Molly Cutpurse

My unborn

2012-01-17T07:57:00.000Z

It should have wept at my funeral

It could have been anything it liked

It may have made me a grandmother

It may have been pale or rosy or dark,

comfortable and perhaps sang like a bird.

Or maybe serious and childless

with a passion for cats,

I wonder what grace it might have developed?

Scars, broken bones, broken hearts.

Would it had swum, rode a bike, took exams

Been beautiful or manly?

How can I speak of a life never born

expectant, important and sad?

My one small child, never delivered, never made.

I've so many questions for you.

I don't understand why I think of it all the time.

Probably for I have no family.

It came and grew to an inch before lost,

I was never to know its fancies.

I see it each day, on a street, in a face.

made real by a baby which grew,

and didn't suffer the fate it had

of being washed down a loo.

The mystery is you tried to be here.

Your absence made me feel like death.

Snatched away in an accident,

through a feeling I will never understand.

You had no name at the time and still have none now,

or sex or hair or eyes,

yet you were as human to me

as your mother was.

By now, you should have been many years old,

Scoffing and maybe ashamed of your parent.

But I would have kept a warm bedroom for you,

Washed your clothes and fed your cat.

I'd carry your photo in my purse.

And these words would not be written,

The day you fell away from me,

The day I died a little.

Wicca? Huh!

2012-01-16T09:10:00.000Z

Well I must say that I don’t think much of the East End branch of the Wicca society because they’re not the most friendly of folk. Thank goodness the full moon is over because that’s the last time I invite them over to celebrate the new Luna month.

I thought they might welcome a new member which is what I was hoping to become but not any more. They moaned about the height of my front door for a start saying that it was in the wrong feng shue position. They told me my front door should be at the side. Silly buggers!

Then they said I had provided the wrong sort of cakes and that I should have used solar salt instead of sea salt when making them. As if it really mattered. One tall lady with a huge wart, insisted that I let her, equally warty, cat roam around freely and you know what I’m like on pets.

But in the interest of friendship, I said it was okay and the blasted black thing spent most of the evening rubbing itself up and down my legs. Now today, I’ve got these warty blemishes that show through my tights. When I went out last night, it looked like I had several small thin hamsters attached to my legs under my tights. I looked stupid.

There was Mr. Glass, their leader and a wizard in his own right who was alright but he insisted that he bring his own incense along and because he worked for the company that made it, he also got free samples so he wasn’t sparse about shedding it around if you get my meaning. Well, they had only been here half an hour and my poor old front room looked like Whitechaple on a Saturday night in 1888. I couldn’t see anything and the amount of times I banged my shins on my blessed computer table, well, I lost count. But so much so that when I checked my E Mail later on, after they had gone and I had had the windows open for an hour (which caused all that wind and rain to pour in the room by the way) I saw there was still incense smoke in my Mac!! And there still is. I’m looking at it now. And oh God! The smell.

He said it was made from Egyptian cat poo and I believe him!. And now it's everywhere. Can’t get rid of the stuff. They said the place is now purified and I believe that as well for what poor fool would breath this, let alone live among it! You wouldn’t get a bacteria living here now.

They brought a sack full of toads of course but didn’t bother taking all of them home. And as I when to sleep I kept hearing them croaking and barking and jumping in and out of the toilet. I had dreams of South America all night long.

They insisted that they did a little circle which I thought was going to be alright at first but when they took my round table out of the room and replaced it with a pile of sticks and lit it, I began to have serious second doubts. Then they all went ‘sky-clad’ (being naked) and started to chant and run around in a circle. Seeing 13 old people’s bits flying about didn’t do me any favours I can tell you. I’m going to have nightmares to come in the coming months.

What she must have thought upstairs I don’t know as we all shouted “UMPY-UMPY” louder and louder, faster and faster until we all collapsed naked in a heap, not being able to see anything because of the smoke. I thought I had taken hold of the master’s wooden rod with the ruby tip until I realised I hadn’t. Thank goodness he never minded.

So, never again. Take it from me. You stick with the old Christianity. Its safer for the hearth and home.

A very exhausted, smoky, flea-ridden, wet Molly

Grandmother

2012-01-13T10:28:00.001Z

Despite the pretty decor, the flowers, the family photos, some still, some ever changing and rotated by an eframe, and all of them witness to past happy major family events, where the subjects perpetually beamed at the observer, the room where my grandmother was to spend the last months of her long and productive life had to be likened to a prison cell. One could not escape the similarity, not matter how hard one tried. There were no bars on the window but the length and width and height of it gave it away. As did the lock on the door.

A faint odour of urine, like a strong brown colour, assailed me as I entered but it was so negligible that it was forgotten straight away. Nan did not know I was visiting and it would not have made the slightest difference to the situation if she had. She did not hear me knock on the standard thick fire door and did not notice my entrance either.

She was slouched on the corner of her single bed, her eyes closed, thin creased neck bent forward, her clothes clean if not pressed, her thin grey hair awry slightly, her treasured battered brown and cream handbag, clutched unconsciously in a fist. I called her title louder, noticing her hearing aid and both sets of false teeth on the bed side cabinet despite it being mid afternoon. I frowned at this. Nothing. Only when I was three feet away, did she visibly jump to become immediately annoyed. Which itself was soon replaced by confusion as she wiped the sleep from her eyes before focusing on her intruder.

She referred to me as nurse and, as I sat on a single hard-backed chair, I explained that I was her granddaughter, 'Little Bobby' I empathised until, there it was, at last, some semblance of the beautiful and no nonsense woman I had known in my young life. The woman who had been so particular about the condition of the backs of her chair legs and how they were not to be scuffed, the angel who fed me bacon and mashed potato every Saturday afternoon as my mother had offloaded me to give her some respite for one afternoon a week, the laughing and gorgeous woman whose presence in her old kitchen she undoubtedly dominated.

However, there was no domination now. Not in her last place of residence. At that moment, feeble in mind, tired, weary, battered and withdrawn, she looked at me disinterestedly through pale blue eyes as that momentary flash of who she once was, disappeared back into the choppy sea of confused consciousness that was now her only world. I spoke again of the past, touched her hand as if to press home the memories I was trying to evoke but this ploy only worked for a limited number of seconds before she, every time, sank back into her confused mutterings about how little money she had and shockingly, mentioning what bastards and fuckers they were to do that to her. Even holding up her empty purse for me to see how wicked everyone was that they had stolen her money. If it had not been so tragic, it would have been amusing. No other emotion or reaction would have sufficed.

She referred to me as a nurse again and reached across to her bedside cabinet and retrieved a twin-headed razor from a white china mug adorned with a colourful print of flowers before gently proceeding to stroke it dryly across her chin. And I could hear the rasp of the stubble.This was a bizarre experience and in that long second, I became confused as to how the young and delicate flower of her species, as I had remembered her in the few monochromatic photographs which existed, taken long before I was thought of, could have changed into the shameless woman who now sat before me.

What sequence of events could have taken place which would culminate in this once proud individual, a woman who had once occupied a high position in the Ministry Of Defence, to unblushingly scrap a razor across her chin in front of, to her confused perception, a complete stranger? What power in all the world could have so altered her perception, her sense of dignity, her perspicacity, her...nobleness to this extent? What could have brought her to this?

The urine odour returned quite suddenly and I heard an unwelcome noise. A slight hiss. It was time for me to leave, to fetch a carer and then to examine my own life with the assistance of a cigarette and a few tears in the car park with the horror that, at that moment, I could well be looking at my own future, perhaps some forty years hence. Yes, at that moment, I would never undertake any cosmetic hair removing work in front of anyone and that includes my husband. Had granny once felt the same? In her young and smooth days? I touched her marbled hands again briefly and offered my good-byes. I did not kiss her and she only offered me a look devoid of feeling, as if my beloved grandmother had already departed, leaving just this animated shell. "Good-bye nurse", she mumbled. Two months later, my mother blasted me with the news that she had died.

East and West

2012-01-03T18:05:00.000Z

I see no collection of pot-bellied erections

down migraine way

Salt hits the wounds and the money birds zoom

to free those entombed in decay.

They wonder in fear as the bank notes appear

from pockets by squirting lead

While water-filled tubes fill up on the move

hang down from some Whitechapel bed.

The mothering poor who head for the door

hit the pauper's grave.

With sustained pain and a limp in the brain

they make for the streets half crazed.

With X-Rays which fade with the light of the day

the Mormon men move on

While back down in the dark, while surgery starts

some folks treat themselves to a song.

Jack the Ripper holds memories close

In both parts of the town.

Shop soiled uniforms march in front

with guests from a hidden asylum

But heated needles hit the skin, in the North

its what people say

Won't find a cotton cloth round there

and angels keep away.

With Frankenstein on the end of a knife

working his way with love

Compared with what their getting, maybe a message from above?

And you know the bill which comes in pink

is crushed into your palm

While the hasty Harley Street merchants

are wrestling with your arm.

The rich man shoots the crazy red juice

straight into your arm

And one man bites into the jaws of the night

But they make sure he comes to no harm

Red roses grow in window boxes

The surgeon hides his guns

Free from the care of expenditure worries

The criminal who never runs.

I met a teenage girl recently...

2012-01-01T09:12:00.000Z

I met a teenage girl recently. She had rather a deep voice. Yet upon an initial meeting, she seemed happy enough. At least within the outdoor circumstances under which we were introduced. However, here was desperation for all the world to see. Here was expressed grief, and one could witness it particularly around her young eyes and fallen mouth. For she knew that not only was she was not what she wanted to be, but knew that she could never be that which she desired above all else. Despite all the advances of science.

Her movements were occasionally undisguisedly male, which caused me the most atrocious amount of pity. For she was the girl who ought to have been. She imitated and aped the female well enough. But not enough to convince all. She was the equivalent of the transgendered Uncanny Valley. Neither one gender or the other, yet desperately trying for the latter. Only dogs and blind old ladies did not question her appearance. Despite her apparent happiness, she was one of the saddest people I had met for a long time.

She reminded me of a time when there was an urgency to do something. A clock ticked away her life. A disfigured bird sang a merry tune as dusk approached, and the alcohol she drank glazed her eyes. Then she sat alone - despite being with me.

I'm sure each day rolls unthankfully into another for her. Her ankles and wrists look cold and thin. Her neck, warm and thick. There is a decreased radiance from her personality. She speaks to me, but I can immediately recognise that her thought's are mostly of the past, and perhaps regret for what she knows she will not achieve in the future. Almost like exclusive and foretold knowledge. She has little confidence which occurs naturally in the genetic female. I think perhaps she finds a measure of comfort by talking, and I do little else but listen. The chair that supports her is agreeable, safe...and forgiving. Which is more than most passer's-by offer her. The corner of the little pavement café where we take wine in the evening is where she conceals herself, her talents and her accomplishments from the thrust of the world. Here she avoids criticism and punishment. Yes, I met a teenage girl recently. In spite of her gloom, suspicion, trouble, worrying eyes and mouth, she had rather a sweet voice.

Spectrum of creativity

2011-12-29T06:09:00.002Z

Because you write does not mean you are special. For every alive human being, there is not one who does not have original and poetic thoughts. Perhaps not all the time, but to those few souls who do spend time and effort to twist and blend their their ideas and opinions together to make astonishing reading, it is still a formidable avalanche to complete against others.

Which is why it is absolutely necessary for you to give yourself the best chance you can by obeying 'the mostly unspoken rules'. Which are thankfully simple. If, as a creative writer, you believe that you are beyond the mundane and the quotidian, that you believe, if on only the merest level, that you wish to work at a more thoughtful pace, with less artistic compromises and that you will not bow to the 'money changers at the temple', preferring to dedicate yourself to idealism, then, unless you are a remarkable genius, you will fail.

Every item, word, sentence, paragraph, letter and script which leaves your hands must be, not as perfect as you can make it, but perfect. Period. For that which you send out says everything about you. On some level, the recipient will have the ability to 'read between the lines' and if you have not given the piece enough thought or care, they might come to believe that you are lazy, self-indulgent, scatter-brained or any other number of ugly conclusions. Certainly they might arrive at the conclusion that you might not be good (fun) to work with. Remember, if nothing else; everything you write says something about you.

Learn the proper rules of the language in which you are writing, become a skilled grammarian, use a Thesaurus and never believe you are good enough to not need one. Develop respect and humility for all you write for. Learn manners. It’s a simple enough premise. Treat people like you yourself would wish to be treated. Like you, although they are not special, they believe they are.

Death of a loyal friend

2011-12-26T10:42:00.001Z

I remember carrying her back from the kennels; it wasn't a whisker ago either. Maude was alive then. As well as Bobby, and Saul our tabby. How the poor feline hated her at first! I never thought I'd see the day when the two of them were to be found together, enjoying the heat of the fire, apparently watching television! The pup was a wee thing to begin with; a sprat of a creature, thin with nobbled bones sticking through her young and taut fur. A dreadful sight, and a wicked damnation on the farmer who allowed the puppy and her brothers and sisters get into that morally repulsive condition. Rot in hell may he.

