tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13080446736609496152024-03-05T13:20:06.621+00:00The attention just encourages her.Mostly non-fiction. Mostly.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-84551599679450742382013-03-23T22:57:00.000+00:002013-03-23T23:07:48.405+00:00Postures New<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Blessed are the meek for they shall
inherit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">The meek have a pretty hard time of it
though, don’t they? </span>I mean they are frequently overlooked,
pushed around and taken for granted and, let’s face it, they attract bullies
like flies on shit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">In <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/susan_cain_the_power_of_introverts.html">this</a> TED talk, the speaker suggests that
introverts can actually make better leaders because they don’t enjoy the
limelight, and therefore only assume leadership roles for the sake of a
particular cause. Extroverts, on the other hand might assume leadership as an
excuse to be the centre of attention. A disturbing point to note is that
leadership is often attained by fame-hungry glory-hunters simply because more conscientious potential leaders lack the charisma to gain positions of power.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">A potential solution to this dilemma is at hand in the form of another TED talk - <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/amy_cuddy_your_body_language_shapes_who_you_are.html">the Power-Pose!</a> The author explains here that people in submissive poses make themselves smaller by shrinking inwards, sometimes even shielding their
faces with their hands. Dominant poses, on the other hand include standing, hands
on hips like a superhero, or stretching arms out in a gesture of triumphant,
joyous, victory. Using the techniques outlined here, shrinking violets
could become … well … growing sunflowers! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">This method could grant those </span>previously overlooked for positions and promotions, more opportunities to spread their wings – pretty
much by spreading their arms. Naturally shy and retiring types can reduce their air of uncertainty and instead exude charm, confidence and
even testosterone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">As if that wasn’t reason enough there is also the added benefit of not devolving into a Neanderthal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.drserbinski.ca/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/upper-crossed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://www.drserbinski.ca/blog/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/upper-crossed.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">Everybody knows that sitting hunched in
front of a book or computer can cause problems, but, any habit of hunching your
shoulders and bowing your head stretches the muscles into that curled-up position and
before you know it, you have a muscular injury. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB">So meeklings, take charge! Stretch back and hold your head
high… while you still can.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiJZbqIJvI-7Ci5HkU8YOdl_qpVsEKxquJFnOBO3AesSmNOVENOBWlGYhZ3sJHiTbiVS2n4NoFMcI8dvxQ0a-KN_rLRSVReXilwdnXm5hRiCU8qzRrV3bqk-_kWbVEnJrTn1HNi-B62G7/s1600/i+dig+human+chicks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="153" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiJZbqIJvI-7Ci5HkU8YOdl_qpVsEKxquJFnOBO3AesSmNOVENOBWlGYhZ3sJHiTbiVS2n4NoFMcI8dvxQ0a-KN_rLRSVReXilwdnXm5hRiCU8qzRrV3bqk-_kWbVEnJrTn1HNi-B62G7/s200/i+dig+human+chicks.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-21616211122060586902011-06-06T00:26:00.001+01:002011-06-06T00:37:25.666+01:00Listowel Writers’ Week<div class="MsoNormal">Listowel was bustling with visitors. These included famous names and autograph hunters, readers and writers of prose, verse and drama. Much of the festive activity was centred around the town square, where girls wearing red t-shirts sidled up to passers-by and pointed clip-boards at them.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Some of this red army of statistic-hungry girl-guides seeped like ants up into the neighbouring streets and into the local bookshop. There I pretended to be immersed in my browsing while listening to people being questioned.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">There was a shop in the main square doing a roaring trade in ice-cream cones, emitting a steady stream of questionnaire-fodder onto the sunny footpath. The data-hunters swarmed eagerly while their prey complied between licks of their ninety-nines.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We wandered around the town several times in the three days we spent there. We sampled cafés, pubs, restaurants and fast-food joints. We went for walks by the river and peered over at the race-course. We admired paintings and listened to music. We relaxed in the sun. We attended workshops, learned things and wrote them down. One evening we noticed a commotion in the corner of the town square. On investigation we found a literary pub-crawl, with a local theatre group enacting scenes outside each pub. We tagged along for a while and did a little dance at the musical intervals.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We walked past the clip-board bearers. We turned around and walked past again, a bit more slowly. We tried on our most ‘helpful and forthcoming’ faces. We attempted to perfect an ‘approachable’ walk.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We went to the shop and bought ninety-nines. We stood around outside the shop and ate them, posing in what can only be described as a ‘congenial’ stance. Still nobody took the hint so instead we went to the Listowel Arms Hotel, which we identified as the hub of the whole festival. This nerve-centre would surely be full of literary-types and therefore the ultimate survey hot-spot. We would bestow the gift of honest feedback and accurate information upon the festival organisers. Our opinions would shape the Listowel Writers’ Weeks of the future.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Unfortunately the only attention we attracted was that of a wild old man, sporting a wide-brimmed cloth hat and a massive ginger beard. His accent and quick slurred speech were difficult to understand but he loved talking to us. He asked us whether we were poets or writers before declaring “I’m a racist and I make no bones about it.” Then he proudly produced a lovingly handwritten song from his pocket entitled “I hate wogs”. It was a litany of all the violent and even cannibalistic acts he wanted to commit to every ethnicity. My eyes widening as I scanned the page I actually laughed out loud at the absurdity of the situation before we hastily made our excuses and found another place to sit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We skipped to the circus and then around the town square one last time before taking the road home. “Maybe we look too silly to be part of a serious survey.” I concluded. “I guess I’ll just have to write about it in my blog.”