Time to go

There was nothing for it. He’d have to go. She was fed up with his moods, his grumpiness, the long, pained sighs. She remembered a cheerful, smiling, kind face that made her fall in love with him in the first place. But where was that now? Their situation had changed, and she was left with someone whose presence was now impossible to tolerate.

She still loved him, and she didn’t want to hurt him, but she had to give him his marching orders. She took a deep breath and brandished the paper as he scowled back at her.

“I’m sorry, but you left me no choice. You're going tomorrow morning. I made the appointment for you, and I found you a dentist who’s good with cowards!”

Pea soup in a brewery

Alan was telling us some story about a bloke we sort of knew who'd been stupid enough to leave his wallet behind when he broke into the Co-op. "Couldn't organise a pea soup in a brewery!" He laughed aloud at his own joke.

"But why would they want pea soup in a brewery?" Nigel queried. "I mean, they don't make beer out of it, do they?"

The gang turned as one on the regular fall guy. Nigel was so easy to wind up, but it was a toss between him and Baz who'd be target for today. They were both dressed in less than trend gear. Baz, as usual sported some kind of way too big handmedown from one of his older brothers. But it was hardly his fault that his mum was always too skint to buy him and the other seven anything decent to wear.

Nigel was a different case though. His parents had money but no taste, and he'd been forced into a bright orange nylon thing. Literally forced, because the seams were losing a fight against the body inside. It was supposed to keep him dry in the rain, but he got wetter than the rest of us because it was too tight and made him sweat loads.

Alan was still sniggering to himself and you could see his brain calculating some smart comment. Simmo spoke up and punched him not too gently on the arm.

"Get over yourself. It really wasn't that funny."

The only response: a low-lidded glower and shrugged shoulders.

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From a Thinking 10 prompt. Alan, Baz, Nigel and Simmo have appeared around here before.

Thinking Ten

Visit ThinkingTen—A Writer's Playground

On Sandra's advice I've joined Thinking Ten - a writer's playground. I'll be getting daily prompts to write something creative, so you might be getting a few more posts than you have of late. I'm not promising that they'll be any good. Just that they'll exist!

My first attempt is here.

Six sentences

They want me to write six sentences, which doesn’t sound very difficult, but I’ve been lacking inspiration lately and the challenge is much tougher than I thought.  First of all I need to define the word sentence. 

Back at school it meant something that started with a capital letter, ended with a full stop, and had a ‘doing word’ in it. These days I break those rules because I am a professional writer and my creativity no longer feels bound by them.

I began this challenge because I need more encouragement to exercise my fiction abilities. So why am I still describing reality?  

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Over at Lines of Communication, Sandra's taking part in a thing called Six Sentences, which is a regular writing challenge. As some of you know, I've been sadly lacking in inspiration lately, so I've decided to sign up to see if it'll help.  I'm not sure that the above six sentences are particularly reassuring. But it's early days.

Office speak

A change of office location has given me a new outlook (literally) on life. Helps to see things from a different perpective, get a new angle. I'm in the perfect place to grab the low-hanging fruit (from the tree outside) but I'll need a heads up to see it.

It's quieter over here though.

Weather

“There’s no such thing as bad weather. Only the wrong kind of clothing.”

We all turned to look at Nigel as he spoke the words, various expressions of disbelief on our faces.

“What a supremely stupid comment, you stupid fart,” came the reply, “Who the hell told you that bit of crap?” The speaker was Alan, by far the sportiest of the gang and probably the most put out by our current state. He could hardly sit still for a couple of minutes, let alone the fifteen we had been trapped inside the hut by the torrential downpour outside.

He shook his head again to try to rid himself of the rivulets running from his thick, curly hair and down his face, but he only succeeded in splattering everyone around him. A chorus of disapproving hails rose up in reaction and he got up and tried to walk off his excess energy. It didn’t work though, because he could only make three strides before he had to turn around and come back to where we were sitting, hunched up near the front and eyeing the waterfall that was cascading off the roof.

“My Dad says that the right sort of clothing can overcome even the worst weather.”