When not annoying Saul, as she grew, she felt sweet towards humans despite the treatment she had suffered at the hand of one of us. Maude used to bath her about once a month, and we were convinced she loved our attention. But never a bark she uttered. Her way of convincing us that all was not as it should be was to growl softly, and widen her delicate brown eyes. Her temperament was one of silence, one to which we could talk, as if she understood. But now, with Maude long in her grave, Bobby, lost to us at sea and Saul, the only other animal she had tolerated in the house, long since, I suppose, turned into glue, my dearest companion had leukaemia.

She was six thousand and fifty three days old when we made our final trip together to the People's Dispensary. A suitably dull, thunderous and dangerous day. Young Tom, my next door neighbour's boy helped me place her into the cab, but then I told him he could go no further . A frivolous boy, but that day he understood why and where we were going. An aura of sadness pervaded, but we left him nevertheless. I saw him recede into the distance, and felt a chill as I realised that that was a forerunner of what I would soon have to do.

The vet understood. He was a personal friend, and knew his business. Simon had given her her first round of shots, and had especially cared for her when, in her seventh year she was pained with kidney stones. As I waited in the grey waiting room, her head on my lap, her eyes occasionally flicking upwards to see if I was looking at her, paying her my usual attention, I felt so much complex guilt it was impossible to decode or describe. I pulled so gently at her little terrier ears and felt blocked; in all ways. Close to tears, to distraction, to hell, I had not felt as much when Maude, my only sister, had been lowered into that old Victorian cemetry in that mangy old casket.

I was called, and she managed to walk in with me. Simon knew why we were there, and he very gently lifted her onto the table. He did not speak, but retreated into the shadows, and we were left alone for the last time. I kissed her gently between her eyes, and felt her warmth and in return, she offered a slow lick on my cheek, and then laid her head back down between her paws, her eyes still occasionally flicking up towards me.

Aware of Simon's time, I spoke a last few soft and gentle words, telling her that I loved her, and that I would always love her. There was an unspoken communication between us, and I believe, however impossible it may seem, that she understood. She did not murmur as the needle entered, but I held her right paw and stroked her soft head until, within seconds, her brown eyes closed quite peacefully. Then the last breath and life left her. I was bubbling, and fixed with emotion but I did not cry. It was peace for her; no more awful pain. She was gone; my perfect playmate, chum and companion was dead.

I do not remember reaching home, but when I did, I could smell her and only then did my personal dam break. Much later, after the storm had turned westward, to softer horizons, I gathered her toys, her lead, her basket, my many photographs and placed them in a box. This I stored in the attic, after which I wrote my diary. It was a miserly entry; ruthless and mean, and sadly did not reflect the love I felt or the emptiness and loneliness which was beginning to close, tighten and envelope me; Rose was put to sleep today. Alone again.

Molly Cutpurse

The love that has no name.

2011-12-26T10:38:00.000Z

She sat, twisted; in an ancient rusty wheelchair that was probably as old as she; this woman in her late fifties. The wheelchair alone betrayed her status, no high-tech aluminium here. Some wood, dirty dry spokes and worn grey paint. But it suited her, this suffer of Parkinson's disease.

She stared. At what, only her distraught husband knew. Her eyes, like her almost white hair were dry; not lifeless but dry in the sense that they understood nothing. She gazed across the large hall to the golden cross, her focus unchanging when anyone passed in front. She could have been seeing into the future or the past as far as I could tell.

She looked relaxed. Except for her hands and wrists, the former, which continually shook, and the latter that cruelly bent back on themselves. Her head hung to one side, her bottom lip glistened with transparent drawl. A white towel lay on her sunken chest.

We were in church. A Tuesday coffee morning, but I'm guessing that she did not know that. He knew that. Her huge brute of a husband, in looks only of course. I'm guessing a one-time bouncer or a boxer. Almost certainly an ex convict. I look for spirituality in his face, but see none. A face that, in its time, had almost certainly made the acquaintance of a multitude of Essex fists.

Nevertheless, where anger and panic once resided, now only tenderness existed. It was clear to all that his concern was only for her. Where had they met? How had she quietened his life? Made him fall so much in love with her? Where had that happened? Such un-opened history.

His suit was poorly made, his shirt un-ironed, a plain blue tie messy with a breakfast, and he needed new shoes. He was a plain man now as well; something of the ego had diminished him. He neither smiled nor frowned but there was panic around his eyes. Panic probably even he was not aware of yet. Although about the same age as his wife (I could see their tokens of love around their ring fingers) he had no hair left and his spectacles were broken in three places. What was their history? Marriage in the seventies? Thinner, hipper, trendier? How has time brought them to this?

His clothes were props now. Props brought at the many local charity shops, as was her simple floral patterned dress, obviously purchased for her as no woman in charge of her own mind under the age of sixty would have considered it. And no earrings or adornments of any kind. Not the sort of things in which he had an interest.

Occasionally, he swung a huge arm out, grasped his cup and passed it under his bland and stale-looking red moustache and drank but, when he was not doing that, both his huge hairy hands were touching hers, trying so absolutely, but in vain to keep them still.

They pampered and pawed, stroked and caressed, knitted and uncrossed, and all with unimaginable, unbearable tenderness. Here truly was a man learning to be another man, and with a woman lost to him. Here was a man who once whispered in his wife's ear, ‘Tienes mi corazon’ - you have my heart. A phrase learnt when honeymooning in Latin America and never forgotten.

They remained like that, facing the alter, while I finished my own coffee, and I wondered what the next ten years would be like for them, more him than her I will admit. For she had already left the marriage, and the life cared for by social services. Although when a sunbeam illuminated her face, her jarring neck twitched gently upwards to meet it, but I've a feeling it was an automatic response. Her fingers never ceased their eternal muscular chatter.

Who would he become after his darling wife died? How would he spend his time? Something told me there were no children. Something told me most of him would die too.

They exuded poverty on every level, but they were a queen and a king as far as I could imagine. A half an hour later, about to get my bus, I strolled through the shopping precinct, and came upon them once again, this time outside Boots.

He was on his knees, his face the subject of immense sadness and concentration as he held a straw to her mouth dipped into a can of inexpensive cola. They were silent, and I wondered about their last conversation.

I pretended to window-shop, but the more I watched, the more impotent I became. I was not the only voyageur; shoppers glanced too, but the man was oblivious to all except her needs. I do not have a name for that type of love. But I have never received or given it.

The hospital ward

2011-12-26T10:23:00.002Z

I hover, Saturnine like, my scary but welcoming scythe bright over the ward of the dying. I would call them wretched creatures but they are not despite what the eye sees. Saline drips from needles and eyes over soft and wrinkled white skin and I do not hear their broken voices and recognize each one from their strong youths. Is it possible that these people once shouted? Once lifted babies to their breasts? And strong, strong arms and legs. In a moment of forever they once were. Young and cheap by the dozen. Now they lay exhumed, their station in life beyond repair. We talk and they have to listen, nodding with every single prayer.

In still chairs they sit, covered with matting cloth while television bores its vacuous signal into their unfilled brains. A clutter of once precious weeds now fit for not one good thing. They have been altered and altered still by experiences and that attracts me. I mention their pitiable bodies just once. Row upon row of them in a shelter that used to house the young. Behind each, a fiery light burns and it is that which summons me.

When awake, they cough but I do not attend to them. They plead for medicine, for peace but I do not hear them. They pray for courage but I do not issue it. They plead for chemicals to numb the fire but I have none. They mumble as best they can but no sense issues from them. They have taut stretched skin interspersed with needle bruises and some are left alone for hours in their own dark shit.

There is no pattern and no order left for them to explore; just a continuum. What pity must we share before we care, isolated and frameless. They wait for me, past hope, hanging by a silver thread. Yes, my Saturn arcs his way across the sky and sees each in turn, scooping them up day by day, hour by hour in an inevitable battle against the birth of them. Yes, still they come, mask-like and piteous. But we love them still.

The Brown Experience

2011-12-24T10:14:00.000Z

Steven ground his teeth so viciously that the screeching woke Tracy unnecessarily early. After elbowing him cruelly, which gave her ears some relief, she lifted herself out of their huge white bed and struggled, zombie-like, eyes partly closed, to the door, which refused to open automatically.

She sighed, rolling her eyeballs heavenward before yanking at its tiny underused crisis handle. An appendage so minuscule that as she tugged, her fingers slipped and the metal tore the tips of two of her carefully curved plastic fingernails. Now she did more than sigh. Grunting, as the suction from the pneumatics resisted as it released itself allowing her to escape the cloying dark room, she heard her husband’s molars begin to grind again.

Coffee was waiting. At least that machine understood her needs. Tracy managed a smiled, and after pouring a dark strong cup, she sat at their long high breakfast table, her two hands supporting her chin, her long and thin jewellery-festooned fingers stretching up nearly to her eyes, her thumbs locked together near her throat.

She remained in that contemplative position for a few minutes until the sleep which had fogged her mind lifted a little, then picked up a remote, and aimed it at part of a white wall, at the same time lifting the white coffee cup to her surgically-formed lips for the first of several hot and bitter sips.

By the time, she placed the cup back down onto a coaster, a detailed, but altogether too-glossy, simulated female anchor television presenter with an unruly hairstyle and too much make up had spoken the main headlines, which consisted of nothing more interesting than the furore about Mrs Petal, the new Prime Minister and her vicious attack on the opposition’s recent disgraceful behaviour.

By the time she took more sips, had rounded the tips of her chipped nails and devoured half the coffee, the early news was already switching to an outside broadcast where a real live person was braving a snowstorm, commenting on how much more snow that region was to expect in the next week. Despite the hullabaloo that her shrill voice brought into Tracy’s morning, the freezing woman’s unnatural excitement drifted over her, emotionally touching nothing.

Because this was the day. The day Doctor Brown, their Nigerian surgeon, was arriving for Tracy and her husband. Snow would not stop him. Not the amount that the chilled anchorwoman was cheerfully babbling about anyway. Poverty, although not an issue with Tracy and Steven, would not stop him arriving either. Politicians a while ago had had their say, and the opposition had lost. England's National Health Service was a wonderful thing.

Tracy glanced at a picture of an ice building, December’s visual representation of winter on her calendar, and pleasurably noted the crossed off X’s and how they stopped at today. She nearly shivered with excitement despite her blue kitchen being a pleasing twenty-five Celsius.

More hot sips of brain-awakening coffee took her mind briefly away from the achromatic weather, but not for long. Despite the brightening morning outside, and the everlasting gloom which winter brought, she noticed the whipping effect of snow flurries on the double-glazing. A carpet of softness and white furriness had settled over their carefully manicured lawns and extensive gardens during the night. Coffee in hand, she crossed to the glass, and pressing her small and pretty, surgically enhanced nose against one of the warm panes, she smiled delightfully. No, Doctor Brown and his team would be able to get though. It wasn’t so deep. After enjoying, for a moment, the white world, she returned to her stool and muted the television, enjoying the rest of her coffee with only the early morning soft and white visual peace outside as company.

The kitchen was well appointed, unusual considering the type of people they were, and given what the essence of a kitchen must supply. A comfortable space though, and now settled, she did not want to move. However, eventually, a familiar nagging, full and bloated feeling moved though her lower half, and although she foolishly tried to ignore the discomfort, she knew that was quite impossible. How she wished it were next week.

Now she clenched her teeth while a distressing yet familiar feeling came over her until, to a mute yet another joyful weather woman, this time apparently describing the UK’s weather, she uneasily removed herself from the stool again and walked a few paces past the perpetually open door of the kitchen into a darker lobby. With a swish of another door, a door that, amazingly unlike their bedroom one, never failed to work, she walked into an brightly lit clinical area, which smelt overwhelmingly of pine leaves and flowers from some unknown and man-made forest.

Poporee was everywhere. In every assorted colour and mixture. In every glass and china plate and bowl. The sweet and cloying smell was suffocatingly overpowering. Their bathroom was spacious, and completely covered with large white plain glazed tiles from floor to ceiling that perfectly matched the white and dense shag pile. One huge mirror reflected her thin body, slightly trembling under her white chemise. The white sink was plain and functional. Everything was functional. The gold taps glinted. The disinfected lavender soap in a pinkish translucent plastic bottle welcomed her as the only colour. The white bath was huge, oval in shape and sunken.

Equidistant as it was possible to be from those items of bathroom furniture and the only door, the horror sat; the lavatory bowl, Lifeless and white as death next to its associate, the bidet. Beside it and plugged into the only electrical outlet, was a pre-programmed deodorizer, squirting puffs of radiant freshness every seventy seconds except when it detected the presence of a warm body, whereupon it increased its output sevenfold. From above, twin fans, connected to the same sensor, began their silent business of extracting air.

By the time, Tracy had finished glaring at the lower part of her body in that mirror, a process to which she was looking forward to never doing again a week onwards from that day, the deodorizer had squirted out six invisible puffs of scented perfume.

Finally, after checking and manually locking the door against any intrusion, even though only her husband was in the house, she lifted her chemise, and tugged down her knickers before uneasily lowering herself on the toilet’s pre-warmed and spotlessly clean white plastic rim. Tensely, she took a warm and fragrantly scented white towel from a nearby white plasticised rack, and pressed it hard against her mouth and nose. The effect of sitting signalled the increased weight to the toilet’s control system, which governed the waste system, and began a hidden DVD player. Whereupon Wagner’s, ‘Ride of the Valkyries’ sounded loud and sparklingly clear, its dark tones at odds with the barren room.

