Corsica

Dear Agnes
Thank you so much for popping in to water the aspidistra for me this week, George was annoyed at himself for forgetting about it before we left. The trip has been quite an experience. It is so hot I am wilting, even in the shade. George bought a straw hat which looks utterly ridiculous but he seems to think it gives him a continental air. My new sandals have rubbed a blister on my little toe but I am hobbling on regardless. I do hope you've got that problem with the porch light sorted out.
With love,
Bernice

Isle of Man

Dear Agnes,
The crossing was fine, considering. I walked George three times round the deck to ward off the seasickness; I'm a seasoned traveller as you know but he did complain for quite a while and then we settled down in the restaurant to share a bacon butty. I must say it felt a bit like going abroad but once we got here it was just like England. I let George have kippers for breakfast yesterday morning and then wished I hadn't, his breath smelt something awful, so today we kept to cornflakes. 
Wishing you were here.
With love,
Bernice

Dear Agnes

Dear Agnes
We are in Torbay for the week, recommended by the doctor, for George to get some sea air. It has been so blustery and the poor palm trees on the front have been battered almost to death. My scarf blew off, you know, that lovely mauve silk one that mother gave me her last Christmas, and we chased it right down onto the sand, where it landed in the sea, fortunately the tide was incoming at the time. I hope Bernard is feeling better and not keeping you up at night like the last time.
With love
Bernice


(Returning to 100 Words in preparation for NaNoWriMo. Inspired by a postcard at work, just the name and the place it had come from and decided to do a series of 'postcard' messages.)

Fridge poetry

The trouble with magnetic fridge poetry sets is that the choice of vocabulary almost forces you to write in a certain way. Some words leap out at you (like 'breast' and 'chocolate') and just demand to be used. And some have obviously been included to complement each other. Some words are annoying in their absence. So I have a go at writing 100 words ... and this is what I come up with:

Creature left me the following message in the middle of the night:
So this morning while my tea brewed it became this, by a process of mere word substitution, still 100 words:

quick brown foxes

I taught myself to type after I left Polytechnic, on my mother's old manual typewriter, by typing 'the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog' over and over. It has all the letters of the alphabet, so gradually you learnt where they all are on the keyboard. You had to pay close attention in those days, there was no going back and erasing the mistakes. And you had to hit the keys pretty hard. None of this namby pamby tap tap tapping, it went clunk, clunk, and at the end of each line sprung back with a loud 'ka-ching'.

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 89)

untitled

Today I don't want to write 100 words. I can't be bothered. I have sat and stared at this stupid little empty square. I am tempted to just write 99 and see if it will tell me off. Because I seem to be doing everything wrong today. I chose the wrong day apparently to feel pissed off and taken for granted. Because today was the day when I was supposed to be strong, competent, supportive parent. Today I get accused of being unapproachable and judgemental. When I am asked for help i have never turned any of them away. Ever.

First NaNo meeting

The anxiety started to build as we waited for the tram. Creature was convinced we were 'late', I said I bet there would be hardly anyone there yet. It was half past by the time we got off at Market Street, though we were reassured to see the place across Piccadilly Gardens, right where she thought it was. It was crowded inside so I asked and was directed towards the back. We weaved through the bar, were briefly concerned at the sight of a random group of middle aged blokes, and then we saw the signs on the tables, 'NaNoWriMo'.

Macaroni cheese

It's a macaroni conspiracy. You go to the cupboard and invariably most of it has escaped from the packaging and you have to sweep it up from the shelf. Or there is only that stuff that you bought in an emergency and it was never very nice, far too starchy so it stuck together when it cooked, so it was left at the back uneaten. Or you've got a lovely new packet, specially bought for tonight and the packet bursts and spills its contents across the kitchen floor. But a good cheesy sauce can effectively cover all manner of sins.

(another inspired by Creature who is downstairs cooking her favourite dinner)

bad news

A siren sounded in the distance but somehow he knew that it was not coming to his rescue. He stood back in the corner of the room and tried to calm himself. In only a few minutes they would be there and he was supposed to be in control, at least of himself if not the situation. The door opened and the men filed cooperatively to their desks. He took a deep breath and began handing out the assignments. "Well Mr Manson, I'm sorry, but you'll have to re-write that essay, it's really not up to your usual standard."

