamphlets explaining something about animals and cosmetics?  Beside them are some dwarfs in karate suits… no they are children…

 

And I am in…. There were women’s products on the list that I have actually no idea what they are for.  There are an astonishingly absurd number of choices for brown bread. Seeds, oats, oats with seeds, malt, high fibre, low fiber, no fibre and fibre optic….

I was ruined after that.

 

Tomato sauce, tomato puree, passata, stir in sauce, cook in sauce, spray on sauce..

Is there a constructive difference between a courgette and a cucumber?  No, not at all.

How can there be anything other than organic milk? Inorganic?  Made from rocks perhaps?

 

A bewildering three days (hours) later I fall out of the supermarket with roughly half the items on the list.  I covered myself well though and bought a case of her favourite wine instead.  

 

On the way out I picked up one of the leaflets at the check out for home delivery on-line. Mental note to place it with the ones I picked up previously……….

 

 

I was asleep on the settee when she returned late afternoon from her day out.  She seemed happy enough with the shop result. She told the tale that one of her man-hating mates has just broken up with her lap-dog boyfriend. She asked who we ought to try and match make her with, My suggestions of Peter Sutcliffe and Dr. Harold Shipman were ignored.

 

She had opened a bottle of her wine and was twirling a finger across the top of her glass while resting her feet on mine…(a great sign on an early Saturday evening).

 

…….. I suggested a mate from rugby,  “Ugly Bob” for her mate and she laughed out loud......

 

And that is another story. The wedding of Ugly Bob...part one

That season is upon us.  We are saving for the winter hols away and can't get away for a weekend break.  Her-indoors has failed miserablly to deflect the advance of an ever-increasing wave of out-laws upon our back garden.

My love for her is my greatest weakness and I eventally gave in to her murmurings that it would be the right thing to do to have all of her side over to destroy a Sunday afternoon..

The planning phase, lets see...two bother-in-laws, her two sisters, her old chap, and about twenty or so hanger-s on nieces, nephews and probably a few homeless refugees who got swept in by the tide.

I make that one small, prefab burger, (Army parlance, "shit disk") one small chicken leg each.... some grass clippings and shrub trimmings for a salad,

...........and about twenty crates of Tesco's cheapest value brand lager.

I managed to source all of this on Saturday morning. I threw the meat in the freezer with the idea of dragging it out of Sunday moring.

Sunday morning came and a call came during first coffee  from an old rugby mate. "Fancy a quick nine holes, Prop?"  0.003 of a second later I was dragging my clubs out and shouting unintelligible lies to Her-indoors upstairs in the shower.

First assault was scheduled for 12:30 so I figuered correctly that I would be home in time to burn the meat for the out-laws.

I was setting an approach shot on the 8th hole and it dawned on  me that I hadn't taken the meat out of the freezer.  I shot par on the 9th which tells more of my disdain for my out-laws than it does for my golf skills.

I came straight home.....after my second pint and walked straight past a steely glare from Her-indoors and out onto the field of battle, the back garden.  While dragging out the meat I noticed that I still had half a crate of Becks in the shed which I was determined to drink before the hordes breached our walls.

Flame on to the Bar Bee and a Becks to celebrate my lower than average golf score....

The flame didn't hold and I had to re-light the fire several times.  By my 7th Becks, I was less interested in the bar bee than I was at hiding the empties of my Becks.

My physics told me that low heat will thaw chicken and on they went.  Solitude was soon destroyed and the back garden soon filled up with people I don't like.  Several feral kids were kicking Her-indoors plants and garden gnomes around the garden.

The Becks continued to hold up and several ugly people asked me where I got the becks from, I confused them totally by replying "Morrisons" and fed them their Value brand lager from Tesco.

I began to add bar bee sauce to the frozen chicken on the grill. I soon realized that the fire needed more heat.  I asked one of the "guests" to go to the shed and bring out a fruit jar of lighter fluid for the bar bee.

He brought lawn mower petrol instead.

The resulting conflagration blackened everything on the grill.  The chicken was now completely carbonized but it was still frozen at the core. Napalm Chicken....