</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-13665737361729740572011-05-28T19:33:00.000+01:002011-05-28T19:33:07.378+01:00Scary Monsters<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><i><b>I tried to think of the most harmless thing– something that I loved from my childhood, something that would never ever possibly destroy us….</b></i><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I must have seen this film fifty times. I think we had copied it from the TV and I used to watch the video over and over when I was a kid. After that we used to watch the cartoon spin-off series every week.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">I have always loved horror and ghost stories for as long as I can remember - as an adult I still seek out the creepiest goriest or scariest ones. Freddy Kreuger, Jason, Chuckie and Pinhead were all household names to me. They don’t bother me much when I consider the real-life atrocities that can be seen on the evening news. Yet there is one film that frightened me more than the rest of them put together. </span>I had another Ghostbusters nightmare last week.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It’s not the eggs frying on the counter, it’s not the fridge with the swirling and the building and the ‘Zool’ voice. It’s not even the ghost in the library that suddenly goes ‘rawr!’ (when I used to watch that scene I always had my eyes closed until I could hear the jaunty piano music play as our heroes fled the building). It’s those damned dog-things with the red eyes. Those are the monsters that have always scared the bejaysus out of me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It’s the way they are lurking silently. There might be one in the cupboard and you might unwittingly throw your coat over it. They don’t get angry, they just emit a low rumbling growl, and observe you calmly with their red glowing eyes, maybe tilting the head to one side. They are waiting patiently to collect you. It might be on a quiet evening when you are alone watching the telly and next thing you know, their claws are coming out of your armchair, pinning you down, covering your mouth, stifling your screams. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">They don’t care where or when, so there’s no point running or sleeping with the light on. They can chase you across central park and maul you in front of a crowded restaurant. They don’t care who sees. They have a job to do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">When I was a child my parents had a clock-radio on their bedside locker with a red LED. Every time I glanced into the room, when the lights were out, I was reminded of those eyes. Of course I would do a double-take and read the numbers to make sure it was a clock and not eyes. But sometimes, I just hurried past, afraid to glance again, just in case, this time, the glow was not from a clock.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">And now, twenty years later, those monsters still hunt me down in my dreams. You would think I’d have more important things on my mind, but I couldn’t help it. It just popped in there.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEittH6sfmzo2bZq9BJmCcL540eScAKJ6q-J0wBAURSVObKRz3f18B60cmhquElZDwYG-TE5Q4V4CdarwaG0IkUUcerNokBP9ZZG9NQ9ICC1mF_pqgA0c-XxysbzpWaIwWzpKo-LEbb5Tg8/s1600/Zuul.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEittH6sfmzo2bZq9BJmCcL540eScAKJ6q-J0wBAURSVObKRz3f18B60cmhquElZDwYG-TE5Q4V4CdarwaG0IkUUcerNokBP9ZZG9NQ9ICC1mF_pqgA0c-XxysbzpWaIwWzpKo-LEbb5Tg8/s320/Zuul.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I actually got a bit creeped out just adding this picture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-55039523284828476382011-05-23T17:58:00.001+01:002011-05-23T17:59:28.230+01:00Brigid<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Brigid was a city girl. She was never far from people, and not too shy of crowds. She scrounged for whatever she could find, helping herself to leftovers, nothing wasted.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">One day she felt attracted by a sweet smell and scurried towards it. In a few jumps and a little bit of a scrape, she dived into a bin full of morsels of food to nibble on and a delicious pool at the bottom of it to lap at. She buried herself down deep, sampling and sniffing as she went.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Suddenly her world lunged violently and began to rumble. In terror she scrambled for the surface, her little toes gripping desperately to the shaking contents as she climbed upwards. Finally she surfaced and jumped clear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">She was in the hall of a house under the glare of a lightbulb. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">One of the people screamed. She darted for the safety of a cupboard under the stairs and squirmed away into the darkness. After a moment the door slammed and her chink of light disappeared.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">She could hear the people walking about outside, running up and down the stairs above her head. They tucked their trousers into their socks. Outside the cupboard, one of them put on wellies. One of them pulled a hood over her ears. </span>One of them opened the front door and opened Brigid’s door and poked a sweeping brush around angrily. She shrunk down further and kept still.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The people in the house named her after their landlady who wouldn’t let them have a cat.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">After an hour or so the cupboard door opened again and a trap was placed inside. It is still there, baited with chocolate spread. Brigid’s sense of smell is keen. From her corner of the cupboard she can smell it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The house is quiet. The people who live in it are wondering if Brigid will gnaw her way to freedom. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">They are waiting for her hunger to betray her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">They are listening for the snap and her screams.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-13413275795467683462011-05-21T21:19:00.000+01:002011-05-21T21:19:43.358+01:00The Rapture<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“What time is it?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I rolled over and leaned out of the bed to reach my phone.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Seven.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The deluge had stopped and the evening sun had broken through the clouds.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">“Hey, we survived The Rapture” I said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> “Well, actually, the way it works is that the saved ascend and the forsaken are left on earth, which will become hell.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">From the bed I could see a corner of the convent outside my window. “I guess that convent is mostly empty then, except for one or two naughty nuns.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We looked at each other and laughed nervously. The bathroom door creaked in the breeze left by an open window.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">We got dressed and went downstairs to an empty house. There was food still cooking in the oven but the kitchen was desolate. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">The torrential day had given way to a still evening, leaving a soft breeze like a sigh of relief. Everything out in the street, drenched and dripping, glistened in the yellow light. </span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span><br />
