Tag: Writing

Is that grass over there greener?


Danny threw the response bag down and slumped heavily into the attendant’s chair. He looked bitter and thoroughly pissed off as he swung his booted feet up onto the stretcher. I sat down in another chair and waited. I could sense a rant coming on and knew Danny well enough to know it was imminent. A long sigh cut the silence like a knife as Danny finally lost his rag.

‘Dude, I’m so sick of this job. Today is the first day in two weeks that I’ve actually been put on a shift with a paramedic. I’ve had nothing but drivers for eight shifts!’

‘Really? That sucks.’

‘Tell me about it. It’s just shit at the moment. We get sent to crap all day long, then I have to do everything because my driver is just so useless its offensive, and when I get a sick patient and I ask for paramedic backup I get told there aren’t any available.’

I nodded without saying anything. I knew there was more to come.

‘It’s just not fair. How am I supposed to develop as a clinician in my own right when the only two people on this bloody ambulance are the driver and me? Who do I learn from? Or am I just supposed to make it up as I go and learn from my mistakes, because I’ll tell you this… patients don’t like mistakes.’

I smiled. ‘You’re right there mate.’

‘Yeah! I know!’

‘So why are you so upset now? You’ve got me today.’

He sat and thought, a confused look etched on his face. ‘I don’t know really. I guess it’s because even though you’re here and you can deal with the sick patients, it’s still going to be me doing everything, all the dog’s work I mean.’

‘I see. Well, I don’t mind doing everything mate. Seriously, pop your feet up. Actually, you just drive me around and I’ll sort the shit out as it comes.’

He sighed again. ‘Thanks mate, but you know me. I won’t let anyone shoulder my workload. That’s not me.’

‘Things aren’t going to get any better you know, what with the cuts coming.’

‘Easy for you to say mate. You could drop out of here anytime you want and go and work on your farm instead. I’ll be here till I retire.’

‘Bollocks mate. What did you do before this?’

‘I was a pharmacist. Well, I worked in a pharmacy, as a pharmacist’s technician.’

‘So you could go and do that again. You’re not trapped mate.’

He started to pack things back into the response bag. Where things were date stamped, he’d check it. I couldn’t remember checking a date on any consumable in over five years. He found a number of cannulas and needles that were out of date, and I’m guessing, no longer sterile. He threw them away and went back to his systematic check, pack, check, pack routine. Danny was good like that, dependable. You knew if you took over an ambulance from him it would be spotless. Nothing would be missing. No patient would suffer because a piece of equipment wasn’t available or it wasn’t cleaned properly. Nothing got past Danny. His movements slowed and he stared off into the distance as he spoke again.

‘The thing is,’ he said, ‘you forget the reasons you left in the first place. I feel like it would be taking a step backward if I was to go back to working there.’

I thought about that for moment and then, with a smile I said, ‘Not unless you’d taken a step forward into a hole. It would only be right to extricate yourself in that case wouldn’t it?’

He laughed. I laughed.

‘I see what you’re saying. Thing is though, the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.’ He looked sad again. ‘For me though, it’s a case of old grass or no grass.’

And the winner is… Me!


I found this post in draft form on my hard drive today whilst wondering what on Earth to write about today. It goes like that sometimes doesn’t it? You have to write just to get the words out but know that you might write utter shite in that same effort. Me’h, I don’t care. The fact I’m sitting here pumping the words out and not playing with my urethra tells me I have chosen the more productive of options.

So, what have I won? Well, it would appear I am in possession of a golden ticket for the upcoming Black Library Weekender…

Clicky clicky…

… to be held in Nottingham later this year. I think there were only eighteen of these bad boys on offer and so I feel justified in my glee. Having been a fairly big fan of the Games Workshop and more specifically its publishing arm, the Black Library, for many a year now this event to me is a big deal. Seriously, when I knew I had won a ticket I was as happy as this guy…

The fart decimated the area around him for twenty yards and blew a hole straight through his underwear, but everyone agreed it was worth looking this pleased about.

