Fergus Gets Stuck - for anthony cheetham, wherever he may be

FERGUS GETS STUCK
Norma heard it as soon as she opened the door. Dumping the cat litter and huge bag of cat food, keys crashing to the floor she started towards the lounge. He was crying like a baby; it was horrible. She frantically followed the sound to the lounge and drew a sharp breath when it looked empty.

‘Here push, push, push, Fergus where are you? Com’on push cat’

The baby wailing was coming from under the sofa and as she crouched on her hands and knees, the new carpet felt – odd. Sticky. Cold.

‘Com’on, out of there.’ He looked up at her, wailing mournfully. It looked like he’d been thrashing around for ages, the bottom of the sofa had lots of bite marks and 2 claws stuck in it. And when she stood up and took her hands away from the carpet they were slimey. This was bit odd. She grabbed him and pulled and the noise got worse. ‘Stuck are you? Well hold off on the claws and I’ll get you out’
After pulling some more, she gave up, and still mumbling comfort, moved the sofa away from him. He was stuck fast to the new carpet. Not just three paws, but tummy as well. And as she pulled, she could see that there was no fur on his tummy. It looked like, well, like it had been eaten away almost. He’d been de-furred by something.

Norma was a practical person. Stroking Fergus to calm him, the first thing she did was phoned Colin her next door neighbour. A widower. Also in his 60s, very capable was Colin. He appeared at the door panting with a wooden spatula, large pair of garden shears and some WD40.
‘Oh Colin, WD40? That carpet’s only a month old!’
‘It’s that or Fergus, Norma, and I know how much you love him. Let’s see what we can do eh?’ When Colin said the word ‘love’ Norma started to sniff and a small tear appeared in the corner of her eye. Colin rushed past her and didn’t see. It wouldn’t do to let him see how upset she was. That was kind, especially as he didn’t like Fergus much, he was always pooing in Colin’s garden and digging up his seedlings.

The baby wailing started again as Colin sprayed some WD40 on the carpet around Fergus. And there was a nasty smell you could taste that rode over the chemical smell of the WD40. ‘Come on Fergus, we’ll get you out. You’ll live to dig up my veg patch. Ring the vets Norma, tell them what’s happening and ask if they’ve got any tips’.

‘Vets. Right’. Colin set to work easing the spatula gently under one of the Fergus’ paws amid more clawing and thrashing, during which time the terrible smell got worse.

‘It’s engaged. I’ll keep trying’

‘Got it!’ One paw was free. Which Fergus immediately started using it to claw the carpet, getting quiet ferocious with his hissing.

‘It’s the Nanozome stuff Norma, I’ve been hearing about this on the net’. Norma’s new carpet was treated with Nanozomes. Supposedly the tiny nanobots would ‘eat’ the dust and dirt and keep it clean without ever really needing a hoover. Norma was terribly proud, it was very new, had cost her a fortune, and she was the first in the Close to get one. Only now binning the hoover didn’t seem like the best thing she’d ever done, with Fergus’ tummy stuck to the bloody carpet and Colin wielding a spatula and spraying WD40 about.

‘Yes. I have an emergency. My cat is stuck to the carpet.’
‘Yes, it is treated with Nanozomes.’ She frowned and looked at Colin who raised his eyebrows, waved the spatula, and pulled an ‘I told you so’ face.

‘Well we’re trying WD40 just now’ The vet wasn’t very helpful. They’d had quite a few instances and hadn’t had much success, apparently the only thing they could recommend is cutting him out of the carpet with the carpet and bringing him in to the surgery so they could try cutting it off themselves.

‘Try to keep him calm they said, and don’t let him go into shock’.
Colin eventually got all 4 paws freed. So they stopped for a bit and gave him something to eat. As he stood up something dark and gooey, the colour of his dark green cords, stayed on the carpet.
‘You’d better watch this Norma, this stuff is evil.’
‘Colin, now really, it’s only a carpet.’ She smiled weakly and tried not think about owning an evil carpet.
‘It’s got that Nano stuff on it. In it. Part of it. If you’d listened when I did the research, you’d never have bought it. This has been going on for months and they’ve kept it quiet. This stuff is dangerous Norma. I’m serious, just look at what it’s done to poor Fergus. It’s got to go.’

His ears pricked up at his name, he looked quieter, more relaxed, but the tummy was going to be difficult. It looked – just like the Nanozomes had sort of eaten his fur. And probably working on his tummy too, or at least the skin.