Now she was nervous. Her bowels, aware that it was time, were beginning to expand, and she was forced to remember, as she had to remind herself every morning, to control her breathing, and take in large gulps of air and not to descend into panic, which was a place to which she could so easily go.

The towel smelt wonderfully of freshly cut spring flowers, and as her anus expanded, she tensed her open legs, knees and toes as she imagined the nausea and overwhelmingly sickening odour, which was probably already enveloping her. She was, as always, grateful for the music although Steven’s choice that day was not one she herself would have chosen. He did have a sense of humour though, it had to be admitted.

As her body began its natural process, expelling its ordure, a frisson of hateful electricity stirred its way up her spine spilling across her rib cage, causing her nipples to rise, and despite the temperature of the well ventilated room, caused virtually all of her skin to experience horripilation.

By holding her breath at the fullest capacity of her lungs, the abhorrent process was eventually over. However, upon it finishing, her bladder sought release, and began its own process.

In her imagination she knew how what she had done might have sounded, and knew that anyone outside the closed and fully locked door, would have been able to hear her efforts if they had wanted too despite the volume of Wagner and she cringed. Moreover, she shuddered, perhaps for the tenth time, as she waited for her morning's ablutions to come to a hideous end.

There was some more panic after her bladder had emptied because it had not been unknown recently for her body to have another go at passing yet another motion. Which was why she regulated and monitored her food intake with almost mathematical precision, working out, to the nearest gram, her intake based upon her dynamic output for the previous day. It was true to say that after twenty-three years of married life, her best friend was not Steven, but the application on her phone, The Delimiter, a specialised medical and nutrient counter.

That first time when she had felt the need to go again, she had been horrified, and that very day had fired off an e-mail threatening a law suite despite having used the device and their service with a great deal of success for over five years. Steven’s own Delimiter had never been in error she had argued, but as the company patiently explained, the science of faecal and urinal matter calculation was one in which development was always taking place, and after assuring her that it would probably never happen again, she retracted her legal threat, her demand for a refund and had calmed down.

Already, and this was two years ago, she had in mind their newly offered alternative, and it was with increasing surety that she looked forward to the day when taking that option might take place. For Steven as well as herself. As Tracy tensed her fifty-year-old legs and stood up gently, she never dared for one moment to look down or behind her, least she saw the dark horror, which nestled at the bottom of the pale blue water.

Keeping the warm soft towel covering her mouth and nose with one hand, easily moved a step to her right at the same time smacking a glass panel with her free hand, which simultaneously released an overwhelmingly large volume of water into the toilet bowl, as well as starting up an extra two fans hidden in the ceiling. Calming herself, Tracy sat on the warm rim of the bidet still clutching the towel to her face.

Immediately the unit recognised her weight it began, and sprayed her with a gentle stream of temperature-regulated and scented water while she closed her eyes in deep relief. The horror, which she dreaded at the beginning of each day, was over. Forever now.

Outside of the white bathroom, and after she had spent a great deal of time washing herself, mostly her hands, Tracy was now undoubtedly a different woman. She hummed a nonsensical tune as she dressed before treating Steven to a coffee as he lazed in bed. It was now nearly nine o'clock, and in the freezing December day, quite light thanks to the new daylight saving time. A winter sun was beginning to enter their bedroom, bleak but nevertheless, welcome. They enjoyed seeing how deep the snow had become overnight for their large estate was now spotless, a white cold expanse drifting in central Essex.

Tracy never joined her husband for another coffee unless she was desperately thirsty and then her App only advised pure water, perhaps because of an unexpected exertion for instance.

However, nothing of that sort was to happen that morning, or indeed for the next forty-eight hours, for all their activity had been scheduled with precision weeks before. More so than on any other day.

For instance, neither of them, besides their one early morning cup of coffee, was allowed to drink anything else except double filtered water. Moreover, and more importantly, no food had been allowed either for the last twenty-four hours. But that necessity had not worried them whatsoever. The fast they had had to endue was even pleasurable. The pain of hunger, they felt, easily outshone the misery of their morning abolitions.

They were to remove any nutritional implants before the great doctor arrived, complete their assigned exercise format for the day and rest thoroughly. These were specific instructions coming from Doctor Brown, their surgeon because he had a known habit of surreptitiously checking the health logs of patients upon which he was going to operate, a habit his insurance company insisted upon after his seventh year of surgery, owing to a patient once dying on his mobile operating table.

Both Tracy and Steve had been on this famous surgeon’s long waiting list for over eleven months, and so it was with great anticipation that they enjoyed some quiet time together on their bed, their arms linked in agreement, watching the snow becoming deeper and deeper.

Until Steve himself sighed deeply, and Tracy knew what that unhappy sound meant. It was his time now. He rose and moved towards the door, and immediately he did, any warmth for him evaporated like ice on a hot day for she was well aware of what his body was about to do, and she found it unbearable. In her mind, he shifted from being her husband, her lover, and her partner to a hateful biological mechanism that daily did something unmentionable and irredeemable. She became angry, as if it were his fault.

After he left, she dressed quickly in slacks and a loose top and, given the choice of walking on a treadmill or shovelling snow for an hour, she opted for the latter and pulled on a cardigan and her favourite pair of boots which had seen better days but today, she thought, was a day whereby she didn’t care less about what her postman thought. She would shovel snow and clear a path for Doctor Brown’s air-surgery craft.

He was scheduled to arrive at four that afternoon, and as he always brought his team with him, the operations would begin at six after prepping his patients at five. By then, the surgeon would have all the information he needed, his team of seven expert assistants and nurses would be up and running with all the programs and permissions loaded and all would be in place.

A reporter was supposed to arrive to cover the opperations, but due to the weather closing in and a report of a far more interesting operation on the other side of London, which eventually appeared as ‘Man has mucus plug problem solved’, the editor of the evening paper decided to go for the nearest and, quite frankly, the more interesting story.

For although the procedure which Tracy and Steve were to undergo was reasonably new and innovative, it was hardly, as the editor explained to one of his reporters who was, at the time, staring dismally though the snowflakes touching the windscreen of her car wishing the damn man would make up his mind, cutting edge. And there he was right of course. A man with excessive mucus was a top story, and was more newsworthy to the general public.

Bowel and large intestinal removal, although pioneered several years ago as an adjunct to cosmetic surgery, although out of the development stage, was still an oddity, but an oddity which was becoming ever more popular as more people discovered that they were becoming ever more distanced from the processes of their own bodies.

In the larger and more famous cities of the world, although it was not yet commonplace, it was seen as the next big thing to do for ones own satisfaction; to replace the foul, maculate and physical process of defecating and urinating by the sanitised process of the urinary drain and the clean and hygienic process of the sterile bag.

‘This eliminates the animal within’, so the public program had informed them. ‘It enables the patient to go about their daily business unencumbered by the very worse that the body so seemingly haphazardly produces’.

As well as the three-hour operation, what was known as a CR (a Compelling Regulator) would be fastened at the end of the small intestine, and that had the effect of only allowing waste to flow when the user was asleep. This was, of course the icing on the surgical cake, as the user did not have to wear the equivalent of a colostomy bag during the day.

Therefore, after clearing snow for fifty-one minutes for Tracy and forty-three minutes for Steve, they spent a quiet day. Resting, reading and slightly excited, but not by too much. They planned to celebrate their last use of the unmentionable room in two weeks time with a celebratory meal, but in the meantime, they enjoyed the day almost breezily, and around three fifty five in the afternoon, listened intently for the National Health Service helicopter.

Vampires in Grays, Essex?