<span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1N3UXIR_EV0/TdgbQCg0NaI/AAAAAAAACIs/PnnYjlofTdc/s1600/IMG_6431.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1N3UXIR_EV0/TdgbQCg0NaI/AAAAAAAACIs/PnnYjlofTdc/s320/IMG_6431.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-29118636493253053652011-05-14T00:36:00.000+01:002011-05-14T00:36:04.311+01:00Women's Interest<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">What’s the difference between Cosmopolitan, Vogue and Woman’s Way?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Cosmopolitan teaches you how to have an orgasm, Vogue teaches you how to fake an orgasm and Woman’s Way teaches you how to knit an orgasm.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Sometimes when I’m travelling I feel tempted to buy a copy of Cosmopolitan. I love reading it to compare the lives of women in different countries. For instance the Asian ones have adds for skin-whitening products, and the British one, skin-oranging products. The fashions change with the climates, and the reviews give a snapshot of local trends in chickllit and chick-flicks. In the American one, the erotic fiction page usually ends in love, but in the UK edition it ends in, well, orgasm. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">That’s always been the main selling point though. Cosmo always entices the reader with the inevitable promise of “mind-blowing orgasms” and I ask myself who wouldn’t be tempted by the lure of reaching untold ecstasy by leaning slightly to the left. It promises to answer all questions about female sexuality - even the ones you hadn’t thought to ask. Who wouldn’t want to learn of the delights that may be discovered from a combination of simple household objects like a plunger, an egg-cup and a pair of marigolds? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">Fortunately there’s no need to feel embarrassed when buying this monthly manual, there is enough content on celebrities, lifestyle, fashion and health that you can pretend you bought it for one of the other articles. Much of these are made up of helpful tips on HOW TO PLEASE YOUR MAN. And don’t worry if you don’t have one yet, the rest of it is dedicated to solving this catastrophic problem. Don’t get too smug though, there are warnings and advice aplenty on how to keep him once you’ve snared yourself one.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">I recently picked up the latest issue and had a flick through to check in case I was missing some enlightenment. The front cover not only promised a list of amazing sex tips, how to never get dumped, and how to make bullies leave you alone. Not wanting to be an arrogant know-it-all I had to check, of course. To my horror I discovered that I was doing everything wrong! For example, I didn’t know that pet-names are out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>‘Sweetie’, ‘sugar’ and ‘honey’ leave a bitter taste in the mouth these days. Calling your loved-one by their full name is more ‘adult’. My clothes and make-up were of course not up to the standard of a ‘beautiful confident woman’. There was even a helpful quiz to prevent the reader from deluding themselves into thinking they didn’t need advice.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">That’s all right though. We all know I’m reading this for the list of amazing sex tips that were promised on the front cover. Disappointingly, it turned out that random men were interviewed on the street to talk about their ex-girlfriends and what they did wrong in bed. It turns out you can’t please everyone. You can, however, be too gentle, too aggressive, too cruel, too kind, too coy or even too savvy. It’s a minefield out there. I shrugged to myself and thought, well, at least I don’t recognise any of the contributors. I decided to read something with a more forgiving attitude, so I bought Bizarre magazine instead.</span></div><!--EndFragment--> <br />
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-23756005778548127732011-04-22T22:42:00.000+01:002011-04-22T22:42:16.567+01:00Home From Mass<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">When we got home from mass there was a farmer waiting outside our house.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">‘Is that your dog?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">Nelson was in his usual place on the doorstep. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He wagged his tail weakly in greeting.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">I nodded shyly. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">‘He was chasing sheep. I had to put a shot in him.’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">I looked again and saw that our pet’s neck was hanging open. Where his black coat met his white chest there was a glaring open wound. It wasn’t red like the spots on the doorstep under him but a lurid pink with bluish purple bits showing through it. I didn’t know a gunshot wound could be so big, so bright. On TV all you see is a litle bullet-hole and a speck of blood.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">‘Where are your parents?’<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">‘In the shop.’ <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">Our parents had a grocery shop in the village. It would be busy now with The Mass Crowd forming a queue down the little aisle, stopping in town on the way home for a pint of milk, or some forgotten ingredient for the dinner. In a few years we’d be working there too.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">My little sister started to cry. The farmer explained again that he’d had to shoot our dog and went away to find our parents. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">Nelson looked up at us pitifully. His big brown eyes just showed pain and confusion. He had made it home. How lucky, I thought, that he wasn’t killed. The farmer mustn’t have got a good shot. He must have seen him run home and given chase. At least he didn’t finish him off. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">My child’s brain didn’t understand about wounding the animal so you can follow it home and claim damages from the owner. My child’s brain was certain that there had been some mistake. <o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">He whimpered at us, but his voice was stifled and wheezing. I petted him to calm him and make him stop, the exertion of each pathetic little noise was clearly causing further pain. His breathing was desperate and laboured, made worse when he tried to move towards me. By now his imploring eyes had become bloodshot, as if the bleeding was somehow spreading across his body.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">When my parents came home the vet was called and the suffering ended. I don’t remember much else but I had some of his blood on my clothes from when I hugged him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-82658280024662855622011-04-14T20:16:00.001+01:002011-04-14T20:18:22.548+01:00FictionCarol groaned and flung the manuscript down.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">‘Great.’ She sighed. ‘Another idyllic farmyard tale.’</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The first paragraph described the milking of a cow and all the sloshing and rattling and hearty wholesome smells that go with it. Why - with all this sensory imagery, it feels just like being on the farm! …which would be great if the reader had any interest in being next to or near any farm.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">She braced herself and picked it up again. I bet there’ll be a nice metaphor about the seasons and the cycles of life and renewal. Ah here we go. By the third paragraph a feeble cow had died tragically but valiantly while calving. Death-count: 1.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Nobody had prepared Carol for what she would have to do in her writer’s group. For the depths to which she would have to sink. In the last three weeks she had read three detailed accounts of bereavement, two frilly romances set in olden times, and four – soon to be five – wistful accounts of hard times on the farm which nonetheless made the author nostalgic for a simpler era.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Reading these rural ruminations was bad enough but the biggest challenge was critiquing these works. She pored over page after page of idyllic imagery, occasionally sniggering at the descriptions of the swarthy farm-hand, his pitchfork clasped in his muscular arm, or the sweet crisp crunchy apple that represented the epitome of all that was good in this world. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Once it was read, she repeated ‘constructive criticism’ under her breath a few times and began to scribble notes in the margins.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The petticoats swaying around the girls’ feet is a very strong visual image. <o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I love the use of the word ‘tine’.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dolphins are actually mammals.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i></div><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"></i><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><i>You really captured the softness of that heifer's flank.</i><br />
<br />
<i></i>On some occasions she actually felt resentful towards the author for having inflicted their literature upon her. She would have to go away and leave it for a while before going back and writing her criticism.</div></i><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I would give less detail here.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I don’t understand what you mean by this.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This character could be further developed.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was annoying that she had to spend so much time and energy helping others with their work, leaving her with no time to write her own. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Make a new paragraph for each character’s dialogue.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then she realised that she was indeed developing her fiction-writing skills. The greatest editing she ever did was sculpting her words down into constructive criticism.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Were you going for ironic comedy through the over-use of clichés?<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Exclamation marks don’t make it exciting they are just annoying!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Don't forget to recycle. Every copy of this manuscript. Before anyone else has to look at it.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I can’t believe I just spent fifteen whole minutes of my life slogging through this drivel.<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’d like to make you eat that manuscript and then kick the pulpy vomit out of you.</i></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-35999671284605744632011-03-02T00:42:00.001+00:002011-03-02T00:42:35.024+00:00Now ðere's a Þought.Sometimes at work I come across emails where some of the words are in Icelandic. I can’t help scrolling down and staring and imagining how those words must sound. I think of Sigur Ros and Bjork, tinkering with music boxes and tinkling with little bells - all the time whispering with soft consonants that express nothing of their devestated economy, while a massive volcano simmers behind them, the name of which looks like some keyboard-mash that was never intended to be uttered.<br />
<br />
However, what attracts me most to Icelandic is the abundant use of my old friends eth and thorn (Þ and ð). They are sprinkled through the text so liberally that it has a runic flavour, making it look a little bit like Tolkein’s Elvish. It’s because Icelandic has kept those little orthographical links to old English that we discarded that I feel a common bond. It reminds me that there were vikings and longboats and at some point English and Icelandic emerged from the same root language.<br />
<br />
If we still had them, spelling would be so much easier. Word pairs like ‘thigh’/’thy’ would be easily distinguished by the correct use of Þ and ð. Not only would Þis make English easier to learn, it would also make it prettier to read. It’s such a shame ðat we don’t have any accents to pour over our letters. Ðey are a little bit plain wiÞout ðem but at least wiÞ Þ and ð, Þis text is little more decorative. Ðere now, isn’t ðat better! If Þis blog post were a person, ðey would have put on a big woolly hat with ear-flaps right about now. Imagine ðere’s a breeze blowing from the norÞ, and wiÞ its chill it carries a simple minor melody ðat rings Þrough an evergreen forest before gently fading away into the eÞer.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-35970894755585122272011-03-02T00:42:00.000+00:002011-03-02T00:42:12.380+00:00Limited SuccessMy wrists were getting sore but I kept going. I had to swap hands a few times but I tried to ignore this and keep up my enthusiasm. I was sure I could feel an improvement and that I wouldn't have to keep going for much longer, but the task in hand was infinitely on the verge of completion.<br />
<br />
I had built this up so much, both in my mind and in my words, that I wasn’t willing to admit defeat, so I began to hope for some distraction to get me out of this impossible situation. I kept adding oil to make it smoother but no matter how much I poured on, it was still stiff and dry. When I tasted it, I knew it wasn’t right, but I soldiered on, even keeping a towel at hand to prevent mess.<br />
<br />
