In attempt to go one better than Helenmh's six-word film reviews (my favourite was of Mamma Mia, for which she wrote: "Colin Firth with no shirt on"), here is my two-word review of Baz Luhrmann's new blockbuster, Australia:
Really chuffed to have come third in DJK's Wordless Wednesday competition this week (see right). For those who are not familiar with Wordless Wednesday, I heartily recommend a visit to DJ's blog, Chez Aspie, where her weekly caption-competition brings a plethora of high-class entries (including mine, of course. Obviously). Get yours in too!
• saving money (I have the bankers* to thank for this one)
The lovely DJ Kirkby has given me this marvellous award. I am very honoured to be thus endowed by the illustrious DJK, but also to be thought of as a Superior Scribbler - especially as I have not been doing much scribbling of late.
You might have seen this already, but if you haven't, I just have to share it with you... on Mark Lee's blog, Accountant Jokes and Fun.
The adorable Helenmh has presented me with this super award... on the condition that I answer all the questions that go with it:
I climbed a mountain today.
This time, we're talking phone companies. In particular: Vodafone.
I used to think that blogging was an idle/frivolous pastime of absolutely no value; but, I've changed my mind. I have learned that with the right motivation and support (which might not be available locally), one can find new energy and inspiration.
Some of my settings are based on real places, but sometimes I change the names. In two cases, I wanted authentic croft names, but not actual croft names (i.e. houses in which people might actually be living).| from this... | to this. |  |  |
Things I missed while I was away My induction hob and thick-bottomed pans Functional broadband My dictionary Virgin Radio Things I loved about where I was Islay beef mince Islay Ales (Angus Og in particular) Everyone waving at everyone Water so soft you could cuddle it Big skies and big landscapes Popping to the shop (every village has one) | Things I didn't miss The sheer weight of traffic Being hassled by other drivers All the mess on my desk at home Tescos The noisy builders working over the road Rude people Dead animals in the road Chlorine in the water Any fine weather (from what I heard) Things I didn't love Having to come home. |
JJ, that lovely lady over in Bangkok, has not only sent me some fabby flavoured lip balms (cola cola and lemon soda), she has given me a friendship award too! Thank you JJ! This is just what I need to cheer me up, as we leave for the south this morning. It's bye bye to the mountains, and hello to the M25...oh joy. At least I'll get to say hello to my sister and Helenmh on the way, so it's not all bad.
We've all had it, all five of us, in forty-eight hours. Actually, it's longer than that now, because the small boy threw up again today, over thirty-six hours after the last time (parents of other small children will understand why this is so unfair). Only this time he did it at school, at pick-up time, right in front of the assembled parents. He also managed to splat three other small children and a teacher in the process. Oh, God. [hides face in hands] I'm tired.
Well, having finally given up on them, I went to the fridge for some more, and you know what? There they were.
In November last year Womagwriter posted the following quote, pinched from J A Konrath’s blog:
What were you doing 10 years ago?
I've realised where all my time has gone, but I'm not quite sure why it has taken me this long to work it out (perhaps because I have a Brain of Mush), but at least I have worked it out.
Ah, just what I needed: A hit! | You can buy You're Not the Only One from Lulu, by clicking on the button. (It'll offer you two copies to begin with, for print and/or download copies, so be careful when deleting one of them.) |
Six minutes hours later it was time to go home (although JJ and I managed to fit in a spot of shopping first). The ride home was equally enjoyable, although I had the added pleasure of my new (red) iPod Shuffle to gaze at, and the virtuous feeling of having bought a present for my babysitting sister too.
You know those Police!-Stop!-Action!-type documentaries? Where you're sitting in the police car, bombing down the fast lane, blue lights on? And some muppet is sitting in the way, completely oblivious? And the policeman starts mutttering, 'come on, get out of the way'? And then the car brakes, and lurches into the middle lane? Well, I was that muppet. In my defence, Cal is really tall, and she was sitting in the middle seat, so I couldn't see a thing out of the rear window, except perhaps, just a corner of a blue flashing light, when the cop car got really close and angry... Fortunately, I was only going a little bit over the limit, so it wasn't me they were after...
Well, my feet have finally touched the ground again after a fantastic weekend away. Yes, I know I said I would never go away again, but I did and no one was sick (at least, not until this morning), and the cat didn't wee in the car until the next day - so that didn't count either.
For once, it just worked. My fingers flew over the track-pad (perhaps it was clean for a change), and my heart started pounding with anticipation. I knew I was finally going to crack it.
Letters to Hackney Council
Nicked from Helen.