Her-indoors had completely thwarted my plans to give food poinsoning to her side of the family and by this time had ordered a combination of take away pizza and curry.


About 35 or 36 hours later, or so it seemed, the last of them dragged several crying, snotty kids out the front door still chewing on frozen chicken....

Her-indoors turned, smiled at me and said, "That went well, don't you think darling?"


I nodded, opening another Becks.....  surveyed the back garden and quoted Wellington;
         "The only thing more sad than a battle lost is a batle won".


Edited, spelling

 

Basically, I haven't wrote for a while. I used to do it all the time but things happened and I quit. This isn't a piece of work I ever intend to use or care about, it's quite literally something I started to write to get me back into writing. It isn't good, I warn you that now, and I can write alot better, so please don't judge me on this alone.

Part One:

Writing about yourself is different from writing about anything else. When you create a story, it's simple. You keep some attachment to the characters, you need too or how could anyone ever identify with your creations? but writing about yourself...it's too personal. Creating another life, another world with your head is nothing compared to bleeding your own out on to a page.

Unfortunately sometimes, you have too. You have to tell your story, if you can't tell that then how can you possibly ever tell anyone else's? At this point I should probably warn you I haven't written for a while, this isn't coming as naturally as it once did. If any of you ever like to write, then I hope you know what I mean, even if you don't then maybe you have your 'thing'. That one talent that ever since you can remember you managed to do without even thinking about how you did it? Never once questioning the way your head controlled you? The way your hands moved?. I think this feels weird because I am. I keep looking at my hands as if to say 'what are they doing?' or my mind questions the words appearing in front of it. I never did believe in what I could do.

At this point I guess I should introduce myself. I know normally you're supposed to do that first, but as some say, tradition is overrated. I'm Raven. I'm really not that interesting, not compared to anyone else, not to say that I'm not either. Everyone has their own story and everyone is interesting to someone. I don't want this to sound all... self pitying. I do that sometimes, I think everybody does but this isn't about how I feel about me. This is just the facts, everything that's happened, how it happened and why I guess. I think that's me hoping I'll find out why on the way. More than anything it's going to make me write again, because I think I'm back now, the me I want to be an d I want too write again. I've had the dream for years, silly things shouldn't ruin it. I can't ruin it. I can do it and I will, so yes, let's do this. Let's tell a story and see where it takes us...

 

 

So as we are discussing stories, every story has a beginning. Again I'm doing this a little wrong, maybe I should of began at the beginning originally, but I feel that this certain one needed some form of introduction. I think my mother would probably suggest it needed a warning, maybe she's right, but that's later on in the story.

Before there was me, there was him. One year and 8 days previously he arrived, a small bundle who'd only ever experience 8 days of life and even that wouldn't be his alone. They called him Jake, he wasn't supposed to arrive in the world yet but apparently he was a little impatient. Desperate to experience his little bit of the world. My mother was obviously devastated and you would be. I can't even begin to comprehend what it must be like to lose a child, especially your first. Now I'm the age I am currently and I'm in a place where the idea of a child begins to become a possibility I guess I sympathise with her situation so much more. It's not that I didn't before, I'm not heartless, it was just a difficult situation for me, as selfish as that sounds.

I resolutely decided to enter the world exactly, to the hour, one year after my brother died. Screaming straight away apparently, so unlike he'd been, such a difference for my parents. I remember my mum telling me, the shock she'd felt when she realised I was more than a concept of 'trying again one day'. I was real, wanting attention, ready to come and play. She never told me my Father's reaction, and I've never asked. I doubt he had one. I wasn't due that day, I was due the week before but for some reason I waited. Stubborn from the start, no doubt. My mother never told me how she felt about that, it must have been strange for her and maybe it explains a lot, I don't know. I can only guess and I don't think it's a conversation we'll ever have. Maybe she'll be like you one day and sit there and read this and think. Maybe she's never considered how it was for me either, being born into his shadow. She'll probably think this is me being selfish, only thinking of myself, maybe you do too, but it's not, I promise. It's just harder for me. I never met him, I never knew what there was to know of him. To me he was just a figure, something that had been there and gone. Something I spent moments imagining, picturing how things would have been different with his inclusion in life. Would it of changed everything? Nothing? Would I have even been in existence? Why me, and not him? Someone I love, very dearly, always lives by the notion that 'everything happens for a reason', but how can you ever truly know what that reason is? And why does it always seem so ridiculous?