2011-12-23T09:23:00.001Z

I swung my full carmine cape across my wide and bony shoulders as a simple defense against the low evening sun as I left my watchmaker shop in the precinct of Grays in Essex, inserted my spiky key into a rusty lock and twanged it shut. The weather was quite foul on this celebratory weekend of Jevil, close and light, and the dark and welcome cold of winter seemed a dream away. Why our Saviour did not choose to die during a more pleasant time of year, I have never understood. Moreover, never questioned it aloud either. But I should not complain. We Vampires have many occasions to be grateful, so it is not all hope and light. My name is Broakcan, and I am eighty-six this high summer. Born in the beautiful and fearful occult shadow of night, which naturally accounts for my clear and tight pale skin, strong dark hair and angled physique. Full-bodied suckling added to my growth, and made my eyes the colour of my cape and my sharp teeth as edgy as nature. I snort. I work. I’m keen. A perfect specimen for my race. Strong, virile, bull-like…yet lean, powerful and untamed...just as my wife likes me. I’m Latin. Yes, Quella my wife, whom I am about to meet. What a female! A crown of two thorns, part human creature, part Vampire, a deep orange edible source of a woman. Full breasted and bloodied, her red milk runs from her nipples like no others. Fountains of goodness. Our children are cursed I tell them. Cursed like no other. I order them to be grateful, but, as you will discover, often they are not. I have two. A boy and a girl. Wasis, the female, already has had coitus I am glad to tell, but the boy Lavis... What a disappointment he has grown to be. Two years younger, sure and intelligent, but he shows no interest in our beliefs, and to be clear about him, sometimes I wonder where he gets his strange ideas. The lamb within him is so powerful it is difficult for my ever patient Quella to get him to suck real nourishment with us instead of that heathen and impure vegetable scum on which he nibbles. He has no stick. His balls are watered, and I have seen his eyes glow with some unearthly light occasionally when the sun is high. He’s sickly, weak and, as much as I love him, for he came from me, I hope he will die and leave the rest of us in peace. Although with the luck Heaven has given him, he’ll probably outlive me and my allotted quota of centuries. The times I’ve caught him studying over his prescribed reading times for school when he should be hungering, simpering and yelping with his friends like a normal young vamp I cannot tell you. He is, in short, an embarrassment to my family name of Jaspetic. But my female... She gave away her virginity at school during her one-hundredth and eightieth dark moon and I remember the pleasure my wife and I felt over our evening meal the evening she told us. As usual for her, she described in detail the physical event itself, and what the half-Vamp was like. As I soaked up blood from my plate with some soft cow’s skin, I could not have been more proud, especially when she mentioned that he had to be escorted away by his friends to a clotting house for a transfusion because she had soaked and sucked him dry. I remember that feeling only too well in the early days of my courtship with Quella although she still bleeds me well enough…sometimes more so if I am rough and take my time. I am meeting her and the nestlings at Kaveller’s restaurant in the High Street, and it’s only a short walk. But long enough to be pestered by young people imitating humans and their behaviour. They look completely stupid with their human-like masks and gracious platitudes. I was about to mention that I don’t know why the parents allow them to act as they do, when I remembered that Lavis dresses and acts in a similar manner. Really, if I didn’t know any better, I’d swear that he’d prefer to be a human rather than a member of Vampire Sapiens. I can see them now through Kaveller’s green front window waiting for me in our usual area, and I reach into my pocket, withdrawing a pleasant-smelling horse’s nail and slipped it into my mouth. The last thing I ate was some baked cheeks for breakfast, and besides being hungry, I had a feeling that my breath was unpleasantly sweet. No need to put Quella though that. I could see already by the way she silently sat, her chin resting lightly on four fingers, that she was not amused by Lavis’ appearance. Wasis was softly scratching her mother’s long and lean arms with a hard red fingernail in a drifting sort of way, but was equally silent. As much as I loved my family, I wasn’t looking forward to this outing. I loath these family traditions that insist we eat out on Human Night. Perhaps when the nestlings leave the home we’ll have an end to it. Kaveller’s was a family owned business, and served good wholesome food, nothing special or fancy, although Sertis Kaveller had been known to boil up a whole carcass or two for a festival or a Union. Unusual, I can tell you, for a man who insists on his food being cold and wet, but business buys business so they say. Moreover, it was Kaveller’s ability to serve nourishment beyond what he would normally eat which made him an elegant businessman. He was a dark-red, glowering sort of Vampire, eternally locked away in his oily kitchen, huge-bodied with a red mouth like an open wound, and with lips ragged and gutted from years of eating flesh and bits of bodies. When visited, he could usually be found chewing the gristle off a stick of bone or sucking at some other organ. I like him. Entering, I kissed Quella, glad to have her scorching red lips touching mine, and I realised she smelt the horse’s nail. Her front incisors also briefly but gently tore at my lips, but long enough to silently imply that she wished we were on our own. However, we were not. Wasis and Lavis looked their usual bored selves. Both were dressed unusually. Even for them. Wasis was in the sinful colour of white, and that overrode any kind of unflattering style. Which was short and cut away from both legs. She looked like a tramp not a Vamp, and I looked away quickly, shaking my head, glad we were in our usual corner. Wasis...After I looked him up and down in silence, Quella met my eyes, and she was as shocked and felt as hopeless as myself, as I exhibited a face of extreme disappointment. Before I sat, I could not contain myself. ’What in the name of Hell are you wearing boy?’ He never answered as the question was rhetorical, but let me describe it. It was a suit. A thin, pale-blue, single-breasted suit. Underneath he wore a plain white shirt and a dark tie. A glance under the flaxen table, and I saw brown leather shoes. Lace-up shoes. Plain and common. His face was covered in white makeup, lightening the obits of his eyes, while rosy cheeks sank his pallor into humanness. He looked outrageous. I sat. ‘You are walking home on your own, because I’ll be blessed if I’ll be seen with you in the street looking like that.’ ‘He has ordered a plate of vegetables.’ ‘And you let him Quel?’ I almost spluttered, broken-hearted that my son looked so derisible. ‘The boy’s old enough to do what he wants, Broakcan. We cannot force him to eat what he doesn’t want. It’s only a phase. Let him be.’ ‘It is not a phase, mother. I’ll want to look like this and wear this forever. Its smart, and everybody of my age is doing it.’ ‘It’s sick Lavis and you are embarrassing the family. I’m telling you again, you are not walking home with us looking like that.’ ‘I don’t care.’ I smacked my fist down hard on the table, and for a second, just a second, the conversation between the thirty or so customers, stopped. ‘You bloody well will care when I stop your allowance boy, and you’re eat properly if I forbid any vegetables to be brought into the house.’ ‘Then I’ll starve and die father...’ ‘Lavis?’ Quella’s arm reached across, and gently placed her long forefinger quietly across her son’s mouth for she could see their food arriving. ‘Hush now too, Broakcan.’ she offered a smile at her husband, ‘I ordered your usual.’ I was grateful to see the plates arriving, and Savne, one of two waitress’ and Sertis’ only daughter, eased her way through the crowded tables and, as head of the family, had my starter served first; Magryana. A steaming warm bowl of kidney, liver and nail bits. My wife and my daughter had chosen thin spits of undercooked red muscle prepared in a sauce I could smell, but not identify. My son however, had ordered water, and he sat there sullen as ever. When the first morsels touched the insides of my mouth, it became awash with saliva, and for a moment, until I first bit into a wedge of liver, I forgot about him, and his fixation with imitating a human, and turned my attention to my host and the mysteries that made up his menus. What was that special ingredient that Kaveller used to turn something so plain and almost vulgar into a dish so tasty? I could smell that whatever I was spooning into my mouth was a mixture of human, pig and chicken, but my rasped tongue hinted at something else. Something unidentifiable. For the moment. Perhaps I would ask Sertis for a tour of his abattoir sometime. Perhaps I might see or identify something, a bag, a horn, a leg...some hair...anything which might help solve the issue of how Sertis had managed to turn bland flesh into a dish so exquisite. However, I knew holy well that he would never tell me. He would never betray the recipe to an outside family member. Propriety would have dictated that he would have slit the throat of every live animal and human that he had out back rather than reveal that family secret. As the offal and the magic ingredient slid down my throat, my often scarlet imagination pictured my son, Lavis, four hands width higher than he was in reality, proudly wearing a dark cape, a strong jaw jutting, eyes black as a raven’s, nails as sharp as an eagle and teeth as sharp as mine, standing proud and tall with a magnificent crop of long dark hair standing next to Savne Kaveller in the House of Conjugation, their Union about to allow him in to the inner sanctuary of the dark and secret world of Sertis’ kitchen... However, the boy himself spoilt that daydream by choking on a piece of turnip. Being the closest, Wasis slapped him hard on his back, and cleared the obstruction, but it brought my attention back to the table and the four of us continued eating silently. In the background, a trio of mournful violins filled the atmosphere. I cast my eyes over what the nestlings ate, slightly annoyed at the extra cost of Lavis’ meal, for Kaveller, I knew, had to buy those revolting and colourful knots in since his growing license to farm them out back had been revoked. Moreover, that was only recently. A few months previously I believe. A half woman, the type we are supposed to socially accommodate nowadays, obviously one of those New Age types, a vacuous vegetarian of probably of no merit whatsoever, had complained that she could taste blood in her clear vegetable soup. An inspector was summoned; an examination had taken place and some blood, mostly human for dark’s sake, was discovered to be seeping through to the earth where the vegetables grew. Unfortunately, the examination of his wild yard did not stop there, for several bodies; both human and animal were unearthed in various decomposed states. Some dead, and others in the process of dying. Those that were dead were taken away for examination, and those that were not Sertis was told to destroy immediately which he did. Thankfully, my esteemed chef was allowed to keep those, although he was given a menacingly huge fine some weeks later when it was discovered that the dead human bodies contained a number of viral organisms. However, as most of us Vampires are immune to almost all of those, virtually everybody I spoke to could not see the point of judging and punishing the owner of the grill house. Except the point really was to bring even more attention to those kill joys who seem to excel nowadays in upsetting the traditional values which so many of us hold dear. Unfortunately, I was sitting next to one of them. Even though he was my son, I had no idea what he wanted to do with himself. He is so strange! As I glanced at his powdered face and suit, part of me felt like eating him, and that would dispose of the problem. However, as we are not allowed to do exercise that right anymore (not since the law was changed a hundred and fifty years ago) and after suffering his weak ways since he was a sickly child, I had exhausted my solutions. Probably he would leave and fall in with some bad lot. I guess he would be dead within a few years. The main course arrived, and its fragrance filled our section of the room, while Lavis covered his white nose in a mock act to annoy me I imagine. Strange boy because he used to love this dish when he was younger, and before he had these irrelevant and homeless ideas put into him. Our main meal was a combined dish, Posryava, and lay, steaming hot, on a burnt black bone dish of ribs, edged together to make a seal, and was as huge as a pig’s belly, oval and deep and partitioned out into three compartments. On the right were a heap of golden tongues, eyes and genitalia of every different species of animal and human we were legally allowed to eat. To the left were dozens and dozens of mouth-sized grilled portions of animal and human meats, each with its own wooden forked stick ready for dipping in the deep brown oily sauce, which waved gently in the middle tray. As Savne gently placed the feast on our table, at least three of us were licking our lips with anticipation. Lavis had to wait another few minutes before his muck arrived. We three proper members of my family did not stand on ceremony. Sticks were taken; meat jabbed, dunked in the mouth-watering brain, white-blood and bone sauce and ate. A previously ordered bottle of warm mixed blood wine accompanied our meal, and after satisfying my hunger with a few first pieces, I lifted my glass, noticed how opaque and clingy the liquid was, as it should correctly be, and smiled at Quella. ‘To you my dearest. May we live forever in propinquity.’ ‘You are getting weak and emotional Broakcan.’ She smiled with a slight grimace, her earrings glinting in the glowing green light of the fire that smoldering and occasionally flickering in the hearth. Nevertheless, I could see she was flattered, and her already stained lips became infused with the gently effervescent quality of the wine. It made her and her irrepressible long dark hair look even more beautiful than she already was, if that were possible. Lavis’ food arrived, and the way Savne banged it down in front of him should have warranted some sort of reprehensible reply from me, but I hadn’t the mind to do it. Were I serving, I would have done the same. Quella had also, upon her early arrival, ordered side dishes of eggs, and part of the joy of this particular meal, or one way of enjoying this dish, was cracking them apart with our front teeth, ripping off their tops before firstly fully immersing the meat from the plate into their yolks before plunging the morsels into the sauce. It was a savage way to eat, and not altogether fully accepted by the so-called more refined members of those with whom we ate occasionally, but as a family we enjoyed it, and we spent some moments snorting our way around the table. I was on my third egg when it happened. My normally silent boy spluttered violently and stood, his chair flying backwards as he grasped his neck swaying gently as if a breeze was about him. It was a surreal few moments, this suited boy, spoiling our evening. He quickly fell to his knees crunching his chin and breaking the sharpest of his upper front teeth on his own china plate as he crashed downwards taking a great deal of our food with him. There he was, covered in mostly monk and animal body parts and quite still. We were told later that his immediate unconsciousness had a great deal to do with his non-recovery, for if he had been able to cough, it may have been quite possible to loosen the offending chunk of undercooked carrot. It is now a week later and Lavis has arisen, deemed not to be allowed to continue, something I did not contest at the enquiry, and therefore been sold on for meat. The white service at the disassembling theatre went well enough and many came. Some were even his friends. It is ironic that my useless offspring’s life, such as it was, was ended by the very same mad and insane habits which he senselessly promoted. Before he rose, it was my duty to read the address, but there was no prosody of sorrow within my voice. My friend, Sertis Kaveller found himself under investigation once more, but I did not press charges, and nor did Quella impress on me the need to. For I also knew how she felt about her only son. The truth was, he was just a wicked and evil boy, and he deserved to be sold on. However, as I made it clear that he was to be sold on outside of Grays, at least there will be no possibility of any part of him entering into me when we visit Kaveller’s again in two weeks time for Quella’s one-hundredth birthday. We do plan to have another son one day.

Am I making a mistake?

2011-12-15T13:19:00.002Z

When I used to be a courier in London...oh...a long time ago now, it mostly struck me how wrong or inaccurate the advice people can offer. I think, almost without exception, if I asked the way or needed directions, whatever they told me, would on almost every occasion, be wrong. 'Go down there, that one-way system, and number 24 is on the right.' It never was not only on the left, but not even down that part of the one-way. 'Don't use the A10, there been an accident, and you're never get through.' Yet I went that way, and it was invariably clear. 'Wrap up warm, there's snow in the air.' Sunny all day of course.

But now I write for a living. No more cold, hard days for me. I've written about 21 novels, and of course, I like all of them. However, I admit, some are better than others. Some, I enjoy reading more than others. One or two of the early ones are indeed, a bit of an embarrassment, and could have been written better. Self-publishing is a bit of an art-form. A combination of science, business and intuition. Yet concerning one, Alien Queens, I find myself in a predicament. Because although I have found people who love it, others have advised me to let it go and concentrate on newer works.

Yet I cannot. Every time I pick it up and read a few pages, an excitement flushes over me, and a small voice inside my brain says, this could be big! Given the chance, science-fiction geeks all over the world could come to love this book. So I struggle with this daily. What it comes down to is, do I trust myself or my critics? I have a passion for Alien Queens I have to admit. It has the most absurdly complicated plot anyone could ever wish for. It's a time-travel puzzle within a puzzle and yet I am proud of it. And it has great, and equally absurd characters.

Yet the thought persists. Am I deluding myself? What must happen for me to 'go for it, 100%' as they say? Perhaps we all, writers or not, suffer with this form of thinking.

I'm back!

2011-11-10T06:31:00.002Z

It's been a time since I wrote anything here, so just an update. I believe I've just published my twentieth novel. Or is it the twenty-first? This is odd. Like getting older, one forgets the actual number of birthdays. I have to look up and to my left to count them. Ah, nineteen. Sorry about that. I've been on a bit of a rampage the last few years. The creativity hasn't stopped. And even some of my neighbours seem to like them nowadays! Whatever! However, I am about to become a writer full time and that's a little scary. What if I cannot pay the gas bill next month? Will I be eating soup around Christmas time? There's no one to look after me. No parents or family to fall back on. So, interesting times.

I've decided to blog a little more nowadays, although at the moment, the question that occupies my mind is what will I blog about? I'm told that blogging will increase sales. I've been told that blogging is the way to go nowadays. But truly, have I the time? I mostly write 3,000 words before breakfast each day anyway. The juice box is normally empty by then. But we shall see.

Suffer little children...

2008-08-28T07:03:00.001+01:00

We often complain about our modern world don't we? Its excess', its violence, its seemingly idiotic notions, its indulgence and its stubborn refusal to view manners, people and events in the good old fashioned way...
However, we don't work backwards. Recently, I was queuing at the post office and the line was long, there being only two till operators, when there was a disturbance some way in front. It wasn't loud but it caused several people to hook out their mobiles and start dialling.
Naturally, I strained myself forward, tipping my head this way and that to look but I could only see a woman mopping up some red stuff by hand with a bundle of tissues. Slowly the line reduced and I edged foreword. But the line had quietened and the usual rabble of Essex folk, complaining that they hadn't seen Eastenders for a week (therefore their entire life was about to fall apart) tuned in instead to the cause of the disturbance and much proved their true worth by offering all the assistance and empathy they had to a young mother and her eleven year old daughter, a pale and choleric thin thing who was in the process of coughing up a huge amount of bright red blood.
That crimson signal appeared to galvanise an entire mini army though and all the Health and Safely issues and factors that we normally dislike so much and which forms such a large part of our modern world, were immediately acted on.
A chap got through to the emergency services. They were then patched through to security who had arrived and who gave then precise directions how to get to the shop because it was in a shopping precinct. A manager arrived and took charge, a woman with protective clothing appeared and began to mop the floor after putting down a slippery floor sign and the queue edged forward slowly.
The child was, by now, finished throwing up blood and sat back in a hard chair, looking extremely frightened and white, tears flowing and inducing the most frightful pity within all of us. However, a paramedic arrived within five minutes and took her pulse, briefly examined her and then, lead by the manager, escorted mother and child away through a back door.
I arrived at the counter to buy some stamps and mentioned to the woman, how sad it was to see a child suffer. She agreed but we could have been chatting about an incident which happened weeks ago for the space where she had been ill was empty and new customers would never know that anything untoward had happened just minutes before. Under such circumstances, she mentioned, it was important to keep the line moving and not let the ill person feel as if he or she was an item of curiosity. All had been thought out before, with all preventative measures and opinions just in place.
I gained the impression of a superb clockwork machine, working continuously just below the surface of everyday life and one continuously geared moreover to our...health and safety. Later, as I left the precinct, I walked past an ambulance, no doubt with the child and mother in it and everywhere was so silent. If I see mother and child again, I will let you know.