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I was in need of a real break - one that didn't involve broken legs, heart attacks, or vomit. To that end, I have spent the last week on Mars, with DCI Gene Hunt, and very nice it has been too. Jane leant me both series on DVD, making for a smorgasbord of ogling viewing. All sixteen hours! I didn't know I had that much free time...
Ruth is thirty two years old and
doesn't know if she wants to be thirty three. She gives herself three months
to decide, and that is where her journey into the unknown begins...
Ruth's diary
is the new novel by Fiona Robyn, Thaw. She has decided to blog the novel in
its entirety over the next few months, so you can read it for free.
Read the first entry below, and continue reading
tomorrow at
http://read-thaw.blogspot.com.
*
These hands are
ninety-three years old. They belong to Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller.
She was so frail that her grand-daughter had to carry her onto the set
to take this photo. It’s a close-up. Her emaciated arms emerge from the
top corners of the photo and the background is black, maybe velvet, as
if we’re being protected from seeing the strings. One wrist rests on the
other, and her fingers hang loose, close together, a pair of folded
wings. And you can see her insides.
The bones of her knuckles bulge out of the skin, which sags like plastic
that has melted in the sun and is dripping off her, wrinkling and
folding. Her veins look as though they’re stuck to the outside of her
hands. They’re a colour that’s difficult to describe: blue, but also
silver, green; her blood runs through them, close to the surface. The
book says she died shortly after they took this picture. Did she even
get to see it? Maybe it was the last beautiful thing she left in the
world.
I’m trying to decide whether or not I want to carry on living. I’m
giving myself three months of this journal to decide. You might think
that sounds melodramatic, but I don’t think I’m alone in wondering
whether it’s all worth it. I’ve seen the look in people’s eyes. Stiff
suits travelling to work, morning after morning, on the cramped and
humid tube. Tarted-up girls and gangs of boys reeking of aftershave,
reeling on the pavements on a Friday night, trying to mop up the
dreariness of their week with one desperate, fake-happy night. I’ve
heard the weary grief in my dad’s voice.
So where do I start with all this? What do you want to know about me?
I’m Ruth White, thirty-two years old, going on a hundred. I live alone
with no boyfriend and no cat in a tiny flat in central London. In fact,
I had a non-relationship with a man at work, Dan, for seven years. I’m
sitting in my bedroom-cum-living room right now, looking up every
so often at the thin rain slanting across a flat grey sky. I work in a
city hospital lab as a microbiologist. My dad is an accountant and lives
with his sensible second wife Julie, in a sensible second home. Mother
finished dying when I was fourteen, three years after her first
diagnosis. What else? What else is there?
Charlotte Marie Bradley Miller. I looked at her hands for twelve
minutes. It was odd describing what I was seeing in words. Usually the
picture just sits inside my head and I swish it around like tasting
wine. I have huge books all over my flat; books you have to take in
both hands to lift. I’ve had the photo habit for years. Mother bought me
my first book, black and white landscapes by Ansel Adams. When she got
really ill, I used to take it to bed with me and look at it for hours,
concentrating on the huge trees, the still water, the never-ending
skies. I suppose it helped me think about something other than what was
happening. I learned to focus on one photo at a time rather than
flicking from scene to scene in search of something to hold me. If I
concentrate, then everything stands still. Although I use them to escape
the world, I also think they bring me closer to it. I’ve still got that
book. When I take it out, I handle the pages as though they might flake
into dust.
Mother used to write a journal. When I was small, I sat by her bed in
the early mornings on a hard chair and looked at her face as her pen
spat out sentences in short bursts. I imagined what she might have been
writing about; princesses dressed in star-patterned silk, talking
horses, adventures with pirates. More likely she was writing about what
she was going to cook for dinner and how irritating Dad’s snoring was.
I’ve always wanted to write my own journal, and this is my chance. Maybe
my last chance. The idea is that every night for three months, I’ll take
one of these heavy sheets of pure white paper, rough under my
fingertips, and fill it up on both sides. If my suicide note is nearly a
hundred pages long, then no-one can accuse me of not thinking it
through. No-one can say; ‘It makes no sense; she was a polite, cheerful
girl, had everything to live for’, before adding that I did keep myself
to myself. It’ll all be here. I’m using a silver fountain pen with
purple ink. A bit flamboyant for me, I know. I need these idiosyncratic
rituals; they hold things in place. Like the way I make tea, squeezing
the tea-bag three times, the exact amount of milk, seven stirs. My
writing is small and neat; I’m striping the paper. I’m near the bottom
of the page now. Only ninety-one more days to go before I’m allowed to
make my decision. That’s it for today. It’s begun.
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