The Ice Prince

It's a good title, isn't it? But, sadly, not mine. It is, instead, the name of a cargo vessel that sank off Portland Bill a week ago. I knew nothing about it until we trouped down to Worthing prom this afternoon, for the small boy to ride his bike, and found 5,000-tonnes of timber lying on the beach.

The sun was shining and, in true British fashion, half the population of Sussex had turned out, accompanied by several ice-cream vans. This 31-second offering shows the wash-up still in action.



According to himself, who has lived in the area since...[insert date from long ago], Worthing was always the channel's dumping ground. It used to be seaweed, he said, torn up during summer storms, and washed up four-feet thick on the beaches just in time for the holiday season. It would then rot, attracting swarms of flies and giving off a smell that he can only describe as "pungent", thus rendering the beach "completely unapproachable". See this article on the Worthing Herald's website, from where I, er, borrowed this picture.

Stella: the Agent of Anti-naff

The last time I made a change to my hairstyle was in 1987, when I grew my fringe out. This was following my Goth-phase when I had the sides of my head shaved, and at the start of my hippy phase, when I looked like a 1960's flower girl complete with floral tunic and large spliff.

Since then life has moved on, but my hair never did. It remained long, unlayered, uncoloured, unstyled, occasionally unwashed and unbrushed, and (because I can't stand it in my face) tied back.

It was time for a change.

Some weeks ago, I was recommended to a new hairdresser, the wonderful Stella. We had quite a long chat about which style would suit my face, my age, and my unwillingness to do more than wash it occasionally. Stella knew exactly what would be best, but I reckoned anything would look pretty naff. She was honest enough to say that I couldn't really look any more naff than I already did....

So, yesterday, despite nearly bottling out on several occasions, I let her loose with a pair of sharp sissors. As a result, I am now sporting a smart bob (which I really like!) and an overwhelming sense of gratitude!

Beer is Food

Am sitting here, having given up pretending that I'm going to blitz the study, wondering when (and in what state) Himself will roll in. "I'll be back early," he said, "so we can eat together."

So here am I having done nothing again today (except my Message...note the time: 10:57 - that's 10.57am, and blogging...and looking after the kids).

It's now half past nine. I last ate at about half past twelve, and that was only a cup of watercress soup at a friend's house. Actually, just before that I had been scoffing all her Jaffa Cakes and Chocolate Fingers, but that doesn't sound quite so trendy. Oh, and then there was the Mars bar, and the Twix that I had on the way back from Toys R Us at quarter to six.

But, apart from that, I've eaten nothing all day, and I'm starving. So, because I don't reckon the quality of today's food-intake can get any worse, I've opened a bottle of beer. It's Badger's Golden Glory, a rather fine ale from Hall & Woodehouse who, incidentally, make me spit (the company, not the beer).

They took over my local(ish) brewers, King & Barnes, some years ago, knocked down the brewery and built flats (sorry, apartments) on it. They also dumped the K&B prize-winning "Festive" in favour of their own, comparatively tasteless, "Tanglefoot". However, much to my own annoyance, I do rather like their Golden Glory, with its hint of peach.

Well, that's the first glass gone. Perhaps another?

The No Waffle Challenge

I've been somewhat heartened to receive several complementary emails about my contributions to Your Messages, particularly yesterday's. This is rather nice. Thank you.

I've been enjoying the challenge, having never before attempted flash fiction. Up until a year ago, I had only ever tried novels, and thought my first ever short story was really short at 16,000 words.

I rather like the 300-word limit. I can't waffle, you see. I like not being able to waffle; it's good for my self-control. I do tend to go on a bit if left to my own devices. I get that from my grandfather, that's my mother's father, not my father's father, you understand. My father's father died in 1937, which was a long time before I was born, so I never knew him. No, it was my mother's father who I take after in this particular respect. Why, I remember how we used to laugh when Grandpa started-

Sorry.