I'm a girl, in case that wasn't quite obvious to you, just yet. I don't remember much of the early stuff, nobody does. Apparently I always wanted to be told stories, never slept and generally called a nuisance. That sounds like me, so I can't dispute what I've been told. During this time apparently it was all going wrong for my parents. From what I've heard, from various sources I'm not entirely sure if It ever went right, but it must of done at some point. A marriage, and two children must of meant something. Despite the way I've always seen them look at each other, with... nothingness, I imagine is the best way to describe it, there has to of been some connection, once upon a time. Just a short fairytale. I've heard the stories of my father's numerous infidelities, of my mother's crazy behaviour. I believe both.

I should probably tell you about certain other individuals that are going to be very important throughout this entire story. One, was my Nan, my mother's mum. I can't remember much of being really little, or much of being young at all but as you'll soon see, most of what I do involves her. She was the most amazing person I have ever met, or probably will ever get the chance of knowing. My mother, vehemently disagreed with me for many years. They're relationship, as my mother went through adolescence was always strained and I think it was difficult for my mum to see us being so close. A case of history repeating itself, something which terrifies me to this day. The other, is a dog. Not just any dog, a dog which to this day I still credit with probably saving my life and I have her reminder permanently etched on to my skin. I quite possibly think she did more for me than any one ever has, on the planet and I will never forget her. Judge me all you wish, but I loved Jackie and she loved me. You'll hear more about these two in a little while, I just think they're far too important to just drop into our conversation. You needed to hear about them, know how much they're going to mean and I really hope by the end of this you understand a little why...

Anyway, back to where we were. We'll probably go on a lot of little diversions together, you and me. As they say, the journey is often more interesting than the destination. Maybe it'll help you get to know me better, understand me a little more, maybe it'll give you some great insight into everything that I just can't see. Possibly you'll just end up disliking me rather a large amount and our voyage together will end prematurely, sunken into disarray. Much like my parents, I suppose. To look at them now, I could never imagine them together. Coupley. It just doesn't compute in my head. They are quite simply so utterly different. My mother is... often neurotic, it really must be her way or the highway, so to speak. She's not a horrible woman, she loves people in her own way, and always will. She's a good person with a very good heart, just occasionally good people can go about things the wrong way. I don't mean to sound negative about her, whatever I've said, whatever I will say I love her and I always will, despite everything. She's my mother, she hasn't done anything atrocious to me, not really and in a strange way we really are quite close, despite it all.

My father is much harder to describe. I'm really rather tempted to do what you do when you describe a stranger, you detail their appearance and then you describe how they make you feel. The only difficulty with this would be that after nearly twenty years I'm still entirely unsure about how my father makes me feel. His an intelligent man, and his arrogant, he expects more than people often want to give, I imagine anyway. He has an extensive history of failing with fidelity, with instances when even I have caught him out, as a young girl. He likes heavy metal, I suppose I get my passion for rock music from him, that's one positive I see. He dislikes my mother, the way she handles things and refuses to accept anyone else's view. I suppose his fair, he will at least look at both sides of the argument. He isn't a horrible man, not at all, he has a good job and he is generous, I just don't know him. I have no idea what shaped him, turned him into the man he is today, I have no idea what he happens to be passionate about; just odd facts I picked up here and there. Part of me wants to describe him as cold, but I don't know if that's entirely fair. All I can say is I have no memory of ever hugging my father, of embracing him. The mere concept of such a thing makes me feel so uncomfortable that it's almost embarrassing, and sad. I really do think that's a little sad.