 

The weekend promises to be crazy fun and I know I’ll enjoy it but there’s two main reasons why I want to go:

  1. I get to meet the authors, poke them and see if they really are human.
  2. I get to have a twenty-minute chat with an editor. This is the big one for me. You spend your whole writing life trying to get your shit in front of editors and so this is just too good to pass up. The total expense of buying the ticket, booking the hotel and estimating the amount of booze I’m likely to get through is going to be a tad on the heavy side but I’m hoping it’s going to be worth it. If nothing else, maybe they’ll take a look at my stuff and tell me to try origami instead. I could argue that I’m pretty good at the ‘paper ball’ already but doubtless they’ll show me how to make an even more aerodynamic one using my own manuscript. Awesome.

I made a total arse of myself the other day when I called to book the hotel. You know those moments where subconsciously you’re saying to yourself, nay, shouting to yourself ‘DON’T BE AN ARROGANT ARSE’, but you just can’t help it? I had a moment.

‘Hello. Is that the Belfry Hotel?’

‘Yes sir, it certainly is, what can I do for you today?’

‘I’d like to book a room please. I arrive on the Friday and would like to stay for three nights, leaving on the Monday.’

‘Okay, let me see what we have available.’

‘Oh, I should mention that it’s for the Black Library Weekender.’

‘Oh right? Do they have a corporate rate here at the Belfry?’

‘Err, yes. Did I mention my golden ticket?’

‘No sir. What ticket is that?’

‘I have a golden ticket. There was only eighteen. I have one.’

‘Okay sir, I’m not seeing any concessions for a golden ticket.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. I was just saying, you know, that I have one… a golden one.’

‘Okay sir…’

‘There was only eighteen and I have one.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Will there be anything else, sir?’

‘No, I’m sorry.’

I’ve no idea why I felt the need to apologise to the girl but I don’t know, I sounded like an arse in my head. Hopefully, she won’t be working the day I check in and I won’t have to pretend I’m blind again. Pretending to be blind by the way, although morally ambiguous is bloody good laugh. I used to work as a life guard in a swimming pool and as you do, I wore shades just about all day. My colleague was in on the joke too. Every so often, especially during busy periods one of would get up from our ‘chair of sexiness’, pick up a white stick which we kept next to the chair and walk up and down the poolside sweeping the stick back and forth. Whoever’s turn it was not to be waving the stick would watch the reaction on parents face as they pointed and gasped. A blind lifeguard eh? Priceless.
Oh one last thing. Whilst running a spell checker in WordPress, I was a little dismayed to have it come up with this alternative:

 

There’s no fooling this computer is there?

 

Is scary how accurate this actually is. I don’t believe either of us got any action through sitting on that chair.

M 🙂

It’s a farmer’s life for me.


So today has been an interesting day full of many surprises and surprisingly, no lows. In my book this is a good day. Let me tell you a bit more about it so that you too can sit back in your chair, rock back with your hands behind your head and say, ‘Yes… that is a good day.’ As well as being a paramedic, I also live and work on a farm. The farm work is very much a minor side line at the moment but changes are afoot that might change that forever. The farm is primarily an arable farm and so that means we grow Barley, Wheat, Rape (I love that one, especially when you hear some of the local farmers shouting ‘Alright there Jock! Got much Rape done this year?’ ‘Not yet mate, I’m looking at getting some Rape done in the next few weeks or so. You know, if the weathers nice like.’), and we also grow beans. That side of the farm is mostly looked after by my wife’s mum but we pitch in where we can, especially around harvest time. So, the story goes that my wife and I really really wanted to get involved in the farm in a big way. Sadly, it didn’t look as though that was going to be possible because as farms go, this is only a small one and therefore can’t support more than one wage. The solution? Diversify.

We decided that livestock was going to be our route into the farm, as the site had several large buildings just standing empty. But not only buildings, no, that wouldn’t be much use would it? No, those lovely buildings are also surrounded by a few acres of grass land. Ch-ching! Sold!

The next question was what kind of livestock we should go for. My wife was dead keen on getting pigs and so we looked into that first. The thing with pigs though, depending upon breed, is that they can be escape artists and so we were reluctant to have them outside. The grassland is also shared with horses and we read that horses and pigs don’t particularly get on. Or maybe it’s just my wife’s horse that doesn’t get on with them. I’m not sure, but we moved away from the idea of keeping the pigs outside. The main reason was that they would decimate the grass and therefore starve the horses. Not really what we wanted. The next logical step was to look at having pigs solely in the barns. We even had a rep from a huge pig growing company come out and size the buildings up. He was pretty keen and really tried to sell the idea to us.