(Feeling uninspired Dunk found a random writing prompt generator for me and it came up with 'a teacher gives some bad news to a mass murderer')

foreign poetry

It's funny how you can tell that poetry is poetry even when you can't understand the words. It has a rhythm unlike normal speech, patterns within the language that are there over and above the meaning of the words. But then I wonder if it is really possible to translate a poem. The words are so carefully chosen, for the nuances of meaning that come with intimacy. Surely when translating the words what you are doing in reality is writing a whole new poem, even if the author themselves translates it. Language is just so much more subtle than that.

rain

It was a dark and stormy day, the rain came down in torrents. Word passed swiftly around the office concerning the atmospheric conditions causing disgruntled mutterings amongst the postmen as they waited to leave with their laden bags. Where ordinary people make polite conversation about the weather, for Royal Mail employees it is the subject of serious discussion. The weight and duration of any potential precipitation, the rise and fall of the temperature are always of great interest. A day is judged as 'good' or 'bad' based on the moisture content of your shoes at the end of the shift.

Planting

The cat watched him through the window, as if she knew what he was up to. The grass was sodden with dew so he stomped down the garden in his wellington boots. In the shed he found the spade, it had a coating of rust pitting the surface and a bit of dead bramble tangled round the handle but it would do. He decided on a spot behind the compost heap and cleared away the leaf mulch and some fallen branches. The ground was soft and easy to break open, it wouldn't take him long to get it deep enough.

Birthday

The birthday card sits, threateningly, on the fireplace. It portends the disappointment to come. There have been years when things have gone quite well; friends came, candles blown, cake eaten, but the excitement and anticipation of childhood have mellowed into a cynical disenchantment. Too many years when there was no one to invite, when there was nothing that she wished for. Sometimes I am glad that she is so un-acquisitive, that her happiness is something much more intangible. The trouble is that it's very intangibility makes it all the more elusive. We try to keep things low key nowadays.

bike ride

I am a demon cyclist. Like Cruella de Vil chasing the puppies in her car, bloodshot eyes flashing, hair flying wildly, dishevelled and frantic, I race up Oxford Road. I jump red lights, dodge around buses, weave in and out of standing traffic. Then a nice smooth run as I join the cycle track up past the university, only the odd straying student to beware of. I hit a red at the RNCM but make my way to the front of the queue. The fumes choke me but I am determined to make it. Don't you just hate being late.

A near miss

The man stepped out , oblivious. Just wandered across even though the lights had changed. The bus slowed, only slightly. The people on the pavement barely had time to react, but barely reacted. Then the man stopped and held up his hand, like a traffic policeman or a lollipop lady, as if he had the authority to arrest the traffic. The bus jerked, lurched, jerked again, and stopped, within a few inches of the man. Two girls across the aisle screeched in alarm. He took a few meandering paces across the tarmac, obviously unsteady on his feet. Then we moved off.

Joining a biker gang

"I'm off to Patrick's, can I have tram fare?" The bag has her book and her contact lens stuff. I am always telling her off for sleeping in her contact lenses when she stays over with friends. "Will you be back tomorrow," I ask. "Of course, he has college on Monday," she reminds me, irritated at my forgetfulness. She ties her hair back, shoulders her bag and is out the door before I can interrogate any more. Walking swiftly to the end of the road she glances briefly behind her, climbs on the back of the motorbike and is gone.

(For Creature, a private joke)

Home Education

If you chose to home educate your children you should first be aware of the rigorous demands on your constitution. In the name of encouraging curiosity you will let your children fall into ponds, climb very high trees, bring home dead animals and melt stuff with matches. You must be prepared to drink bad tea in draughty village halls while they charge around with other wild children hitting each other with sticks. You will never have a moment's peace and the noise will echo around your head for years after they have left home. But it will be worth it.

pine cone

The pine cone on my dressing table continues to open and close with the weather, even after thirty years, though there are no longer any seeds within falling from between the scales. We were holidaying in France, 1979 I think. The campsite was hot, dry and sandy beneath the pine trees though we were more than a mile from the sea. We had long days of getting sunburnt on the beach and sitting in the café playing pinball with french boys, me pretending to be grown up like my sister. Before we left I picked it up as a momento.

Mr Grey

Mr Grey sat on the bench in front of the house. Not watching, not waiting, just sitting. When the neighbour walked out to the shop he stared at the ground and pretended not to notice. He smoked skinny cigarettes that he rolled between stained fingers, flicking the butts into the neglected flowerbed. About ten thirty a funeral cortege rolled slowly past, a single occupant in the limousine. He followed it impassively with his eyes, all the way along the street until it disappeared under the railway bridge. He closed his eyes for a moment, then he rolled himself another cigarette.

Ding Dong

I dreamt that the doorbell rang. It was very early, I thought, for someone to be ringing. It was still dark. I dreamt that I went to the door and there was a bundle in the porch. It moved. Inside I found a tiny baby. It was not very cute, it's ears stuck out. I took it inside and fed it from a tiny spoon, dripping milk into it's tiny mouth. Later I wrapped it up and took it to the park and pushed it on the swing. It laughed and laughed. Then the alarm woke me …beep …beep …beep

(Contemplating joining the 100 Words project during October in preparation for NaNoWriMo.)