My initial excitement turned to disappointment, a sense of failure and a seething silent anger. Anger at myself for being incapable of getting it right, and indignant at how frustratingly difficult this was proving to be. My inept actions became half-hearted and weary as I stopped pretending that I thought this could work. It was clearly time to stop. My physical discomfort soon caught up and I could no longer dismiss the aches in my arms and shoulders. I sighed and put the mixer down. In despair I was forced to acknowledge the lumpy chick-pea mess that should have become a creamy hummus. It felt as if hours had passed.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-37647367366280652742011-01-26T00:32:00.000+00:002011-01-26T00:32:52.912+00:00It’s the principality of the thing.<!--StartFragment--> <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">From Nice airport we boarded a bus with ‘Versace’ emblazoned in massive lettering along the side. Bringing to mind the world of haute couture, it just happened to be the name of the family who had<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a bus company. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Actually I saw a lot of businesses with Italian names while in that area.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">Driving from Nice to Monaco, we seemed to be very high up in the mountains. The landscape was steep and arid, with the houses and tufts of vegetation jutting out at improbable angles. The trees didn’t so much grow upwards as lean forwards. The houses seemed to be constructed vertically against patches of bare rock.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">We came to a town, and I noticed a lot of the signposts were relating to Monaco and Monte Carlo. There had been no border check that I was aware of but, here we were – already.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe there had been a sign and I’d missed it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The rusty landscape changed shade to a more cultivated terracotta. Every wall and every building was a shade of yellow, brown or orange. As I looked around at all the peaches, browns and lemons, I felt as if somebody had turned down the blue.<o:p></o:p></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language: GA;">And that was Monaco. Local businesses displayed photographs of the royal family, the marina was full of impossibly luxurious yachts and the cars were all new and shiny. Oh - and one of the shops in the town had a diamond-studded Kalashnikov in the window.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Apart from that, though, the whole state consists, more or less, of a seaside town. And like all seaside towns, it’s a bit over-priced.<o:p></o:p></span></div><!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-440569907949503572011-01-14T00:50:00.004+00:002011-01-19T00:32:12.446+00:00Love-Hate Relationship (LHR)<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I’ve been through Heathrow quite a bit recently, and I’m reminded of my mixed feelings towards it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:16.0pt;mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align: none;text-autospace:none"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On one hand, it fills me with excitement and anticipation. If I were merely going to the UK or Europe I’d probably arrive in a different airport. LHR, for me, means transatlantic journeys like Hong Kong, Canada or Dubai. And each time I arrive I never fail to be impressed by the Indian (or are they Pakistani?) people there, especially the men in their turbans. It’s as if the very employees are teasing me with a hint of the exotic destinations on offer. As an Irish person I wonder how they feel about the British Empire. It doesn't seem that any of the former colonies are quite as disgruntled as the Irish, and some of them even managed to drift away without any bloody revolutions.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the other hand, the airport itself is bleak and, frankly, </span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">unpleasant. The process of changing terminals inevitably involves a bus-tour of a construction site. Out the window, the grounds of the airport are like a vast wasteland, sprawling out for miles. The fences enclosing the works even have circles of barbed wire across the top of them to keep us on our route. At one point I remember thinking this was a temporary situation but now the building has been going on as long as I remember, so aside from all the dust and concrete, there’s a sense of hopelessness about the place. Nothing will be finished. Ever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Even once you get indoors this sense of timelessness persists as the lighting is identical twenty-four hours a day. Or night. It’s like a limbo unaffected by weather or time-zones. The slate and steel surfaces are slightly worn from regular brushing and polishing but nothing ever closes, the queues just get longer or shorter. When travelling alone it can be especially eerie, walking along remote corridors, following signs that lead you up and down deserted escalators, into the depths of the building (or have I traversed some walkway into an adjoining building?) only to find a bored looking individual asking you to stand on a worn ‘x’ taped to the floor and look into a camera. At that moment the bleary-eyed, bewildered passenger is immortalized on film for the purposes of a security check at the other end of some queue or other.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Georgia; mso-bidi-font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">If I were one of the staff I would amuse myself in the quiet hours by browsing these portraits of human misery. I would love to see a compilation of the expressions on the people who find themselves standing before the cameras, having trudged around lugging carry-on baggage and duty-free around the maze with them. I remember seeing a piece in an exhibition once where the artist had compiled some stills from pornographic films that showed women’s faces in the moment of orgasm. I imagined instead using the gormless, slightly irritated faces of my fellow passengers. As I was called to approach the camera this contrast was still in my mind. I suspect my photo has a little smile in it. </span></span><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-39732749169457871362011-01-07T23:47:00.001+00:002011-01-07T23:49:11.324+00:00Dies Irae<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">There’s something about ‘Women’s Little Christmas’ that gives me the creeps. Maybe it’s the fact that by acknowledging such a thing exists, you are admitting that ‘Christmas’ is not for women. Perhaps it’s the ridiculous and out-dated notion that a woman’s role is to spend the holiday season working so that it can be enjoyed by their husbands and families. It could be the sneaking suspicion that for many people this is still a reality no matter how we might pretend that it’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>a quaint throwback to a different era.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or it just might be the fact that I am a stranger to kitchens - the idea that I should get a second (albeit lesser) holiday to make up for all the apron-wearing I did during the real one, seems a little bit bizarre.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So I was not too impressed when the boss in our company sent out an email saying that in honour of this, breakfast in the canteen would be free ‘for the ladies’. Those lazy layabout men-folk sure paid for their slobbish behaviour that day. Literally, while their female colleagues piled their plates high. I got on my moral high horse and made some more inroads into my trusty box of Special K. Did I do it out of solidarity with my male colleagues?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Was it part of my ongoing grudge with the caterers? Nah, I was just getting in touch with my inner bra-burner.