‘Yup, I reckon you can have a few hundred pigs in this here barn, maybe another fifty over there, and if you convert that there building where you keep all the machinery, maybe another two to three hundred there.’

‘We keep our machinery in that barn though. It’ll rust outside.’

‘I see. Well, what’s a bit of rust next to juicy pork leg eh?’

‘Won’t they get a bit cramped in there? How much space will they actually have per pig?

‘Per pig? Hell, pigs don’t really understand these things like you and I. Most important thing for a pig is that they don’t get lonely, which in this case they won’t because they’ll be standing ass to ass.’

‘Ooookay. Well, thanks for your time. We’ll be in touch.’

After that we decided that animal welfare was pretty high up on our agenda. The thought of being cramped in a hot smelly barn, standing in your brothers shit, in the dark, and trying not to fall asleep for fear of suffocating kind of put me off. I can remember that meeting as though it was yesterday. Not so much from the point of view that our worst fears about where that bacon in your sandwich comes from, but because our hopes were crushed that day. I looked much like this guy.

Can I be more happy?

A few weeks later when we were doing some cleaning at the farm we stumbled across these strange looking cylinder things.

‘What are these funny looking cylinder things, wife?’

‘They are feed hoppers.’

*Pause*

‘Feed hoppers for what?’

‘Chickens. Chickens and turkeys. Mum and Dad used to look after them.’

‘Here? Here on this farm? In these barns and around the farm and here on this farm???’

‘Ye…. Oooooh.’

*Pause*

‘Do you think we could do that? Saying as its been done here before and we have all the equipment right here?’

‘Don’t see why not.’

I could have kicked myself. No, that’s not true. I could have kicked my wife.

So we started to really look into how exactly her mum used to look after turkeys on the farm. As it turned out, the farm used to produce free-range chickens and turkeys in a big way. They’d have them from a day old and look after them while they grow fat in their own time, just wandering around the farm and living a good happy life. We felt as though we’d struck gold. It was everything we wanted and, the livestock wouldn’t suffer. It would have a good life with us. We made a few calls and a few weeks later, our new lodgers arrived.

Well this is nice isn’t it? Much better than in the brochure.

I think they are about six weeks old here. They’re so inquisitive, and highly amusing. We took on 1850 in total last year. When they’re small they’re no trouble at all, and didn’t really eat that much either. But then they get bigger, and they look more like this.

Listen up Bitch… I’m top dog in here. You’d better watch yourself or you’ll get shanked!

Near the end they were eating close to 750kg per day. The wife and I would move that by hand in bags we spent ages filling. You can’t imagine how time consuming and back breaking that is. In fact I can vaguely remember saying, once it was it over all over and they were off to the factory that I couldn’t see myself doing that again. But you do don’t you? It’s just as well really as we are about to take on 3100 this year. I was expecting numbers similar to last year but I almost fell off my stool when they told me that figure. It became apparent that we would need another feed silo and fast and so that’s where me and the wife have just been, trying to find one. As luck would have it, there is a guy just up the road who has a feed silo for sale. Wife and I went to have a look and found to our horror that it was set up as part of an automated feed system. We were about to thank him for his time (as we don’t have an automated system remember) when he said he’d sell us the lot, the silo and system altogether and not only that, he’d sell us whatever else we could see, pack it all up for us, transport it to our farm and install it too. I mean, has Christmas come early or what? If this works then not only will our output be doubled but our labour will have halved. Now, in my book, this is a good thing, and therefore a good day.

50 Shades of Chav (shamelessly pinched from someone else)


Shamelessly pinched from someone else….