Whilst I changed from a crying infant into a troublesome toddler their marriage fell apart. I don't know the particulars, only that apparently it wasn't a pleasant occurrence, not that I imagine these things to be too accommodating in any situation. She claims that she finally got sick of the extra marital activities, she went to her mother's one day, spoke to Jackie. Asked her if she should leave and Jackie appeared to nod and lick her face, so she did. I don't know where I was. My mum thinks it was because Jackie was always protective of me, ever since I was just a thing growing inside my mother, she'd sit there watching me. When I actually arrived in to the world she was mesmerised, following the bundle I was around like my shadow. She was always a good shadow I suppose, or side kick, I think I prefer that term.

My first memory is actually of D-day. The day he left, or at least I think it is. I'm not entirely sure if I just pieced it together in my head and it became one of those things that you think you remember, or you actually do. I have the picture in my head, of me standing in our old living room. The hideous flower pattered sofas, so garish in such a small room, looming in front of me. Me stood there, playing with my toy hover, pretending to tidy the carpet, hoping the ridiculous drone of the plaything would drown out the screaming from the kitchen. Bananas in Pyjamas also added to the diversion, the ridiculous characters squirming across the screen, not that I happened to pay any type of attention. I remember wishing the hoover was noisier, more of a distraction and then there was a thud. A 'fuck you' and someone running up the stairs. I tried to concentrate on the stain left on the carpet, praying the pretend hoover would suddenly develop some form of magical abilities and clear what an actual appliance couldn't. It didn't and my Dad came back down stairs, holding a bag, he said goodbye and left.

I have no idea where he went, or what the aftermath was. That part my brain seems not to of wanted to recall, or simply blocked it out. I know my mum couldn't afford the house anymore so we moved, into a council house on the other side of town. I was quite excited by this development, it was just around the corner from my Nan's, who whilst my mum worked, and my dad being gone meant I spent most of my time with now anyway. Her, Jackie and my uncle. I briefly remember moving into the house, with our two cats, waiting with my Nan, whilst my mum went to collect more of our stuff. I remember choosing which room I wanted and I remember being really excited by the prospect of the, what I then thought, was the tremendously huge garden. I don't think I saw my Dad for a while, I don't know. I remember next thing I heard he was living with another woman, the woman he Is still with to this day. At first I saw him for a few hours every few months, much like the arrangement now actually. Eventually it became weekends, and even the occasional holiday but I'll tell you more about that later.

My Mother had worked for her Father, my Granddad, with my Uncle, at my Granddad’s pet business but at some point during this time that all seemed to go wrong. They had some form of ridiculous family fall out, that to this day I've never been told about. The level of appreciation my Mother has for him, I can only imagine it must have been something catastrophic. I'm always curious to the details, probably because, like most people, I dislike not knowing important information, especially when it's purposefully with held from you. I'm sure if they had ever actually told me what occurred I'd probably shrug it off and wonder what all the fuss had been about, excitement comes rarely in my family. Anyway, she began looking for other jobs. She got one in a city about twenty miles away, and as she didn't drive that meant bus travel and more time at my Nan's. Between working twelve hour days and trying to be in her twenties she didn't see me much. When she did, I'd scream, cry, I didn't want to go home with the strange lady. She had her friends, her lovers and her life, whilst I had my nan, playing with Jackie and a fantastical world of Science – fiction that my uncle was opening up for me. I had endless days of bliss watching Star Trek, discovering what a Predator was and then acting it all out with the help of Jackie and any other willing pet that was in the house. Usually, this included them all, apparently my childish desires were exactly what they wanted to fulfil, and they easily succumb to my demands. It was a wonderful time for me, when everything was simple and nothing else mattered. I didn't mix with many other children my age, but I was perfectly happy about that. I had my own bubble of creativity that I didn't want anyone else changing.

When school was introduced into the mix it wasn't quite as fun. Don't get me wrong, I did brilliantly, well up until the end, but that's later. I was always bright, I picked things up incredibly quickly and was probably more gifted than my genealogy would suggest. I don't know why it happened, or even what happened but at the age of about 10 it became a horrible experience. I just remember feeling secluded, alone. I always had friends, always. It wasn't some horrific, terrible thing that nobody should ever go through. It affected my self – confidence,to this day, but that's all. I survived. I was just an outcast, someone watching from the horizon, and in the end that's probably better.