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">New Culinary Me is still going strong though. I made pasta the night before with just enough left over for lunch. Glad that the whole breakfast incident was behind me, I cheerfully popped it in the microwave. Being quite hungry at this stage, I watched and waited while my lovely penne with roasted vegetable sauce warmed up. I even predicted when it would go ‘ding!’ and with a swift and graceful flick of my wrist I popped the microwave door open at that exact moment. The idea was for the door to be flung open with a flourish, allowing the herby tomatoey goodness to waft out.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">No door opened. Instead there was a clicking sound that accompanied the joyful ‘ding’. It was that tight little clack of a mechanism saying ‘Nope.’.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had thought the opening of the door could be a collaborative effort between me and the microwave. Instead I had entered into a competitive situation from which there could be no winners.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">Hoping vainly that there might be some knack, I asked the canteen staff for help. Once I received my shrug and and “I don’t know” response, I swooped over to the cutlery drawer in a gleeful rage and snatched a knife in my fist. Before long the microwave was unplugged and I was going at the edges of the door as if it were a tin of paint. Weak with hunger, I lacked the strength to force it but I enlisted the help of some colleagues and we found a swarthy hero to prise the door open by brute strength. The lock shattered and a little piece of it fell to the floor. My lunch was rescued! I delightedly seized my prize and ran off to devour it. For some reason it was more delicious than ever. Maybe it was the delayed gratification of eating it, or it could have been the satisfaction of having cooked it myself – or was it the excitement of smashing something open and destroying it? Yeah, I was just getting in touch with my inner bunny-boiler.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-16081484273971121802011-01-05T01:56:00.002+00:002011-01-05T01:58:53.857+00:00Oh it’s on!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">In the canteen at work the other day I noticed the choice was a bit meagre so I asked what the vegetarian option was.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">“There’s no vegetarian option today because I’ve had to throw it out for the last two days since nobody bought it. There are vegetables there.”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">So rather than apologising for the inconvenience, she actually blamed me for not buying all the food and sustaining her crappy meal options. The last chef seemed to manage it and I’m pretty sure he didn’t end up throwing all the food into the bin.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I looked at the vegetables. The sliced carrots were pale and dried out from the heat-lamp. They had started to curl up round the edges. And she wonders why nobody has been buying her food. So in the end I had some potatoes with a side order of ‘Henceforth I Shall Bring My Own Lunch!’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">This coincindes nicely with the new year and the New Culinary Me. So far I have been showing off my great cooking skills and telling everyone about my new year’s resolution, which now has the added incentive of REVENGE. (Which is nice.)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">However, this evening, while preparing tomorrow’s meal, I got confused between mililitres and centilitres, with disasterous consequences. New Culinary Me had to admit defeat and throw the whole soggy mess in the bin.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">You might think that I’ll come crawling back now. You might think that in the morning I’ll be queuing up, Oliver-Twist-style, tray in hand at the hot food counter. “Please, sir! Can I have some more?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">Oh no I’m not beaten yet! There’s a box of special K at my desk and it’s got lunch-time written all over it. I’ll take mine with a liberal sprinkling of victory!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-69714828693570382232011-01-02T01:34:00.003+00:002011-01-02T01:42:59.040+00:00Retail Therapy<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I decided to start the new year by investing in some fabulous underwear. That way the year would get off to a fabulous start and no matter what the day may throw at me I would know that I had a little bit of fabulous on my person. (As you can see I have not resolved to increase my already-fabulous vocabulary.)<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">Off I prance in to town. Once in the shop I quickly select a few fancy pieces that would usually be too expensive but now gleam at me with their “50% off” tags. Strutting off into the changing rooms with my magnificent haul, I prepare to preen and admire myself in the full-length mirror. Happy New Year to moi! The sales assistant closes the heavy velvet curtain, saying she’ll call back in a few minutes. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I squeeze into a fabulously frilly lacy contraption. It ‘s definitely not the most comfortable. The sales assistant comes by and agrees. ‘Hmm not quite the right size, let me get you another one.’ Off she goes. She drops the other size in to me and will be back in a moment. ‘No problem’ I say thinking I’d just slip out of one and into another. I undo the clasp to slide the garment over my head. All of a sudden these enormous shoulders are sticking out, locking the thing in place. I can’t seem to get it past them without ripping it. There is no way I can hand this back with a tear in it and have her not notice. In fact she could come along at any moment and hear the rip crack through the air as I pull at it. The material is so delicate don’t know how I’m going to get it off.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">The lace is scratchy and chafing. I start to panic but resist the temptation to yank at it, knowing it’ll get torn assunder if I do. I exhale and try to ease it over my chest and one shoulder. It gets wedged. I carefully edge it down again and try putting both arms up as straight as I can while trying to pull it up. I can feel the material tighten and the little stitches straining. Then I hear her voice outside asking how the new size is. “I’m just about to try it now” I call out, in a nice calm voice to assure her that I am about to burst incredible-hulk style out of the previous one first.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I pause for thought. Should I just give up and ask for help? How could a second pair of hands tugging at the thing make it less likely to rip? Would I still be liable if it did? There must be another way.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I consider all angles, and then I settle on my hips. Hmm, I’m not exactly an ‘hourglass’. There is no time to waste so I quickly start working it past them, milimetre by milimetre, until I finally manage to step triumphantly out of it. I heave a massive sigh of pride and relief and resume normal breathing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-22024267481814373602010-12-29T15:43:00.005+00:002010-12-29T16:00:51.653+00:00The woman who walks into doorsFinally after being violently ill for twenty-four hours, I mustered up the strength to go to the shop. I stepped out of my bedroom and somehow lamped myself in the forehead with the corner of the door. There probably would have been tears if I wasn't so dehydrated, but the rage fueled me onwards.