“As he approached with those pasty white arms hanging out of his Gola vest, his smile told me it was benefit day and I knew my velour tracksuit would be hanging off the lampshade tonight” “ It was Wayne’s birthday. I was preparing his special tea of Findus pancakes and pot noodle. I would let him take me any way he wanted tonight. His favourite position was what he called the dogs of war. Where he took me from behind and played call of duty at the same time” “our 6 week anniversary was approaching. This would be my longest relationship without becoming pregnant. I thought of this as he lay on top of me making love. His skinny arms straddled my head like breadsticks either side of an orange. As I rubbed his whiter that white back I imagined every mole I felt was spelling out Braille for “ I Love You” As I stood in line at the job centre thinking of reasons I couldn’t work, a sweet smell drifted past my pig nostrils. It was a mixture of weed, BO and Lynx Africa. I turned around and there was Dwayne. Our eyes met and he was soon lifting me onto the wheelie bins behind Iceland. He had tied up his staffy to block the ally way so we wouldn’t be disturbed. There was a tramp watching but it just added to the mystery. I knew it was love and my life would never be the same.” “My mum told me to leave Dwayne many times due to violence but I knew he loved me as he always took his rings off before he hit me. Tonight though he was in a foul mood, I had **** his tea up after failing to de-frost his prawn ring I had nicked from farm foods. He picked up a power lead from my kids mega drive and whipped it across my doughy ****. It stung but I liked it. I shouted again and again so he carried on. I thought my shell suit would rip into a million pieces. As I looked over my shoulder I saw his Weetabix toothed smile. He even had a semi-on which is rare as crack normally played havoc with his erections…………………..”

Iron Man faints at the gym!


A bizarre title you might say but it was a bizarre series of events if I’m honest.

I’ll make this a quick one as I have already blogged today, but this made me laugh so here you go.

I have a suit of armour in my front lounge. I say front lounge as though I have more than one but I don’t. I have a tiny lounge, and my knight stands in the corner glaring at people as they enter the room. I’m seriously thinking of fitting a little microphone thing inside his helm and saying ‘NONE SHALL PASS’ to whoever comes to visit me.

He was almost menacing. Almost… until you spot the rubber gloves.

That would be cool right? But I digress.

A friend and his autistic son came and visited me today to drop off some goat food (Yes, I have goats.) and the young lad was in awe of my suit of armour. He kept poking it which causes my eye to twitch in what I presume is irritation and barely restrained gorilla rage. He keeps poking until it starts to sway at which point I feel the need to ask them both to leave. The father was somewhat embarrassed and I kind of feel bad, but hey… nobody pokes my knight in the groin.

A little while later I receive a text message from the father, firstly apologising and secondly telling me that his son thinks I am Tony Stark, aka Iron Man. Now I found this to be hugely cool. I have never been a hero before, even in my dreams. (Yes, I have been a Jedi.) To make things even cooler, my wife also bumped into them and the son asked her if I was a superhero. Ever up for a practical joke she simply replied, ‘Oh I wouldn’t be allowed to answer that. Superhero’s need to have a disguise, don’t they?’

She said his face lit up as though he were the only one in the world to know my secret. Priceless.

So, I am now a superhero in the eyes of an autistic child. Now, superhero’s need to look pretty super. They have to look all muscular and strong so that the baddies know they’ve picked on the wrong guy, and so I went down the gym. Now it’s important to remember a few facts here.

  1. I am now an approved superhero.
  2. I have not been to the gym in at least six months.
  3. The Olympics is on and they play it on huge screens in the gym, egging you on to greater feats of endurance and godliness.

I only did half an hour and boy did I feel as though I’d run for a week and lifted every rock and stone of Hadrian’s Wall. I left the gym and I have to say I was feeling pretty good until I stepped outside. My wife met me (as she had been swimming) and said that my lips were grey and that I had less colour than paper. I have to admit to feeling rather ill. We drove home as quickly as possible where upon getting in the house I promptly collapsed. My wife tells me I had no pulse at my wrist at this time and had it not been for my pitiful cries I could have been dead. Not a good look. Thank god the autistic kid didn’t see that.

Yes, I realise this is not Iron Man.

Right, that’s it for today. I need my rest. Hopefully my dignity will grow back as I sleep.

M J

I don’t feel like writing today.


I really don’t feel like writing today. And yet, I have to.