Whilst I was at my Nan's and battling the demons that school gave me, other things were happening else where, causing eventual harm to my little world of insignificance. My Mother's best friend was diagnosed with Breast Cancer, this meant I saw her less and less. Tiana needed her and she had to be there. I remember being at home with my Mum one day, as she cried that Tiana would die. She really is forever the pessimist in every possible situation, it verges on humorous on occasion, not this particular one obviously. Tiana actually survived, someone I cared a lot for, until a few years ago, again that will all come out later. My Father also began to reproduce with his Stepford wife. A boy, Oscar. A couple of years later a girl followed, Ruby.

I spent weekends with my Father by this time, in whatever location he lived in. He has a very well paying job and Stepford wife always got bored of the house they had, in it's lovely, yet sterile location, so they would move to one exactly the same however many miles away. She doesn't like me, Stepford Wife. The only time she would ever converse with me would be after my dad picked me up on a Friday night, we'd arrive at the house and he'd say 'She's here, say hello' and she would smile, in a waxwork manner literally reply 'hello', that was that. Our weekend interaction. My Father occasionally tried for more, subtly created bonding situations for us, I think they were doomed to failure before he even began. She never wanted to know me and I certainly didn't feel comfortable around her, Would you? She didn't even like me interacting with the children, any time I did she'd be in the room, like a hawk, glaring at me, encouraging her offspring to come away from me as if I was the devil in disguise. My Dad's way of dealing with our emotional distance was to use his wallet, she hated this. Would do everything in her worldly power to assure I received as little as possible. The amount of times I heard the expression 'Don't tell Jane' is uncountable.

I never wanted to go to my Dad's. I'd put up a fight, beg my Mother, my Nan and pretty much anyone I thought had any power. Naturally I'd never of told him, we weren't close enough for me to reveal myself to him. At the same time I regularly thought of the idea of living with him, fed up of the arguments with my Mother, which raged. Still, to this day, the arguments we've had are legendary. A very special friend of mine simply says 'nobody can argue like you two' and she probably isn't wrong. The amount of times I told my father, albeit indirectly, that I didn't want to talk to him anymore is ridiculous. He'd always wonder what the problem was and eventually I'd feel bad, unable to actually discuss the issue with him and things would return to how they were previously, like nothing had ever occurred. Occasionally he'd attempt to have a 'conversation' about what had occurred, but we never succeeded at this and quickly realised it was something we just shouldn't do. Our relationship wasn't going to be a communicative one. ...

I am of a certain age. I am happily married with a young daughter, two older step children and now I'm a grandad.
I've done a bit in my life. Been around a bit. Then 18 months ago my business went under and now I find myself working part time in a hardware store. It's quite enjoyable, very similar to 'fork 'andles' from The Two Ronnies. The trouble is I've always judged myself by what I do for a living and after a year of applying for a 'proper job' my confidence was spiralling down the drain. I became depressed, bad tempered, the usual.
Then it occured to me; damn it, if I was going to have a crisis then I'm going to plan it!
I can't afford much, certainly not the usual Harley. I used to ride bikes, big ones, but I wasn't that good at it. I kept falling off. That was when I had the reactions of a young man. So, as I have no wish to enter the pearly gates backwards on my arse with my hair on fire; the bike's a no go. Also old blokes on Harleys look a bit, well, ridiculous.
A mistress is out as well. For the same reasons really, I can't afford it, I'd look ridiculous and I would keep falling off.
So what to do?
I started quite tamely. I've grown my hair long. I still look ridiculous (it's very curly) but it's cheap and only moderately dangerous. I asked my 13 year old daughter if it was too silly and if I should go back to my usual No3 cut and she said,'Dad, you have to embrace your fluffiness.'
Fairenoughski.
The second thing I did was to start wearing inappropriate clothing from the local surf shop...no not a bikini. T-shirts and cargo strides etc. They even have a brand for people like me called 'Old Guys Rule.' I still look ridiculous, it's not so cheap but it isn't dangerous.
The third thing was that I joined the Open University, after all I look like a student, might as well be one. Started with two short courses. First one on the arts including Haiku. Me studying Japanese poetry, I ask you!
The second course, and this is the killer, was creative writing. I discovered I love writing. Of course I want to be published but if not...
It's been the making of me. Sometimes it becomes an obsession but then you know that!
And guess what? My MC rides the odd bike but he's yet to have an affair and I don't think he will. Too much like me.
I plan to finish my novel, write a screen play and then I have a full term with the OU starting in October.
So I recommend planning your midlife crisis, you may look ridiculous but it's cheap, not dangerous and you'll keep your family.