“My Dad.” Heavy with sarcasm. “My Dad! If your dad’s so bloody clever how come you’re just as drenched as the rest of us then?” That was Simmo. Nigel was the last of our lot to have a dad still living at home, and Simmo resented him a bit for it. Simmo’s dad quit home and moved in with the local pub landlady a year ago after the old bloke died of alcohol poisoning. Simmo’s mum reckoned his dad was going the same way and good luck to him. I think her bitterness just rubbed off on him.

Before the argument had chance to take off, Baz stuck his nose in. Literally. He’d taken his glasses off for about the ninth time and he was polishing them on his t-shirt. He’s close to blind without them and the combination of rain outside and us indoors was making the shed kind of steamy so Baz’s specs kept misting over. He leaned forward so he was only a couple of inches from the others, just so he could see them, and said: “Must be good to have a choice of what to wear.” He was somewhere in the middle of eight brothers so he was always lumbered with stuff that didn’t fit the older ones any longer.

That made us all stop for a while and think, or at least shut up, and all you could hear was a roary sort of noise and the splashing just outside the door. We sat like that for ages, just staring at the rain and listening to that engine sound. Looked like it was going to be a long summer.

Cupboard love

I’ve always been fat. Funny how you never turn to fruit when you’re depressed, isn’t it? Or is that just me, trained over the years to look for sustenance in place of solace. I blame my mother. Food was at the centre of everything in our house: celebrations, commiserations, visitations, confrontations. It was the only way she knew to show love. Or compassion. Or care. Or concern. As long as there was food on the table she was being a good parent. It was her response to every event in our lives.


When I fell and scraped my knee she offered biscuits. After doctor visits it was cake. Boyfriend dumped me? Sausage rolls. Missed the train? Bag of sweets. Feeling down? Cheese on toast. If I did well in exams? Well, that was expected of me and elicited no response. So I would find my own support in comfort food.

Even in my thirties she was hard to please. One particularly impressive promotion triggered no praise, just a strained ‘not before time’. I replaced her missing ‘well done’ with a steak - no, not well done, but rare, like her plaudits.

She’s been gone a decade and I still eat, associating food with everything I do. I am making myself ill in the process; hurrying toward an early grave. Perhaps in eternity she will find the time to applaud me.

**********

I've not been writing much lately so I'm forcing myself to put some words together about any topic that has come up in conversation, on TV, or whatever. I've read a lot of stuff about diet and body image lately. This isn't great - but it's a start.

Mondays (from four years ago)

Here's another of those rescued pieces I found last week. I think I was trying to write 300 words a day, just to 'keep my hand in' and I seem to have broached some interesting topics.  I don't think my attitude to Mondays has changed much in the intervening period.

Monday mornings have always been a source of confusion. On the one hand they are the start of a new week and should be an opportunity for new and exciting things to happen; but on the other hand they are disconnected from the previous work flow so nothing happens automatically. Two days of relaxation have turned off the brain so that Mondays are a cerebral challenge while the thinking processes grind their way up the gear system in a bid to accelerate to the necessary speed. It can take some time.

In theory, after the weekend, the brain should be rested and fresh, ready for the week ahead, but it is much more often addled with the remnants of last night’s bottle of rosé and dulled by the decision to stay up late watching that TV drama with the gorgeous actor in it. This morning you can’t even remember what the story was about, although you can dimly recall some views of his excellent backside and the fact that he, inevitably, ended up in bed with the female lead so that the scriptwriters have fodder for next week’s episode.

So you stare at the screen throughout Monday morning in the hope that some sort of inspiration will happen, but it rarely does. No amount of cups of coffee will help and it’s instant anyway, because your bosses are such skinflints they won’t buy the real stuff, so you’ll end up dehydrated and regretful by five o’clock but still not awake. Where is the Muse? No doubt sleeping off her own hangover after two days of debauchery with a variety of gods of wine, beer, ciggies and any other intoxicant available on a city’s streets on Saturday nights. There is only one consolation - perhaps Tuesday will be better?