This is one of those creative writing advice things that you find somewhere near the front of just about every creative writing book out there. You the know the one, “Try to write a little something every day. Even if you don’t feel like it.” To be honest, I’m not feeling the love right now. It would be so easy to shut this program down and fire up a game. I’d have much more fun, at least for a time. Then my shoulder angel would appear and say something like ‘You know, if you didn’t waste your time playing these games, you could be writing the back story for them.’ This almost always happens, and how the hell do you argue with that anyway?

Then the shoulder devil appears and speaks his hard to ignore words, ‘Don’t listen to that guy. He’s full of crap. He wants to lead you down the path that sucks. I’m not. You’re doing just fine on your own. Look! You’re a level ten druid.’

This is my life. I have conversations with these guys daily.

Well, I’ve resisted the cool devil guy and here I am. This is a good thing. I feel better already for having sat here and let my mad fingers go to town over the keyboard. It could have been an ugly experience, especially if I’d had writers block. That could have led to a very grumpy and depressing afternoon. But no, this is good. My mind is working, the circuits are firing, and new synapses are growing in my skull. My mind is being charged up for a potent release of genius. I can feel it….
Hmmm. Any minute now…. any minute and genius will strike. I’ll never suffer with writer’s block again. Come to think of it, when do you start calling yourself a writer? Technically, as I have actually published a total of fuck all then I’m not really a writer am I? So what the hell have I got if not writers block? Depression? Brain damage? Hmmm. Something is going to have to change soon. I can’t go on staring at blank screens and wondering why I can’t do it.

That’s right… because the computer is to blame for your lack of talent.

It’s a damn good thing I’m not being paid for this. My boss (hypothetical) would no doubt be wondering how best to lay me off. I’ve just had the strangest mental image. I’m going to have to try to find an image to encapsulate it.

This needs no caption. Oh wait… this is a caption.

Well then. This is just getting silly now. Although, I thinks its been worthwhile. It’s a few hundred words I wouldn’t have written if nothing else.

Lets see what madness tomorrow brings.

M 🙂

Isaac Asimov – Now there’s a c**t.


There are times when I sit down at my computer to write and just stare blankly at the screen. I will sit there for hours, waiting for the muse to spear my cerebrum with a lightning bolt of inspiration. Whilst I’m waiting for her to come and find me of her own accord, I will seek her out by browsing the web of wonders. I’ll stop at all my usual places like the black hole of YouTube for instance, which as we all know, steals hours as though they were minutes, and other such places, like Facebook and various forums. If I’m having a particularly slow day, and as per usual neither I nor the muse can find each other for several hours, I might try and cheer myself up by playing ‘just a bit’ of Civilisation. Now there is a true ‘time sink.’ Why, just the other day I glanced at the clock at it said it was eleven o’clock. A few minutes later I checked again and it was ten past two. Oh, and iTunes. iTunes is another one that seems to be stealing my life, and yet it’s the one I most frequently visit. Like most people who enjoy being a rabid scribbler it’s important to get in the ‘mood’ so that you can write that truly apocalyptic scene that will win you a Hugo, or that tear jerking melancholic voyage of depression that will have people pouring water from their face all over their keyboard.

Yet, there is no muse is there? I’m sitting here laughing to myself when I think about how many hours I have sat here waiting to be struck down with inspiration and rise a genius. You know what I’m having right here? I’m having an epiphany – a sudden bright idea that sheds light and illuminates the dark and echoing landscape of my mind.

Image
That’s not me. My hair is better.

The only way forward is through sheer effort and determination. That means sitting here and writing whatever crap comes out even if the only good that comes of it is that its practice. I’ve read that writing is a craft that, like all crafts, needs to be worked at. Okay, I can see the logic there. But what about those of us who live in the modern world where we’re just not used to waiting for things to happen? In this day and age if you want something, generally speaking you can have it the next day, sometimes even on the same day. But then, I guess I would argue that anything really worth having that isn’t just massaging my consumerist ego should be worked at. I find that hard. I’m finding this journey hard. I can write. When I really put my mind to it and I’m not just letting my fingers dribble over a keyboard like today, I can write pretty well. But that’s not enough. I spoke with a guy the other day who reckons he could bash a story out in no time at all. I bet he couldn’t, at least anything publishable. It’s a hard road, that’s for sure. Man, how pissed would I be if that guy did sit down and bash out a story as though it were no trouble at all?