Sue Pollard and Def Leopard and J. K. Rowling

2008-08-04T06:01:00.002+01:00

I had the delightful pleasure of being introduced to the the wonderfully effervescent Su Pollard last night and our short time together cemented an idea that had been running around inside me old brain-box for some time. That she is as bonkers as a box of frogs on Acid. I don't mean of course that that notion about her had been with me for a time but something else.
But why? I, as most of you, will remember her as the dotty chalet maid Peggy Ollernshaw in Hi-de-Hi and I am not in the least surprised that she has somehow reinvented herself as a charming loon with that distinctive voice. What other way could she go after the series ended twenty years ago? Go on to play Ivy Teasdale in the sitcom; You Rang, M'Lord of course. Like attracts like.
I can see how easily it must have been for her to realise that she had struck the Golden comedy nugget and over the years, merged those fictional characters into her own personality. After all, we all wanted to meet chalet maid Peggy last night. And we did. Even through there was not a camera in site. I was waiting for her to mention that she had always been as mad as a box of frogs on acid. Or the equivalent at least. Never a depressed moment.
And then there is Def Leopard, wining and un-purposely expressing themselves about how much music meant to them around the time they were infants. I just had the impression that they were supposed to say that, as if uttering those things actually justified their wealth, talent and fame. I did wonder if they would have thought the same thoughts or expressed the same words though had they failed in their musical efforts and became motor-car salesmen, insurance advisors and mangers of MacDonalds instead.
I hear J. K. Rowling (as an author of which I do not envy at all) had the plot-line of all seven books in her head when she wrote the first one. I do not doubt that. What I do find hard to swallow is that she would have written book two and the rest had she failed to get a publisher for book one. I know of no mortal man or woman who would spent fifteen years writing 2,000,000 words, all for them to be parked on a hard drive somewhere and never to be read by an exited face. She exists because she exists in other words. She is famous because she is famous, not because she invented Harry Potter.
So what am I on about today? Lost intentions that's what. For every one person who has has luck bestowed upon them, there are probably hundreds or thousands who lay dead beside the road, clutching their novels, their songs, their art, their poetry. Each one probably, having the potential, once the back-room boys get on it, of becoming just as special in our hearts and lives as any other celebrity. Yet, such is life and that's the way the system works. We can't all be famous!
So what is my point? I'll tell you what it is. I wish people would be more honest. I wish people would say; Christ! If it wasn't for that incredible stroke of luck, of being in the right place at the right time, I too would have probably become a lowly-paid cilvil servant, shuffling papers around at my local town hall. Or, I had no talent at all when I was a kid! The fact that I am here doing this and earning a fortune is a fluke.There is only one celebrity I am aware of that has become that honest and that is Bob Hoskins. So that's what I want them to admit. Because greatness has been thrust upon them, they believe they are great and have always been great. And many...most...and I am one of them...are not. George Handel (1685-1759) breaks my theory. Damned infant!
I do inherently believe that we grow towards not only on our strengths and weakness' but also on other's opinions of us. There have been enough experiments to prove this assumption as well. And that is why we ultimately fail...or succeed. Believe in someone today. For God's sake, just do it.

Tribal Wives

2008-07-08T09:35:00.000+01:00

I have been watching Tribal Wives, a documentary series on BBC 2 about white women with their own brand of particular problems who go to live for a month with an isolated tribe only to return, complete, happy and fulfilled.
Its not a bad program although I wouldn't walk through a snowstorm to watch it. While I see and understand the changes these women go though, I do feel sorry for them in a way that they could not find the means and strength within themselves to overcome their difficulties in their own country and with their own people. But hey! Do whatever works I say.
However, watching the unfolding drama of these primitive, yes and I meant to use that word, people's lives, I am more than convinced (as if I needed any anyway) that these people can keep their often barbaric, tyrannical and ferocious way of life to themselves.
Husbands are allowed to beat women or even kill them without condemnation, fear is ever present by all, their society is completely unequal in religious, legal and social terms thanks to the ever-present plague of religious belief, animals are slaughtered for celebratory purposes, immaturely, there is little understanding of any other way of life except their own and consequently, there is an ever present need to change what is into what they feel comfortable with instead of maturely accepting a person and their worth.
I'll be honest, I have nothing but contempt for these people, these tribes. I cannot say with any truth that our society is much better in many regards (we do have our own problems to be sure) but when it comes to protection of the person, recognition of a person's status and respect for who and what people are, our Western Christian civilisation wins hands down. I am surprised slavery is still not in operation.These people are no more civilised than the Romans.

I love this story

2008-06-29T07:35:00.001+01:00

Perhaps the most memorable story regarding the first editions of the Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone comes from a journalist in the UK. Nigel Reynolds is the arts correspondent on the Daily Telegraph and he was persuaded to meet JK Rowling as she attempted to publicise her unknown book.

They met, had coffee, chatted and JK handed over one of the first editions. Nigel said his farewell and headed back to the office where he skimmed through the book and tossed it into the garbage bin – easily the most costly mistake of his career. Good first editions are now going for about £30,000!

Road safety?

2008-06-28T08:52:00.002+01:00

There is a perfect illustration of road safety. It took place in 2005, when road markings and signs, as part of psychological traffic calming measures, were removed. In Holland, Germany and Sweden, accidents were decreased by a third and speed fell by an average of 5%.
It was found that instead of relying on the street system for security, drivers were forced to use their reactions! Heavens! What next! It is believed that the lack of clear markings encouraged drivers to slow down and mingle with pedestrians, forcing them to make eye contact with one another.
I've just seen an advert for Nissan's new intelligent, all mode, SUV 4X4-i; an x-trail behemoth. An earth-resource draining, gas-guzzling, forefinger-up to humanitarianism and a product which serves to undermine the owner's intelligence and driving ability to a degree unheard of. Never before have I unfortunately witnessed a vehicle so designed to offer the driver such a false sense of security and a perfect way to send him or her on a downward spiral of complacement.
Yes, this is what the world needs; A DVD watching, loud music fixated, mobile using, GPS obsessed, air-head, amateurishly and unintelligently driving a 3,000 Ib battering ram. This life-destroying tank just encourages selfish, insecure, by probably overweight and misplaced drivers, to forget caution and restraint and that can only be a bad thing. Almost an evil thing. Nissan and the rest of them ought to be ashamed. Let's hope its a fad and that one day, they and other car designers will take themselves out of the boy's playground, grow up and begin to take their job seriously.
I believe designers have got seriously out of hand. ABS with EBFD and CSC, air-bags, side bags, side impact bars etc, etc, etc. Its all too much. Take away the safety measures and let the human brain do what it does best. Self preservation.

The Change

2008-06-27T05:44:00.000+01:00

I think I'm going through the change. No, not that one! That one, the hot flushes, the tiredness, the noticing of grey hair and the realisation that there are probably more days behind me than in front, was a walk in the park really...compared to this.
Yes, this manifestation is wholly more insidious and sly. It catches me unawares, as well as smacking me squarely in the face. For this one consists of a number of things that no one taught me to expect. Items such as, unexplainable skin conditions that wax and wan, the temptation to stay in on a Saturday night, the inability to sit through a two hour film at the cinema without wishing the whole thing would hurry up and end so I can go home and make my hot chocolate, the impossibility of taking a cup of tea after six in the evening without peeing all night, an increased sense of right and wrong, warranting an equal amount of grumpiness, a sad sense of futility as established and long-cherished habits fall away, as I realise that I don't need them anymore and an appalling sense of loss as I discover that I no longer want to learn. That last one, coupled with the knowledge that many of the things I once held so high in principle and that were so important, are surely now gone for good. And worse of all, that I do not care that they have gone.
This change sees me delving more intently into the past and revelling (even wallowing) in nostalgia than ever before. It convinces me that even the periods and habits I once had little time for and the places I had no longing to remain at, I now find fascinating and instructional. And therefore enjoyable. I seek them out. Interest in many subjects is waning. I feel as if I am leaving the intellectual world and all its problems and joy behind, hurtling forwards towards a metaphysical and spiritual place which has no name. It is not exactly discomforting but not too strange either as I have the feeling that this is a path well trod before me and also that I have many brothers and sisters that are experiencing the same. I now understand how my grandparents and later, even my parents were able to leave watching an exciting film on television to perhaps make tea. Yes, the entertainment was not deemed that important. To children, things are so important aren't they? I understand now why my father eventually didn't mind so much when his roses died inexplicably, or why mum ceased making a fuss over small issues. It was, the change.
My need to create is diminished. My need to be recognised is on its way out. My organisational ability has increased. My urge to control my destiny has almost vanished. Names are harder to recall. My imagination does not scare me as much as it once did and I pay less attention to it. It, no longer feels the need to be expressed. Which brings its own sort of sadness.
There is a lesser need for communication, a humbling of spirit. I have begun to understand why authors write less as they age. It is not because their creativity ceases. It is because the soul within grows tired. This new change then would explain why I choose to rest, sitting upright in the morning before I stand, why losing weight is extremely hard, why certain foods, once so freely eaten, enjoyed and digested, now have the same effect on me as poison. Or close enough to it as to cause discomfort. And why my medicine cabinet is stocked with so many life-saving goodies! It explains my choice of going to bed early with a good book instead of a bad person, it explains why I like to snooze in the afternoon, how I can chat with the elderly easily, and why I purchase lots of things of which I have no need. I am in a dilemma. I have the facilities of a strong person yet with all the inherent problems of a weak one.Yes, its the change. Hopefully, the final one. But somehow, I don't think that's true. For I have this almost awful feeling that in perhaps twenty years time, I shall be here (God willing) ready to explain away the experiences of the true last and final frontier of my life.

They are still, my people.

2008-06-26T19:13:00.001+01:00

They are still, my people. Perfectly still, if one does not account for the occasional twitch of an eyelid or the sound of a rasping dryness which twitches indiscreetly around their dry lips.
They have a unwieldily detachment. As far away from their youth as one can imagine, these elderly, wheelchair-bound statues whose eyes dry off into the distance, many seeing no detail, but reduced to shadows and the few textures which remain to them.
They are not hungry anymore. They look forward to nothing. And the odours in the still air attest to it. These people, perhaps more than most, live just for the next few moments. Their perspective, if we could ever witness it, would be inexplicable to our earthbound mortal eyes and ears.
Yet, their legs bleed continuously, their weekly perms glow when the summer sunshine strikes them with an unfathomable blueness, their forehead's crease and they cry with anguish at the impossible and the unknowable. It is heart-breaking. And each day I dread going in to work for one reason; ugly news that another has died during the night. It is an impossible job.
The wheelchairs are kept spotlessly clean and oiled. As is their last place of residence. Lined up like some macabre race in the living rooms, they are left, always turned towards the sun. As if that is what they have to look forward to. Their clothes too are boiled spotlessly clean and parched, some to the extent of losing colour. But the few visitors notice details like that. Mother is clean and silent, and therefore content. That is what they notice.
Death reduces us all, it has often been said. But when it catches up, and overcomes, as it will, our feeble and time-limited attempts to keep it at bay, address an expression of thanks to your God that you have friends and family around you; not dry and, to my eyes, still incomprehensible statues.

Doctor Who confidential

2008-06-22T10:24:00.001+01:00

This blog is interesting (at least to myself) Well, it would be wouldn't it! Because its tending to give my wallowing brain free-range and we all know what happens when a vacuum exists; Rubbish (mostly) flows in.
So what has visited me this morning? Perhaps as a result of a back and shoulder injury which has troubled me for the last twenty-four hours, the dregs and obliteration have been flowing nicely!
Yes, what has been brought to my attention has been the repeated and everlasting rantings of famous actors and actress' expressing how awful their jobs are sometimes. In particular, how terrible it is that they have to stand around in rain and other hardship conditions whilst earning thousands of pound an hour. That's awful!
And as for the production technicians and crew! Just imagine having to hang about with the wise, the beautiful, the talented and the famous whilst perhaps shooting on an exotic location. Or even a location that they have never visited before? How sad and just downright terrible that these people have to earn considerable amounts of money a day joining with others to conceive and construct a one off, original work of art. It must be damn terrible for them. My heart bleeds.
In my early working life, ending some twenty years ago now, I had ridden a motorbike, over 2,000,000 miles in heavy City of London traffic in all weathers, delivering letters and packages from dawn to dusk and sometimes all night, for what was, in those days, little more than the minimum wage. I have endured blizzards on Dartmoor, one particular night, even sleeping in an exposed old fashioned red telephone box on a west country moor in three foot of snow and nearly dying. I have driven out of my garage at 6 am in the middle of the winter, in an absolute freezing downpour and been soaked to the skin (we called it the icy fingers in the groin) (literally) within five minutes, knowing that I had another fifteen hours to go before I could return. I once fell off my bike whilst at traffic lights because my frozen and weak legs could not hold me up. And all for a minimum wage. Cold, mind-mumbing boring and incredibly dangerous. That was a job to complain about!
It is sad that this has been brought to my attention. But blame Doctor Who confidential on BBC4 who, last night, found the actors bemoaning the fact that they had to stand around in the rain. Yes, and to repeat myself, earning vast sums of money, whilst being looked after by a team of hairdressers, makeup artists, wardrobe personnel and personal runners who have been instructed to fetch anything they need. Damn! That's a hard life!
I've been, 'on set'. On several sets actually, earning around a £100 for a long days work as an extra and I did do a lot of standing around. But I have to admit that those times were the most exciting working times of my life. I watched Jeremy Brett play Sherlock Holmes, I was privileged to be in the last but one episode of "Drop the Dead Donkey", I created computer graphics as far back as 1987 for the film, "murder on the Moon" starring Bridget Nelson (£500 a day) and been in one or two more modern productions. I've felt honoured to be involved in any creativity.
Sour grapes? Of course its bloody sour grapes. And I would not be human if I thought anything less. But its a sense of sadness which drives my words this morning. For, in truth, I cannot be around film sets anymore. I cannot watch them on TV either. I just weep. Uncontrollably. Why? For past wrongs. Lost opportunities. Failed attempts. If you are young, don't let this happen to you. And actors? For Christ's sake; cultivate a little more gratitude.
Gentle Breezes to you.