<div>When I got to the shop and bought my hula hoops and spaghetti hoops and lucozade, I went back to get some seven-up and the woman asked me if that was all. I glanced behind her at the cigarettes and thought of all the times I had asked for a pack before leaving the shop.</div><div>"Yes, that's all thanks."</div><div>I felt much better already.</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-88053713093020549202010-12-26T20:34:00.004+00:002010-12-26T21:51:26.423+00:00“I’m sure my little red cat has gone away to die somewhere.”<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">My mum has a ginger cat. She adopted him from an animal shelter a few years ago, which was run by an eccentric old dear whose house was full of fostered felines. Some of them were slightly feral from lack of human contact. Fizz was one of those. I don’t think he even had a name back then.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When she brought him back he would flee from people, but if you managed to catch him he’d relent and sink into your arms, purring. She bought a novelty cat-bed for him that was in the shape of a sneaker. Of course he never went into it, preferring instead to use the dog’s bed, which was far too big for him. Sometimes I’d grab him and put him in his shoe-bed but he’d only sit there for a moment before darting off.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">He used to be very cute, ridiculously fluffy, bright orange with a white chest and white paws and a pink nose. These days his fur is a bit shaggy and liony. You could easily trim him down and leave a mane round the neck and he’d be like a pygmy lion. In recent times he developed tiny black spots on his skin, so it looks a bit like he has some kind of mould growing on his face and ears. I think it might have been from the sun, poor li’l ginger guy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">When she brought him in the other day, he was very sedate but full of purrs. He was in an old towel that she keeps just for cats - when she brings him in, she sometimes swaddles him in it so she can cuddle him without getting orange fur all over her clothes. He loves it. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Yesterday I saw her hold his mouth open and force an antibiotic down - he’s very tame now and doesn’t put up much resistance. Still he hasn’t eaten for a few days and he didn’t touch the cat-milk I put down for him. (I have no idea how the good people at Whiskas get cat-milk, by the way.) </p> <p class="MsoNormal">He has an old duvet by the logs in the shed where you can find him tucked away in the centre if you unfurl it. Not today though. He hasn't been there for ages. The other cats seem to know something. They are sitting in his usual place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He might be out in the snow somewhere, paws up, pink pads showing.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-89024002441537873492010-12-24T19:35:00.001+00:002010-12-24T22:30:23.707+00:00Legendary Literature<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">Christmas Eve and I'm wrapping presents, which include two books I bought for my nephew. These are children's books, the wide-paged sort that you can read from, with more pictures than words, and not many pages. This makes them so skinny that they are almost brochures. The cover is crisp and glossy and the insides are printed with detailed high-colour illustrations. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I bought them from the school-supplies section in a department store in Manila. Amongst the textbooks and stationery, these were a series of traditional legends for children. They were up on a high shelf but I could reach them easily enough. I picked one up and flicked through it, admiring the quality of the illustrations, which seemed to have been done by hand in pencil and watercolours. Picking another, I discovered that each book told a different legend. Before long I had gone through several of them. While choosing which ones to buy I noticed that the stack of books had started to slump slightly. I tried to pick up one more book, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>but the one next to it started to fall so I took that one too. Then they all started to go like dominoes. I grabbed a bunch of the skinny books and tried piling them in a stack on their sides to prop the other ones up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">In the meantime a little Filipino woman had come along with her son to buy him some school things. I busied myself with my story-books and concentrated on not teaching the kid any new obscenities. She was very interested in something on one of the bottom shelves, leaning in to examine whatever it was in detail. At this stage I had a bunch of books in both hands, my fingers spanning as much of the smooth cover as I could possibly reach. From where I stood, looking down on her shiny hair at the back of her head as I stretched up, grasping the stacks of shiny books, it felt as if she were a few storeys below me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It happened as if in slow motion. I adjusted my grip in an effort to stabilize the books and they gently started to slide. Slowly, and smoothly, they just glided across the shelf and over the edge. I had run out of hands, I couldn’t stop them. As they slipped towards the edge they gained momentum, dropping one by one off the shelf. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Swoosh!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I gazed in horror as they cascaded on to her, landing on their edges on the back of her head. Some of them sailed over her but more of them dropped straight down, digging their corners into her scalp as they hit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Plop! Swoosh! Ploploploploploploplop! ‘OW!’</p> <p class="MsoNormal">She screamed before looking up in confusion and then scowling at me. I just loomed there awkwardly (arms still outstretched in position) and attempted to stammer out some kind of apology. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wanted the ground to swallow me, but instead, I just towered over everyone like a big white clumsy Godzilla, reddening as I stood there, rooted to the spot as I propped up the rest of the books. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">A member of staff scurried over and quickly returned with a ladder, while my victim babbled something and rubbed her head. I felt a bit less sorry for her then because she hadn’t taken her book-avalanche very well. It was clearly an accident! In any case, I was soon relieved of my book-propping task and the whole shelf had to be re-stacked. I quickly selected two nice books that hadn’t taken chunks out of anybody’s scalp for myself. Then I ambled off and continued on my path of destruction.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-34887780088267356972010-12-22T00:29:00.000+00:002010-12-22T00:32:47.304+00:00I see people who see dead people!