I’ve started reading some of Isaac Asimov’s stuff as well. Now, I admire that guy for the sheer amount of literature he produced when he was alive. He wrote hundreds of stories. I bet had another hundred in him too but for me, sitting here right now and waiting for that damn muse, well to me Isaac Asimov can bloody well have another few mounds of earth piled on his grave. I don’t mean that. Not really. That man was and still is a legend. I wish I could have met him. Its weird but some people, I dunno, famous people who I respect, I just want to shake their hand. I don’t particularly want to talk to them (I’d probably dribble and get carted off as a suspected stroke), I just want to shake hands. How weird is that? Yup, so its a shame he’s dead as now I won’t be able to that. Not unless I dug him up of course. Could be a bit strange shaking hands with a skeleton though. Wait, lets just think a moment. He died in 1992? Hmm, he might be a skeleton. I can’t think how long it takes for bodies to decompose. Then again, how would I know? He might be a kind of fleshy rotten zombie. Na’h, twenty years? Must be a skeleton. In which case I wouldn’t bother shaking the hand. I’d take the skull. How cool would thatbe to have Isaac Asimov’s skull on your writing desk? I wouldn’t need any bloody muse then. Okay, I’m a little sleep deprived here, and having some weird thoughts but you gotta admit, it would be cool.

Image
It was clear from his passport photo that he was taking the diet way too seriously.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m over complicating the whole process of writing a story. Maybe I should bash one out, tidy it up and then blast it out into the void to be mercilessly critiqued by others in my position. I guess that’s what other people have done and for some it must have worked out okay.

Well, it’s only midday but I think a little tot of Southern Comfort would go down a treat right about now, and so with that thought I’ll be off for.

Oh, Sarah, if you still read my stuff… can I ask if you ever critique work us plebs might throw at you?

M.

Freelance? Me?


I won’t lie. I want to make money out of this writing lark. I’m sure many people do, as I’m sure many people actually do. But can I?

There in lies the question at the heart of the matter. There are a few concerns I shall list below that are at the forefront of my mind whenever I ponder this subject.

1) Do I have the motivation to stick to a given deadline? I really don’t know. If the frequency of my blog posts is anything to go by then you would be forgiven for thinking that the answer is no. And yet, I write an awful lot behind the scenes and 90% of the dribble I do churn out is just sitting on my pc’s hard drive. I tell myself that maybe one day it might make interesting reading but in reality it probable won’t. I am a victim of today’s fast society. Everything must be now now now. I need instant gratification. If I start reading something that hasn’t got me hooked within the first few lines then I’m gone. It hurts to say that because I know how hard it is to write. To spend hours crafting something, rewriting countless sentences and re-reading paragraph after paragraph – you don’t need someone like me deciding it’s not worth the effort after reading your first line. Perhaps I’m missing out. Maybe. Or maybe I’m saving time for those writers who know how to grasp my attention.

2) Talent. Quite simply, do I have any? How do you gauge this? I could (and have in the past) give my work to my friends or family to see what they think. But what are they really going to say? It’s doubtful they’ll be rude or harsh in their critique, just as its likely they’ll come back with something nice to say about it. They won’t be impartial and because of that fact, anything they say wont mean a damn because you just never really know what it is they really think. So what do you do? My personal thought on this is to not give anything you value to friends or family. Instead, send something you love equally out to the competitions. Let the public be the judge. I have a few bits and pieces on another website right that are doing quite well. A short story I wrote while smashed off my face a year back is still ranked number one in its particular category. Yet, when I re-read that piece I cringe. It’s grammar is appalling and I clearly didn’t proof read it before submitting but there you go. I guess maybe even if it looks bloody awful (and it really does), the underlying story still somehow shone through the shite. It never ceases to amaze me what people really like.

3) Were my fortune to change and I managed to sell something, or several bits and pieces…. How much would I have to sell before I actually made enough to live off? I’m not in this for mega money. I’d just like to be able to get up, not bother getting dressed, sit in my study and paint with words all day whilst not having to worry about how to pay the bills. That’s not too much to ask is it?