If life was an open book, here is what we would see,

A mix of all situations, present, future, and all that have been.

Butterflies with roses, mingled with thorns,

Fireflies and jars, and the light that they adorn.

Life is an open book, a journey ever written,

Written in pen, to be read by those who look in.

I recently started editing my MS for what I hope to be the last time, before I send it off to the workshop for a read over.

 

I have set myself a goal of a chapter a week. I know it doesn’t sound like a lot but I have a lot of other stuff to try and stay on top of as well. Plus this way I can really take my time and give each chapter a lot of attention. It’s just going to take me a while overall.

 

I’m up to chapters 6 & 7 at the moment, but every time I sort a chapter out I give the chapters behind it a once over to make sure my tone flows and that my tenses stay the same (it’s a really bad habit of mine, switching tenses without even realising it). But when ever I give the earlier chapters a read I keep changing things, I keep re-editing them.

 

I know this is a fault of mine, I’m never happy with anything I produce and really have to beat myself up to say “Right Kate stop now it’s finished.”. So I was just wondering if anyone else has a similar issue and if so is there any way for me to know when something is finished.

 

If I keep going like this I’m going to be working on the same MS when I’m 60 L

The last couple of days have been a little bit reflective for me. My mind has mithered over silly little things for so long and it's sort of got me down a bit. It's a mix between family stuff and work but also my life too. I can't change the family stuff; my dad will always be a douche and I'll never be listened to quite like I'd hope to be. Work is much the same; it's a job until September. I get a crap wage and lousy hours but my boss won't give me much overtime at all.

In honesty, the 'life' stuff has only really hit me this evening. I've been trying to pin point what it is that's the problem and I think I've realised it now; I never 'do'. I think and talk and dream about things I want and changes I'd like to see but I never actually put any effort into doing them or making them come about.

I met someone recently who I fell for pretty much as soon as I started speaking to him. I've never actually met him and what sucks is that he lives in Dubai so the likelihood of us ever meeting is pretty miniscule. What's most irritating though is that I don't even have the guts to say anything. I don't have the guts to DO anything. I'm so scared of rejection that I'll never put myself out there to be hurt. Of course, that's something I'll have to work on in the writing game.

I promised myself that during my gap year I would travel somewhere. I'd planned to go to Egypt with my brothers but they bailed so I told myself I'd go to Paris for a weekend. I want to go alone. It's sort of like a right of passage. My eldest brother went to NY on his own and my other brother went to Iceland alone. I know I could go with someone but I want to prove to myself that I can do things.

The funny thing is, a good few years ago I was so confident. Now I've incorporated myself with bolder characters and I've let them outshine me. The other day I was at the pub with these friends and all evening I was called 'subdued' by one of their friends because I wasn't getting drunk like them. If I'm not 'the funny one' in our group I'm 'the innocent one'. Everyone who looks at me sees innocent little Jess. I know that's not a bad thing but when that's all people ever define you as it can get pretty old pretty fast.

I want to be ridiculous. I want to do something silly or crazy. I want to disregard consequences for once and just DO something big.

I know I've rambled on but all this and more has kind of piled on top of me this evening and I wanted to spill it. I know that when I write things down and tell people about it then I'm more likely to act. That's why I'm writing this: I'm going to change myself. Not in appearance or even personality. I'm just going to change the things I'm not happy with.

I'm going to be bold. Even if it's just for a fleeting moment.

Oh, and I'm going to Paris. Before I go to uni I WILL see that damn big metal tower!