<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">This morning I got one of the last seats on the bus - one stop later and the bus was full. After a short while I noticed a guy who had gotten on at the next stop and had to stand near the front. He was heavy, balding, in his mid-to-late thirties, wearing a drab greyish-brown raincoat that wasn’t tied properly across his gut and he was drinking a bottle of lucozade for breakfast. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">What drew my attention to him, though, was the fact that he was talking so animatedly. He was deeply involved in conversation, hardly sipping from the bottle at all. To my dismay I quickly realized he had no phone, no headset, he was just staring into the middle distance and chattering away. He even paused and inclined his head forwards, staying silent for a minute before saying “Oh really?” or just nodding “Yeah, yeah.” Sometimes he ‘d even emit a slightly camp gasp, widen his eyes and say “Oh I know yeah!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">The bus was quite full so I couldn’t hear most of the ‘conversation’. I heard him drop some ‘r’s and deduced he was probably English. After a while I could make out the rhythm of his speech and I decided that if I had to put money on it I’d have said Liverpudlian. I wondered how he came to be here and what had happened to him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I looked at the passengers around him, sitting in awkward silence and looking directly ahead, minding their own business. Nobody spoke to each other and they seemed preoccupied with keeping themselves to themselves. I became aware that I had been staring at chatty man for the last few minutes. I don’t think he had noticed but I quickly shifted my gaze to avoid eye contact when he seemed like he might glance in my direction. I wondered who he was talking to and imagined it to be some ghost from his past. He might be traumatically bereaved and his companion, a close friend or family member who, in his mind, never left him. He couldn’t accept the loss and so kept up one-sided conversations so as not to be alone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then I thought, ‘What if ghosts did exist?’ He might be like that kid out of The Sixth Sense who can see dead people. Maybe we, the narrow-minded, yawning, shoe-gazing passengers, were in the wrong. As I looked around the bus I saw a small red-haired girl with glasses who was sitting down opposite chatty man. She nodded her head and I realized she was speaking. That’s who he had been talking to. I hadn’t seen her.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-31575589145384183342010-12-17T17:09:00.000+00:002010-12-17T17:11:46.654+00:00How I Learned to Stop Whining and Love the Flip-Flops<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">On entering the room the first thing I noticed was a pair of flip-flops. (Okay after the enormous mirror beside the bed, but let’s not go there.) At first I thought someone had forgotten them but then I realised they had been provided by the hotel. They didn’t match at all but they were almost the same size.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I decided to forego this generous facility. I had brought my own slippers and besides I don’t like any kind of shoe that goes between your toes. Especially when they’ve been between countless other peoples’ toes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">I was sorry that I wasn’t wearing them the morning that something swam out of the drain while I was showering. Without my glasses on I couldn’t make out clearly what it was, but it was black and skinny, a few inches long, and a damn good swimmer. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I’ve since looked up videos of leeches swimming and I think it might have been one. If not it was some kind of snake or worm-thing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All I know is that I had just put conditioner in my hair and I had to stay and rinse it, while keeping an eye on the slithery creature. I quickly worked out routes in my mind of where I would step, depending on which direction it would take. Fortunately it just went to the edge of the shower and stayed there I think. I stepped over it and went for breakfast, leaving the room as quickly as I could without looking back.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="GA" style="mso-ansi-language:GA">After that I appreciated the flip-flops a lot more. For the rest of my stay I always wore them in the shower. I also found them very useful when hammering cochroaches to death before going to sleep with the lights on.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-837108151069385242010-12-13T02:24:00.001+00:002010-12-13T02:35:00.737+00:00“A water pipe has burst in your house. The neighbours can’t get in.”<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I make my excuses at work and jump in a taxi, having no real idea what to expect or what to do. When I get in there is water dripping from the ceiling of my kitchen and the bathroom above it. My neighbour helps me to turn off the electricity and stop the leak in the attic. The houses are about 60 years old and we have no idea where the stopcock is to shut the water off. Fortunately someone had called the county council who were sending a guy out with a metal detector. I make some phonecalls and yes it is on the road just outside the gate. But nobody can say exactly where.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Eventually our hero arrives, resplendent in a baseball hat advertising racehorse breeding and a lit cigarette perched permanently at the corner of his mouth. He sets about waving the device over the driveway by the gate and we hear beeping almost immediately. My helpful neighbour grabs a shovel and digs a few chunks out of the concrete. Nothing to see here. More digging. The metal detector gets waved a bit more and we hear more beeping so we open the gate wider in order to clear some waving space. Not so much beeping now. Oh yeah, the gate is metal. And the gate-post, too.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">We do also pick up some pipes that eventually lead us to the actual stopcock (with no digging required as it turned out), but not before council guy had discovered many other Things That Go Beep and adjusted the sensitivity on his apparatus. While standing around in the bitter cold outside my sodden semi-detached I could only laugh as we heard a beep and my neighbour pointed out “Well at least we know that your steel toe-caps are working!”. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-5602146101761672172010-06-28T22:30:00.000+01:002010-06-28T22:38:31.635+01:00RevengeSo I'm getting the bus home and I ding the bell before my stop, well on time, and the driver speeds on past my stop as I'm trying to make my way to the front of the bus. I tell him he's missed my stop, and he goes "Oh do you want to get off here?".<div><br /><div>Yes.</div><div><br /></div><div>As he pulled in and I got off to walk back to my house, I did not say "Thank you".</div><div>That'll learn him.</div></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1308044673660949615.post-52281616836185136002010-06-28T00:40:00.000+01:002010-06-28T00:41:42.168+01:00Check me outI'm Carrie Frickin' Bradshaw.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0