Where was I?

2008-06-21T09:39:00.001+01:00

I've been watching Andrew Marr's History of Modern Britain and I've been astonished. Why can I not remember these events? Political marches, Diana's wedding, strikes, sex scandals, the three day week, the winter of discontent, the recession, unemployment, the Big Bang, Poll Tax riots, lower speed limits, hippy happenings... Where was I when these current events were taking place? I watched a rally for CND and one for Ban the Bomb and saw tens of thousands of young people from the London area marching, protesting and getting into trouble. Where was I? Getting drugged up to my eyeballs that's where. I'm aware that I've never had an interest in current events. All that sort of news just washed over me like white noise.
However, I see the connection now between my juvenile dismissal of those events and the current difficulty I now have with the industry I wish to become recognised in; publishing. For its all about making connections isn't it? And while I was, cabbage-like, sitting on the end of my single bed, staring at my toes for eight hours at a time, whilst under the heavy influence of LSD, my peers were attending parties, getting PHD's in English and, in those days although they would not have called it especially by its name, networking their little minds out. I don't deserve to be a writer.
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Don't you hate the fact that people are not named in the various media or is it only me who finds items like these two so very annoying;

1. Despite good ratings and critical acclaim, ITV decided not to re-commission the show for a third series.

2. "No comment", said a Home Office spokesman.

3. "We think your novel is rubbish", (just place any agent or publisher in here)

Just who are these people who make these decisions? I hate their anonymity. Name them for God's sake. So we can have a good go back.

Ashton Kutcher and Kris Marshall

2008-06-20T06:31:00.001+01:00

I'm in a fantasy kind of mood today. Yes, the two guys above are the finest young male comedy actors actors I can think of that possess the brilliance needed to play the parts of Stewart and Frankie in my novel, Alien Queens. If you are familiar with their work (for a perfect comedic experience I recommend you check them out) you're know why of course.
Their humour and style is quite mad, perhaps even bordering on the genius and I've no problems in understanding why they are both A-listed men. They are damn good looking too. I've never seen these two acting together and I have no idea, being that they live on separate continents, if they even know each other but they must at least have an awareness of the others comic genius' (there's that word again) timing. Someone put them together please!

Dead again?

2008-06-19T06:01:00.000+01:00

Here's a question you won't want to think about for too long. Someone dies. A woman. How do you describe the event? Perhaps, 'She just died.' Or what about, 'It just died.'
Which one feels better to say? And why? Was your decision bound up with a faith, a belief or circumstances? In using the first one, surely, as 'she' is not present anymore, is it the correct sentence to use? After all, there is just a collection of complex molecules in front of you now. No different to any other collection such as, say, your morning breakfast. Yes, but that does not sound respectful. We know this. And as for the second? Well, that's a no-brainer isn't it? Of course she's not an 'it.' Perhaps she was a relative or a close friend. Complex eh?
However, a week goes by. The body is now not the same as you remembered her. It has changed in many complex chemical ways. Notice I wrote the word 'it.' Is that now a little more appropriate? Now that 'she' no longer has the close appearance of the person you were once fond of? Where and when and how did this change of subjectivity happen? Would it be the same for all people? When does a body go from being an 'he' or 'she' to an 'it'?
Is this a useless piece of speculation? Perhaps. But by considering it, we can learn a great deal about ourselves and the way we look at the world, and more importantly, the relationships we have with people.
Okay. Its now been a year and, (do I still write 'it' or is it still 'she' in your mind?) lays there, perhaps an almost complete ruin. Nature has taken care of the situation. But what do you think? Has your opinion been divided? Have you changed your mind? And if so, when did that happen for you? Would you have the same opinion about, not a human body but an animal or even a pet? I ask again; When does a body go from being an 'he' or 'she' to an 'it'? Ah, language. We still have such a long way to go.

Pity the poor pornographer.

2008-06-17T19:21:00.002+01:00

The other day I was watching some pornography...if I mention that it was serious research for my forthcoming novel, Executrix would you believe me? Anyhoo... the piece in particular was filmed at an extremely raucous hen party in Denmark and featured, if I can use that word, three very naked and heartily-built men of quite huge proportions, dancing, cavorting, sweating, parading and exciting a room of about thirty females who were in their twenties I should say.
It was a clever set-up. Another two men, each wearing nothing but a black bow tie (!) and a pair of the tightest and briefest of white briefs, whilst holding a white towel over an arm, ranged about pouring free wine liberally into the women's glasses while (I counted two) unbelievably drably-dressed females armed with expensive video cameras also sneaked about making sure the action was not wasted, but committed to eternity.
The music was at a heart-attention getting, 120 beats per minute and was unrelenting. A good set up also was the staging area where this happened for it consisted of a round stage upon which the men danced and which was at the perfect height of about three feet, for the women, dancing and therefore upright, for their heads to be at the same height as the men's crotches. Perfect for film. However, fellatio was not the only sex act that was to be performed on those poor men. Oh no! This was Denmark after all.
At some point, about ten of the women jumped up on the stage and continued to do what the cameras enjoyed filming, when whoosh! A burst from overhead pipes, doused everyone in warm, and I would have thought, given the amount of time that it had taken them to get this far, refreshing streams of water. I could see the three men were almost eternally grateful that they had reached this point in their performance. One could really see it on their faces and they took a little time off to splash water over themselves before their attention once again returned to the two dozen or so hungry mouths which seemed to be all over them like drunken slobbering mastiffs.
However, the women, their Friday night party frocks (what there was of them in the first place) were now ruined and with the aid of that wine, were therefore shed and most of them disappeared into the watery mayhem, followed quite quickly by their bra and panties. Then, as if they were not before, the men became free-range and fuelled by the still flowing alcohol, the women went wild and a mass orgy took place, the women very much in charge and control and receiving absolutely everything that they demanded. I hope you can imagine this scene.
So what I am getting at? Why am I painting this picture for you? Well, it's because of the sudden attitude of the men. The three of them. Earlier, strutting and domineering, one would imagine that these guys would have been in heaven yes? But they were not. They were being overwhelmed and that's the most politest way I can describe it. In fact, they were losing the plot completely and that could be seen by observing what the women had paid good money to see. Hard manhood. Or not in actuality.
So in desperation, the men tried to resurrect themselves by the one thing that they had not tried. The one thing that this hoard of sexually hungry and perhaps frustrating young women had withheld so far. Kissing. And that's what these three men wanted to do. They wanted an emotional experience, a experience connected with some tenderness. Even perhaps some affection. Here were these men having an experience that almost any man, I would imagine would pay dearly to have and these guys just wanted to kiss. How girlie! Explain that!
It was very obvious to me and to tell you the truth, sad to watch. For in the end, all of the people in that club became diminished; the dancers, the women and the filmmakers. Even the bar staff which I could sometimes glimpse, stood quite still and shocked as the women, no longer being satisfied by the men, took to drunkenly pleasuring themselves and each other. I was diminished by it as well. So what was the point of that evening? Well, finer brains than mine have debated this point but surely it cannot be about money? But if it is, perhaps I ought to grow up and pity the poor pornographer. Not my finest hour.

Probably not a popular blog!

2008-06-17T08:52:00.001+01:00

I do hope this column is not becoming a platform for misery! A forum for complaining. But I've been re-reading a few past entries and it does seem that I am edging into negativity perhaps just a shade too much. But that's what this blogging business is all about. A personal reflection of my thoughts. Oh dear! Well, we can always stand to learn a few things about oneself. What would you write?
I was at Tesco recently and, keeping my eyes and ears open as you do, noticed a man of about thirty-five accompanied by a child out shopping. Or at least, they were in the shop. For while he was leaning up against the frozen vegetables, his mobile clamped to his face, annoyingly barking into it, she was pouting as only a bored annoyed eleven year old can, her arms folded and her foot tapping in the manner of someone who was terminally frustrated. I lingered naturally as the situation warranted it! To hear him ranting about some recent football game which had been shown on the box the night before.
And it struck me how little this chap didn't want to be in the company of this child. His daughter I am presuming. And the not so hidden message she was getting from that missed opportunity of communication. Of course, then I noticed it everywhere and remembered also the hundreds of similar times that I had been in the same circumstances as that kid.
I have visitors who seem to spend their time with me with one eye on their mobile or PDA. Who break off important conversation just to read an incoming text message. Who drive reading text messages! Who receive and make calls without so much as an excuse me. I realise that I am old fashioned and getting on in years but to me that is just unpardonable rudeness. It would be different if it were business of course but I would still expect an apology. Now I have to ask you, what is that saying about their friendship with me? How much respect are they showing to me? And therefore to themselves? How much respect was that man showing to his daughter? And will he understand why, when she grows up and exhibits delinquent behaviour, that he was partly to blame? For unloved kids almost always go down the path of problems. When his wife leaves him and his kids no longer care to live under his rules, and he becomes as lonely as hell, will he admit that he had a hand in it? Sadly, probably not.
In general, it seems as if people do not wish to be with people. Oh yes, they want to be in their company but not actually with them. I've lost count of the times I've noticed a couple out walking and both have been speaking to other people! Who are they talking to? And if they were with them, would they be using their phone to talk to yet another person? Its bizarre behaviour and everybody seems to be doing it, probably including you.
My most difficult memory so far concerning this occurred a few weeks ago. A teenage mother, her phone jammed under her chin, was absentmindedly pushing her pram with one hand while her tiny daughter, probably no older than eighteen months, was being dragged along by the other. You can imagine this picture. Then the child stumbled on a piece of broken pavement but was saved from falling because her hand was being held. However, the mother did not notice and for a full, I guess, seven seconds, she dragged the girl along like someone would pull a sack along the ground, the child's toes scraping on the pavement. I just could not believe what I was seeing. So why do you do it people? Why can't you just be with the person you are currently with?
A very dear friend of mine, someone whom I no longer have contact with unfortunately as he died, as soon as I entered his house, he would switch off the TV immediately and always let the answering machine take calls. Of course, in those days, there were no mobiles or text messages but I'm sure, had there been, he would have ignored them as well. He always gave me his full attention and naturally, I loved him for it. Because he made me feel wanted and worthy. Respected and loved. I have to admit then, that the current crop of people that I associate with, will almost certainly not be remembered in the coming years with as much affection as I remember my old friend. I wonder why that will be? Duh!

Archaeologists

2008-06-16T08:07:00.001+01:00

Hold on! There's a high horse. There! Got it. I've mounted it now. So...archaeologists. What's the deal with them? When I was ten or thereabouts, I remember visiting the British Museum in London ( I think I was always at some place of learning!) and specifically found myself wandering around the Egyptian hall where the mummies are (still) on display. I do well remember how sickened and upset I was that these unfortunate remains of people were not allowed to rest for eternity in the manner of their beliefs.
I have not one single doubt that, if any of those ancient people, when they were alive, had been informed that one day their mortal skeletal remains would have open to the leering gaze of all and sundry, then they would have been utterly horrified. For these people, that society, perhaps more than most, valued the sanity of what to do with the body after death.
Thus, with the indignation and precociousness that comes from being a ten year old (and remember, ten year olds can do anything) I insisted that I spoke to someone in charge and soon, a nice lady appeared and I began my miniature and immature diatribe, which basically consisted of how I believed it was wrong to parade the remains of these people and how they should have been left in peace. I think she was a bit taken aback! Unfortunately, I forget her side of the argument.
Now for a child to have such strong opinions about such a subject is a little surprising in itself but that's not the reason I'm mentioning it today. No, I'm thinking of how two-faced archaeologists are. For, a short while ago, by international agreement, it was agreed not to touch the remains of the Titanic and not to bring up any artefacts from the decaying vessel itself. Why? Because its now recognised as a memorial, a graveyard if you will.
So...can someone please inform me as to the difference between digging up bodies as archaeologists do on a daily basis and, not disturbing other remains? And make it a good argument please because the phrase, 'thin ice' comes to mind. In short, why do we we display some people from the past and not others?
This is a damn fine question and any answer would tell us a great deal about the person (or society) answering it. Think about it. The remains of a Spitfire is discovered in a field...the skeletal remains still in it...we take it out, pin the skeleton together and mount it, still in its original clothes in a local museum where we pay £4 to see it. Is that permissible? Or how about if we find a hundred skeletal remains plus all their original kit of First World War soldiers huddled together in a mass grave. How about shoving all them on display? No? What about recent murder victims? We can all have a good look at those.
So what's the fundamental difference between that and what is still currently going on in museums all over the word?
Distance. That's what is going on. Distance in time and respect for the living. But until we have respect for all those who have passed away, our current level of respect for ourselves will continue to be minimal. And minimal respect will always cause trouble and problems. Talk about learning from the dead eh?