4) Where do I find the writing jobs people say are everywhere? How do you break into writing for tv or role play gaming?

5) Where the hell is the writing oracle who knows all the answers to my noob questions??????

Well there you have it. I know I’m not alone, and that there are 100000000000 of you wannabe writers out there but I just thought this post might strike a chord with some. We travel a lonely road but maybe someone reading this has seen the off ramp somewhere and might throw a few sign posts up? Then again, maybe that’s why the road is lonely. If its that hard to get to where you want to be… Maybe you feel nobody should have an easy time of it. I mean, if you worked as hard as I am right now to get where you are, are you really going to let someone else in who hasn’t put in the time? I’d be interested to know any thoughts people may have.

A Tower of Tampons


I hate shopping. No, that’s no fair. I am bored by shopping. So very bored.

Yawn…. We’ve heard all of this before… Why should I read any further?

Well you don’t have to, but if you stay I’ll share with you how it is that I get through a shopping trip with the wife.

Many men hate/loath/fear being dragged around Tesco or where ever for the weekly food shop. Me too, but secretly, I’m really starting to look forward to it. Now its an opportunity for me to come up with new and inventive ways to make a nuisance of myself and generally be as unhelpful and childish as possible.

It all started during a trip to a local DIY store. I was outstandingly bored to the point that I found myself staring in mock disgust at other men, other men who were nodding enthusiastically at their wives selection of lamp or curtain pole. On one occasion a chap caught me staring at him, my face a twisted sneer of loathing and he stood stock still. I imagine the awful realisation of what he had become was dawning upon him as his arms, outstretched as they were and clutching a carpet held up to catch the light from various angles, slowly lowered as he stared back at me. I could see the momentary change in his gaze as we shared a moment of understanding. What had we become? In my mind I wondered what a warrior Celt or roman soldier would have done when confronted with a choice of fabric to put on his humble homes floor. I imagine he would have back handed the woman to the floor, roared like an enraged god and then charged out into the ice wind to seek enemies to smite. He would return speckled with blood and carrying the bloody corpse of a slain lion – actually, two lions, one in each hand. The woman would then gratefully show her respect by prancing about naked and making ‘cute’ gasps of delight as our hero describes the lions final moments. Needless to say she would then except her reward for being a good and dutiful wife through the medium of a proper deep throating.

Er…. I digress.

So this guy sees my sneer of disgust and knows instantly that I think he’s a thumb crushed wimp of a man, but what’s this? His look of shock and recent dejection changes. It warps before my very eyes into one of a wry smile, grows into something more before finally, he beams in abject triumph. I follow his gaze and turn to see my own wife. She is holding a curtain rail in each hand and waiting for my judgement.

Sigh.

She sees me squeeze my eyes closed and assumes I am thinking really hard about which rail to choose but I’m not. I’m trying to hold on to the memory of me as a heroic Celt warrior being noshed silly by a grateful nymph and yet the dream drifts away – mere smoke through my grasping spastic fingers. In its place I see a pathetic looking man, naked and limp. He is sad as he looks at me and points where his beautiful naked nymph once stood. There stands a cackling witch and in her hand she holds a curtain rail shaped wand.

Sigh.

And so I grow angry, and then mischievous. We walk to another isle where a row of plungers catches my eye. I walk along the row pushing each and every plunger down so that it suctions to its shelf. Then I retire a little further up the isle and await some poor fool to walk into my trap. Behold! My first victim arrives and assuming nothing is amiss he tries to pluck up a plunger without even breaking stride. His stroll is suddenly arrested as the plunger refuses to move and he almost pulls himself off his own feet. As anyone would, he looks around quickly to see if anyone has noticed and sees me sniggering to myself. He shakes his head at me and reaches for another only to be thwarted a second time. I continue to snigger, only a little louder and my obvious mirth appears to challenge him. He places one foot on the shelf and for some reason unknown heaves with all of his might. I’m not sure how much suction he thought was holding those plungers down but the amount of effort he applied was probably a tad too much. The plunger, obviously, relinquishes its grip and the man, plunger in hand stumbles backward into the opposite isle.