How about chewing on a live baby, outside the doors of the BBC in Regent Street whilst juggling in the nude?

2008-06-12T06:43:00.003+01:00

Many of those who know me, even without having their arms twisted behind their backs, I think would agree that my personality is of a placid and mostly agreeable nature. My life operates uncompromisingly by the Golden Rule and I like to see fairness and tolerance everywhere. Indeed, if I may champion myself for the moment, I live for the underdog.
Therefore, although what I am about to write, I know does not fit into that ethos, nevertheless, I fear the following must be publicly acknowledged by me.
The Golden Rule states that what we give out, will eventually come back but this must be written; The book, Writers & Artist’ yearbook [any year], published by A&C Black (and similar ones by other publishers) is nothing more than a huge waste of expense and paper.
I have to justify that naturally. Here I go; I’ve been buying these editions each year and sending off, at great expense, polite letters (exactly of the type as requested), stamped addressed envelopes, long and short synopsis’ and three page introductions, for as long as I can remember. The amount of rejections and the nature of many of them, although immediately dismissive, are, in truth, personally harmful, as the hidden emotionally destructive nature of them has accumulated over the decades.
Literary agents (each) are receiving perhaps as much as 300 submissions a day but take on perhaps two or three authors a year. Very few of the main publishing houses (like Penguin) will not even accept an introductory letter anymore unless it comes from an agent so they have a locked door policy and correspondence is (sometimes) simply returned, occasionally with the barest of explanations.
My point here being that if the agents and publishers do not wish the common unpublished Hoi Polloi to write to them, then what I wish is for them to TAKE THEMSELVES OUT OF THE BOOKS and stop wasting everyone’s time and money.
I am beginning to believe the only way I can draw attention to myself would be to chew on a live baby, outside the doors of the BBC in Regent Street whilst juggling in the nude. Naturally I blame the Internet and the ease in which the so-called creativity applications have made it seem that anyone can write a best seller without first putting in the necessary years of study.
For if these new modern, ‘typists’, who are clogging the system up, had to bang their stories out on a typewriter whilst not having the benefit of spelling or grammar checkers or the help of those proliferation of programs which purport to help those buying them write better, then I am convinced many would not bother. They would probably just continue to mindlessly watch Eastenders, ‘Coronation Street’ and Hollyoaks. The trouble is, everyone wants that fifteen minutes of fame.
To write a decent novel takes many years out of one’s life and is a huge commitment, a state of mind that many in this speedy Internet age do not possess. Or have lost the ability.
I do not blame the agents and publishers per se. They have had to take what measures they have taken to safeguard their resources. Quite understandable. However, that does not assist me, an impoverished writer, of doubtful heritage, gender and education, existing without the benefit of any nepotism whatsoever, and who now comes across as mean and angry and whose works are being swept away with the poorly-written dross of the masses.
I had to laugh the other night. A sad sort of laugh. The South Bank Show did a special on Sarah Waters the esteemed British lesbian author. At one point, Melvyn Bragg mentioned that he understood her first novel was a bit hard to get published. Oh yes, she said, about ten publishers rejected me!!!! Only ten? I sputtered over my hot chocolate. I’ve had tens of hundreds of rejections over a period of twenty years. What lives of cream some people lead.
I am fully aware that the relationship between a creative and a financier is inherently hostile. They don’t think about the same things, they don’t talk about the same things; they don’t do the same things. They don’t even speak the same language. About all they have in common, in this business, are words on paper. Again, for the caricature, financiers see writers as flaky and artists see financiers as the soulless bean-counting robots… in charge. Yea, it’s about power. Whoever pays, decides.
Nothing in this diatribe will change anything but it was good to get it off my tiny chest. So, back to the Golden Rule.

I'd like to give up my computer

2008-06-10T07:10:00.002+01:00

I will admit to passing through some odd phases and I am currently working my way through one at the present time. But if I were to carry my current thoughts through to their conclusion, it would be like severing my own throat (sorry about the wording. I'm probably still thinking about yesterday's blog) in that I'd like to get rid of my computer. Or at the very least relegate it to a corner of the room where it gets switched on just once a week.
You see, my Apple Mac (or both of them actually) is alive (!) twenty four hours a day, seven days a week and I live and breath at the keyboard, something which is probably not good for me both physically and mentally. Or even spiritually probably! It has become my best friend and I recognise that as a failing.
Besides that, the tools I use, Word, Photoshop, Indesign, Painter and others, I have this feeling, that despite what the blurb says, these programs actually restrict my creativity, not enhance them. Why? Because I have to operate within the parameters of other people's programming and besides, I have to learn to use them by obeying other people's rules. One cannot get simpler than a piece of paper and a pencil. Oh, how I should like to be able to use it for just printing out a final version of a novel! Because that's what its good at.
Of course though, nothing exists in a vacuum and so I would have to ask myself, what would I do with all my free time? Yes, all the time I spend answering emails and writing blogs and articles? Well, I'll tell you. I'd begin to learn the piano once again, I'd take up water-colour landscape painting, I'd move to Cornwall and live a much simpler life, I'd walk a lot in the rain and mist, I'd just sit a great deal and do nothing but stare at the scenery, I'd enjoy the money that I would save, I'd do bookbinding, making special, hard-backed copies of my novels for friends and I would free myself from this open prison that we have all brought into. Some obviously more than others!
Will it happen? Could I get rid of my computer, my cynosure of my life? That would be like giving up hard drugs. But how beautifully simple life would be after. No more computer crashes, no more gnashing of teeth, wishing to toss the damn thing out of the window when it went wrong! No more expensive upgrading. No more technological problems. Just pure freedom with the simpler and free things in life. What a dreamer I am. Probably just another phase.

Any one for swearing?

2008-06-09T09:23:00.000+01:00

When I was a child in the fifties in East London, poor as we were, there existed a type of poverty which did not include being manner-less or rude. I believe this behaviour was adopted and drilled into us as children, just as much as it was punched into our parents as a visual and verbal means to show society that, although belonging to the lower class, we still possessed a type of homely dignity.
Certainly, my brother and I learnt extremely rapidly that any form of foul language would never be tolerated. Even in the mildest of forms. We never heard our parents or any of our elders and close family use any of the forbidden words and therefore, naturally, we silently copied their behaviour. Indeed, when people swore on the TV, it was a source of embarrassment to us all.
Even now, some half a century later, I am known as a person who does not swear a great deal; a testament to my upbringing.
But what was it they were trying to suppress? What is the basis of swearing? As I do not have space, let me cut through the minefield and offer the explanation of anger as an original intent.
Little kids are not supposed to express anger are they? What they are supposed to do is become drones like their parents. Any expression away from this central core of learning has to be suppressed.
Take any swear word or exclamation, as feeble as, damn! or blast! to the other, unfortunately, more used and, ‘dangerous’ ones and I defy you to use it in a sentence which does not have connotations of anger. It’s very difficult to be loving in a sentence when one is swearing.
And that is what my parents were trying so hard for me and my brother to avoid; showing anger. Because anger implies individuality. Maybe I’m wrong here. Perhaps I’ve got things about-faced. Perhaps I lack the intellect and knowledge to put forward a proper discussion? I don’t know really. Fuck.

Catharine Eddowes

2008-06-08T09:21:00.001+01:00

My web site describes me as...a little dark. And I don't see anything wrong in that. We all have some in us, even if its just occasional thoughts about subjects upon which we don't usually dwell, like death and other morbidity. Some, one in particular, I won't mention names, attempt to go through life permanently displaying the qualities of an exuberant eight year old which can be draining and false. And there are some, again, one comes to mind, who may as well be already dead, such is the amount of time he spends with them. Morbid much?
But on the whole, I think it is more life-giving to daily turn over part of ones thoughts to the deeper side of life if only for comparison's sake. I am in the process of reading about seven books at the moment, snatching parts of them at different times of the day and although life is not exactly what I wish for at the moment, if I re-read one particular extract from one particular book which contains a description of the possessions of one woman's life, then, for myself anyway, it thankfully puts my entire life in context and releases me from the ever-present self-guilt and recriminations.
This poor woman, Catharine Eddowes was 44 when she meet her terrible end, as the fifth victim of the infamous Jack the Ripper. And at her autopsy, the list of her sole possessions in life; all that she had garnered from her years of living were thus listed;

A large white handkerchief.
One blue striped bedticking pocket.
Two unbleached calico pockets.
A white cotton handkerchief.
Twelve pieces of white rag.
A piece of course linen.
A piece of blue and white shirting.
Two small bedticking bags.
Two short clay pipes.
One tin box containing tea.
One tin box containing sugar.
One piece of flannel.
Six pieces of soap.
A small tooth comb.
A white-handled table knife.
A metal tea spoon.
A red leather cigarette case with white metal fittings.
An empty tin match box.
A piece of red flannel containing pins and needles.
A ball of hemp.

It humbles me somewhat to think of the way I collect possessions and what I am currently worth. In essence, Catharine was absolutely no different to you or I. She had a head and a heart full of hopes and dreams. She must have felt that she belonged somewhere and that she had a past. I have no doubt at all that she dreamed of a better future. She was human and therefore must have. As we all do. Apart from the time difference of some 120 years, a time now of shadows, she could have been our own sister or mother. A best friend or a lover.
I had an occasion to bemoan myself recently for not becoming that which I wanted to become but then read that list again. I should imagine that wherever you are, if you look away from these words, the very first thing your eyes will alight upon would be worth many times what this unfortunate sad little woman managed to collect in her entire lifetime. Now that causes me to pause for thought. And then more importantly, allows me the time to feel that which offers me the best comfort; gratitude.

Martin Clunes

2008-06-07T11:44:00.000+01:00

Have any of you noticed what a sublime actor Martin Clunes is? Yes, he of Doc Martin and if you are old enough, of Men Behaving Badly. Apart from many other fine roles, he directed and starred in Staggered and appeared in Shakespeare In Love.
Did you know his cousin was the late actor, Jeremy Brett who portrayed Sherlock Holmes in the long running ITV show The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes? In 2002 he playfully played serial killer John George Haigh in A Is for Acid, but as far as I am concerned it is his performance in ITV's production of Goodbye Mr Chips made in 2002 which sets him apart as an actor of supreme skill.
I had always been a fan of the films of the novel by James Hilton and one of my favourites is the 1969 musical version with Peter O'Toole (which many critics hated!) But Martin's portrayal of Mr Chips borders on the genius I believe. Don't believe me? Look at what his eyes are doing when he receives the worst news of his life. Outstanding. Never before was I so drawn into a character's sadness.
We look at Martin and think we see a comedy actor but I believe he is far more than that. Look out for him in the future.

Bad Blogger

2008-06-06T07:25:00.002+01:00

Well, this proves my point. The fact that you are now able to read this. Because as I typed, when I looked at the screen, my words were in hindi!!!! And I couldn't change it to English either. That wasted ten minutes of my life, farting about in settings, clicking here and there until I accidentally discovered what had happened. But as to why, today, the damn program decided on on its own to change into a different language I still have no idea.
Anyway, as to prove my point, I hate Blogger. For the last twenty four hours, I have been attempting to place a counter on here so I can see how many visitors I get. One would thing, given the vast complexity of the damn program with its array of different settings and adjustments that one can make, that the creators would have incorporated something like that. But no! That would be too easy wouldn't it?
Why so complicated? I do suspect its a 'filling up" exercise. Pack it out with fluff; insubstantial nonsense to make it feel as if the end user is getting their money's worth. (Except here, mysteriously, its free) Its a blog site for Heaven's sake. A simple place where one's thoughts are laid bare. Why give us the option of different type fonts, sizes and colours?
I've been around a few years. And I so I know a few things. I know the meaning of life for instance. Why we are here. I also know who I am (and therefore, who you are) Now I could write a book about that. I could make it, say, 100,000 words in length. I too could pack it out with fluff and history and opinions but I could also tell you in just half a dozen words. Which is why I haven't written the book. How can I justify asking people to part with £15 of their hard earned when the essence can be given in a sentence? There are quite a few authors out there doing just this and I find them deplorable. People might spent £10 on a book about losing weight and the truth is, to lose weight we must eat less and move more. Thank you, that'll be £10 please. What's to learn?
I know I'll never be rich. But I sleep extremely well at night. And I still don't have a counter. Can you see one? No, nor can I.