I can barely stand, such is my amusement.

After that episode I spent many hours considering other schemes to amuse myself.

Hiding with the trolly is always a good one. I usually do this after my wife has just been down the pet food aisle and so carrying two cases of cat food. Watching her struggle to carry them around the shop and red with rage is priceless.

My best one so far though has go to be this. My wife has a fear of tampons. I don’t know if it’s the word ‘tampon’ or if it’s actually the thought that anyone who sees them will know she’s on her period but it still makes her bury them in the shopping trolly. This always amuses me. One day, I feigned interest and walked around the shop with her. I didn’t do any of my usual tricks or jokes and she assumed I’d finally grown up. When we got to the checkout she went to the packing bit and started to pack the bags while I proceeded to construct my masterpiece. I was getting some strange looks from the woman in the queue behind me as instead of laying all my shopping out nicely I proceeded to build a tower of food and other bits and pieces. And yes, you’ve guessed it, I placed her tampons at the top of this tower. I knew I would pay for it a soon as I got home but right there and then I was glowing with pride. The till girl saw what I had done as my massive tampon tower slowly moved toward her. At least she had a sense of humour as she laughed out loud. My wife then noticed and turned a brilliant red. It was awesome.

So you see, shopping doesn’t have to be hell on earth. There are a million and one different ways to make it more interesting, if not a little dangerous, but you get the meaning.

I wish you luck in your endeavours and hope you find as much enjoyment as I have an still do.

On Writing – Support


 

‘Are you coming down the farm?’ She asked the question in a tone that expected I had nothing else important to do.

I hesitated, aware of the precarious situation I was in. After all, a refusal could be construed as rejection on my part.

What to say? I was desperate to write, but in truth, and even though she didn’t say as much, I really had nothing important to do. I certainly hadn’t got anything important to write. And yet, I knew I had to write just for the sake of writing. Writing is of course a craft and one can’t expect to ever get any better if one does not practice his craft with fanatical fervour.

In the end my hesitation won the battle for me before battle had even begun. It warped itself into a palpable aura of sulk that proceeded to melt my face into that of a petulant child. I did not do this on purpose, rather my whole being seemed to respond to the threat of not being able to write by my regression back to a child like state. I call this my Level One writing fit. Level Two sees my regression go even further whereby I enter a primate like state, raging and hopping about like a maddened gorilla. Unfortunately for me, Level Two is completely ineffectual against my wife who is able to slay petulant gorilla men with a single stare – a stare that threatens pain and suffering on a scale untold unless one calms, sits and enters peaceful negotiation. This negotiation is I swear both victory for her and a punishment for me as not only do realise I have become an arse, but I am losing writing time by the second until I acknowledge my current arsehole status.

On the whole though, I have the support I need. I am blessed with a wife who understands the importance reading and writing are to me. I feel immense sorrow (pity?) for those writers whose partners are not supportive. Knowing how much reading and writing means to me, I am not sure I could be in a relationship without the level of support I have. I read about writers who have shut themselves away from the world. They’ve cut themselves off from friends and family and they hide behind closed doors, and all so that they can gain a piece of that solitude we as writers all crave. I can understand why they would do that. I really can. It is for this reason that I bless my luck at having a wife who stands by me as I stumble on down the path of the writer. My concerns are heard with a ready ear, my hopes caressed and my dreams encouraged. When I fall, my wounds are soothed, my pride eased and my ambition stoked.

You would be wrong to think my wife simply pours honey in my ear and gives false hope for she is also my chief critic and advisor. Nothing gets passed her that would not be better burned. In fact, my previous post talks all about this and so read that if you can spare another few minutes. It saves me repeating myself.

Having read back through this post I am amused by what it has become. It was supposed to be all about how important support is to writers, but what I appear to have written is how important my wife’s support is to me. But then, I suppose I have achieved my goal after all as without her support, I wouldn’t be writing very much at all. Support in my eyes is not just that which someone gives so you can go off and play writer while they do the dishes or walk the dog. It’s something they give even when you’re down and don’t feel up to putting your thoughts and feelings out there. That’s real support – the ability to give you a bloody good kick up the arse, and make you chase that dream you’re always harping on about.