Martina Cole's new book, Faces

2008-06-05T09:25:00.001+01:00

I know, I know, I know! I did promise that this post would be positive but I'm not in control of this stuff! :-) Anyway, it could be construed as positive...in a sense...to someone. Perhaps on Mars.
So I saw an advert on the side of a bus yesterday which surprised me somewhat, and then, giving it some thought, this feeling morphed into indignation. (At my age, it doesn't take much for this process to occur)
The advert in question was for Martina Cole's new book, Faces. Not a problem there one might think, except that her publisher, Headline Book Publishing (and we must remember that the lady has published over twelve best sellers) has felt the need to entice readers by using the ploy of downloading the first chapter free to your phone. Is there something 'tacky and tasteless' about this? This is a well established and renowned author. I think people should queue for the privilege of reading her work. Are her publishers so afraid of losing profits that they feel they have to set themselves on this course?
I know what you are thinking. So what if they are? They are just taking advantage of the new media and of new forms of promotion. Its just sour grapes on my part isn't it? Well, there's a 5% truth in that. However, I guess I am overly concerned with the quiddity of writing and with the the non-prostitution of myself. For what I write is not just words, marks on a paper, but an altogether complete expression of who and what I am. And I believe that that essence should not be given away lightly and especially for free. I am worth more than free. And so is Martina Cole.
We know things are getting tough in the publishing world. Oh my God! There are events taking place globally that are changing everything. Recently, I read of a fellow author who has had six books published and his seventh was rejected. There appears to be little stability under this current climate of financial fear.
Sometimes, I feel as if I am selling myself too easily and I feel a little sick rise up into my mouth. And at times like that, I feel like taking myself off-line and becoming what nature has intended me to become all my life; a proper penniless writer. All I need is a garret. Can't afford one though.

SIMON & SCHUSTER

2008-06-04T20:29:00.002+01:00

Suzanne Baboneau and Julie Wright. Remember those names. So, let talk about rudeness. Today, I've recently returned from a shopping trip which took me into the heart of the city of London. Its been some years since I undertook anything similar and although I expected my experience to be, perhaps, a little on the stressful side, nothing had prepared me for how rude Londoners had become.
I won't offer any examples but if you can imagine the common and unsettling things people do to other people when they are in a state of unconditional selfishness, then you will have hit the mark. At times I was left open-mouthed. What hideous people (and if your work in any large city you are probably one of them) Everyone was rushing about as if they had just five minutes of life left to them. Astonishing. You will all be dead soon from heart disease.
What else? Oh yes, waiting for me when arrived home was a letter, the contents of which basically floored me. For in all the years I have been sending material to publishers and agents, and receiving the usual silliness by return of post (sometimes months later) I have never open up a returned letter to find what was inside this one.
You see, a few days ago, I had sent out 70 letters to see if anyone would be interested in my latest work and, (of course) placed an SAE in each one. So when I noticed a letter from SIMON & SCHUSTER had arrived and that being one of the companies I had written to, I was fairly sure it was going to be a common rejection, complete with the normal inane platitudes that they feel they have to bulk the letter out with. As if they care a jot about me or any other writer.
However, not this time! For inside was my...SAE...folded up. I looked of course for any accompany letter and there was none. Nothing. Some rude and hate-filled person had spent 34p (of their employers money) and wasted an envelope to return my second class SAE! There was not even a rejection note. Get your head around that! How unprofessional. And how just plain awful to be in that person's head! Can you imagine being married to him or her or even just going out with them? Ugh! And what a poor reflection on SIMON & SCHUSTER if that is the type of person that works for them.
I do remember sending off three letters to Africa House, Kingsway, to three imprints registered under their umbrella name but I have no way of knowing if it was Suzanne Baboneau or Julie Wright or the Devil with the upright handwriting. I'll probably do the simple maths if and when the other two return my SAE's. I think I'll keep the envelope.
Something positive next time. I promise!

2008-06-03T06:31:00.000+01:00

Lets go for mentioning something today which should, depending on your sensitivity, send you quite mad for up to three days if you really understand what I am about...or not at all! Now, imagine I am a secret agent. Here I am, Miss Molly Bond! And I have been given the task of preventing an hydrogen bomb from exploding.
There I am, sitting next to it, my face perhaps nine inches away from the control panel as the clock counts down. Three, two, one...Boom! Except there would be no boom. Not for me anyway. Why is that?
Now when one of these explodes, it reaches an internal temperature of 400,000,000°C!!! Which, as that's just plainly impossible to visualise or experience, here is a guide. Think of temperature as length. And take one centigrade to be the equivalent of 1 millimetre. So a lovely day in the Mediterranean, 40 C would be the equivalent of half the length of your thumb. The hottest flame we can make is about 3300 C which works out to nearly 11 feet. Therefore the temperature of an exploding hydrogen bomb reaches out to 248 miles!!! Get your head around that!
But anyway... Why will there be no boom for me? Because the expanding fireball produced (about 180 miles a second!!) will be of such tremendous velocity that by the time I've noticed that something strange is happening with the control panel, the fireball (of some millions of degrees) is already some 200 feet past me! And completely evaporated me of course. Almost totally instantaneously. So I'm not going to notice anything. Not a bad way to go actually. One moment I am sitting there with my screwdriver poking away at the control panel and then

Our dear friends, the animals.

2008-06-02T08:30:00.000+01:00

Ok, I'd like to try and keep this summery of my thoughts somewhat on the positive side. However, at my age (and we are supposed to become a bit grumpy as we reach a certain age aren't we?) it might prove to be a little difficult! So, I'm going to do my best by alternating a positive blog with a negative. If I do feel the impulse to put one in!
And today is lucky expression day! The licensing of carted deer hunting and hare coursing. In the 15th century, the people of England thought it was quite normal to chain bears to a wooden post and set large fighting dogs against it until it bled to death. Besides asserting that the meat tasted better, it was considered entertainment. However, despite the hundreds of years which have passed, this very same unimaginative and singularly barbaric mental altitude exists in the same form the way some people view fishing and horse-racing today. Some may comment that it is not the same but where it counts, where it originates, in our minds, it is the same. Disrespect and disregard, cruelty and bloodthirstiness originate from the same place.
Some may squirm and writhe at this accusation, this suggestion; this association of events and topics but a death for amusement is a death for amusement is a death for amusement. How you take what is being offered here depends, of course, upon your personality, your point of view, your humanity and the level of respect you show for all life. Not just human life but life of any kind.
When the Conservative government under Benjamin Disraeli took it upon itself to deny the greater public access to public executions in May 1869, a great sense of ill feeling and resentment was generated. Partly, no doubt for the revenue the, 'hanging days' generated (because of the sensational amount of crowds generated) but the need to satisfy an ancient bloodlust was, we can have no doubt about it, also a mighty factor.
However, how many today clamour for the, 'good old days' when up to 20,000 people could witness, even children gasping for their last breath as they pointlessly struggled and fought to live whilst tied and blindfolded? Very few I would imagine. At least here in the UK.
The youngest children ever hung in Britain were Michael Hammond and his sister, Ann, whose ages were given as seven and eleven respectively. They were hanged at Kings Lynn on 28 September 1708 for theft.
The corruptible mentality continues today of course bolstered up by reality shows where crowds abuse solitary 'victims' but the desire for real bloodshed is not entirely diminished. There are companies and individuals, perhaps altogether acting irresponsibly and most probably illegally, who make a crust selling films of death scenes. Beheadings, shootings and hangings appeal to the barbaric just as much today as they have in the past. When a certain African government recently advertised for an executioner, over 200 people applied, some from the UK and some were women. Naturally, whatever is good enough for men is certainly good enough for animals. Cockfighting in Cumberland is still known to exist. (2006)
But I am no 'creature cuddlier' I derive no emotional fulfillment in the friendship or companionship of animals of any description. However, everything lives at the expense of other creatures. In Chief Seattle's words: "What is man without the beasts? If all the beasts were gone, men would die from a great loneliness of spirit. For whatever happens to the beasts soon happens to man. All things are connected"
Even our own decay is brought about by other organisms. We must be honest. Our race is still immature. Intellectually, we sit atop of an irrepressible, evolutionary, dynamic pyramid of life. All competing for the next meal, it is only right and proper that the most specialised succeed and develop. There is a Zen to the process and of course there is no doubt that human beings, with our intelligence and advanced sense of self consciousness, are more than equipped to succeed than any other animal. Social or solitary.
However, we will not arrive to where we are supposed to go in evolutionary terms unless we give up our past. And here we immediately arrive at an impasse for how can we rise above our animal ancestry while we still need them? I believe that is a good question.
What has this to do with the licensing of carted deer hunting and hare coursing? The answer to that is within yourself.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

2008-05-29T09:10:00.000+01:00

It is difficult, given the passage of time, to remember how outrageous the first film was. I remember, in the cinema, showing a preview of the 1981 film, Raiders of the Lost Ark, two older men laughing and ridiculing at the sheer silliness of it, mentioning that this was such rubbish and that it would just disappear without a trace. How wrong! That has to be up there with the once popular notion that men will never travel more that fifteen miles per hour because the air would be sucked out of the vehicle!
However....(and I love CGI) I do feel as if there were too much of it if we are expected to believe in any sort of continuity between this and the last three films. I did not think this looked or sounded like a 'B' movie at all. But it was a first rate, twenty-first century piece of filming, let us be sure of that. And no more fantastic than any other fantasy.
The film had a heart, had a history and had a dream. It did work for me...as long as I forgot about those other three wonderful and ground-breaking films.

Women Drivers

2008-05-28T07:56:00.000+01:00

I have to say that I'm not usually one for ranting but now is the time to speak up! So, what's my issue about? Quite unfathomably, considering who I am, its about women drivers and specifically about tail-gating. Why am I targeting them and not men? (Who, by the way, are just as guilty)
Its because, while men's appalling driving appear to be driven by ego, women, and its the only explanation I can offer, are just plain dumb. There does not appear to be any thinking involved. Which is bloody dangerous if a car is involved. It doesn't matter if they are on their own or even if a toddler or any family is being driven, they will drive hell for leather whatever the circumstances and basically turn driving into a thoroughly miserable and dangerous experience.
I ask you, why would a driver, in heavy rain (but weather conditions just don't figure into the equation at all by the way) tail-gate? Specifically time and time again, each and every day and night, woman tail-gate me, their vehicles perhaps just ten feet away whist we are travelling at 50 miles per hour? They accelerate up behind me and then just sit there, perhaps fuming or even worse, using the slower car's pace as an excuse to get something done, like making a phone call. Somehow, in their inexperienced brains, they think that by hugging the car in front, it affords them some sort of safety!
Don't believe me? Then start looking into your rear view mirror more often. And you will see them. Mostly young woman that's a fact but the older ones have got into this unfortunate habit as well. So how has this dangerous state of affairs developed? Certainly, because twenty or even ten years ago, things were not this bad. It has to be partly down to men, specifically driving instructors who just unconsciously pass on their bad, ego-driven habits. But once set free with a licence to drive on their own, there can be no doubt about it, women, lemming-like follow the bad examples of everyone else. And once that happens, then we get writers like me wasting my time writing this.
Make no mistake about it, this sort of driving is pandemic with only a tiny minority of women driving properly. I know, I look out for these things. Out of concern for my own safety. Not having had an accident for forty years, I can say that I am a bit of an expert when it comes to self-preservation. There, I've blown my own horn. Oh, and by the way...the closer you get, the slower I go. I will maintain that two second gap that is supposed to be between us. Have a nice day!

The way to go?

2008-05-19T07:10:00.000+01:00

Hi, For a while now, I've been toying with the idea of making my own books. Because after years of trying to go the traditional publishing route, I's like to return to the Indie way of life and recapture the fun of producing my own work. And it might be better to propagate indie press alternatives to the mainstream publications.
What do I need? A colour laser printer with duplex to begin with (about £250), a paper folding machine (about £50) and a £20 program to imposition the files. All I need to know about actually making them is on the web and so a small cottage industry may be born! Its unlikely but it may be born!
I wish there were thirty hours in a day.
Bye for now.
MollyX

Well, its been a time...

2008-05-16T12:27:00.001+01:00

Hello Everyone,
So, I am trying out this new blogging business and I shall see how it goes. I hope to write weekly but as many of you know, I am mostly occupied with other writing and there are only thirty hours in a day! I've only just completed my novel Alien Queens, which I describe as, "A fantastic and mouth-watering, 136,000 word, time-travel comedy that takes the Grandfather paradox and plays footsie with it before wringing its neck and throwing its carcass on a heap!"
If you get time, please pop over and visit my site www.mollycutpurse.com. There you will find a whole raft of free titbits as well as entire novels free to read and many, many other things. I am known as the English transgendered author so it won't be boring!
All for this time
Love MollyX

I'm falling into an electronic abyss but it feels ok

2005-12-09T22:10:00.000Z

My very first post. I am a writer who is going to use podcasting to publish my work in audio form. All work will be free. How I am going to do that at the moment is a mystery though I have been reading!