Norma sighed. There was nothing for it, they’ve had to cut him out of the carpet and take him to the vets. As Colin cut, something sticky gripped the shears, and they had to resort to a stanley knife. A few broken blades later and he was free. Well, with a bit of carpet still stuck to his middle. She bundled Fergus into a towel and looked back her lounge. Colin was shoving the furniture into the hall, which squelched as he pushed. It seemed for a moment like the carpet was, well, fighting them. Maybe it was evil.

‘Don’t you worry Norma, this’ll be in the Robertson’s skip by the time you’re back. Filthy stuff.’

He was in his element she realised, big gardening gloves on, shifting stuff about, taking charge. Not for the first time she blushed looking at him. He was a nice man, helping them both, especially when he didn’t really like Fergus much.

She laid Fergus tenderly in a rug on the back seat of the car and sped off. As she went round the corner, Colin slipped and fell his length in the lounge.

He was out for a couple of seconds and when he came to, he couldn’t move his head. ‘Oh no you don’t’ he said to an empty room ‘you’ll not get me if I have to use a bloody flamethrower and burn the street down’. Wrenching his head off the carpet was very very sore. It’s left hairs and he yelped. Then he slid out of his jumper and trousars, and reached for the WD40. He stood up, and liberally sprayed the carpet. It seemed to sort of shrivel away from him, so he managed to unstick his boots.

He looked admiringly at the blue and yellow can. It was true what they said. All you needed in a crisis was WD40 and some gaffer tape. He set to work on the carpet with the stanley knife, ghostly blue white skin offset by gardening gloves, y fronts and stout boots, humming tunelessly to himself.

‘There you go, you little buggers. That’s settled your hash’.

Lucy Lowe – 20/11/07

My first five years

My first years were feted, my every whim sated, I was the golden child for people who had already had to give up a daughter and a grand daughter for adoption.

I was indulged, adored, in a word, spoilt. It is my biggest regret that to this day I didn’t fight harder to go with my father – although the kidnapping rather put paid to that – as I would have had a pony. No doubt the unwanted attentions of my German stepmother would have been harsh. But the house was large, and she other things on her mind. Like opening the wine at 11am. Couldn’t have the elder, snoopy STEPdaughter living round the house then, oh no.

So, my first memory. Sitting under a table, watching my parents argue AGAIN, with the cat hiding next to me, and picking tomato sauce off the lino that my dad had dropped there several days earlier. You can tell I have a vivid imagination, we didn’t have a cat. Not then.

My next memory is of lying under a grand piano, on the carpeted floor of a recording studio somewhere in Cornwall, sucking a very hairy ‘Tune’ off the carpet that some no-mark muso had thankfully dropped. I think we were with the Troggs, or maybe Hermans Hermits. Dad is a bit vague about that. Anyway, they were doing takes and I wasn’t allowed out from under the piano. The next day, as it dawned, all the grown ups stripped their clothes off and ran into the sea naked. Leaving me fully dressed sitting on a rock, watching them, and the Cornish dawn. I was very, VERY hungry.

Those are my first two memories. They are true. This is the third.

I was a tomboy, which was good for my grandfather (the one who disappeared) as he often took me worming at the beach, or to castles where we had mock sword fights and stormed the moat. He could also drive the car with no hands. And that was mind blowing and amazing. Or it was when I was four.

So the first five years were glorious. Which was ill preparation for the next 15, as they were rather less than glorious.

More to follow.
Lucy

No Smoking by Lucy Lowe

No Smoking by Lucy Lowe
For my Dad, who knows he needs to give up.


'Put that ruddy barbeque out!' Colin was doing his best to run with the fire extinguisher, chest bursting under his zip-up cardy.

The residents all knew they weren't supposed to have fires of any kind – no smoking, no bonfires, no barbecues, no gas, no flames of any sort. But there was always some smarty pants visitor who decided that the rules didn't matter.

Well they do matter, thought Colin, they ruddy well matter a lot. Running with a fire extinguisher wasn't something he did very often, and with a beetroot head and blood pounding in his ears he had lost the element of surprise.

Still, he managed to cover the disposable barbecues in foam before Mrs McDonald's nephew barrelled into him.

'Oy, that's my bloody tea you're wrecking!' He went to kick Colin, ridiculous in his naked woman apron, snapping metal tongs at Colin’s ear.

The sight of white foam sausages and chicken legs right next to his face made Colin want to laugh, but he knew he'd get more from the grandson, and didn't plan to make it any worse. ‘Step back son’, McDonald senior pulled his son away from Colin’s face.

'I told him the rules Colin, I did, but he didn't listen'. Mrs McDonald could always be relied upon to snitch under pressure. McDonald senior pulled Colin to his feet and started to apologise.

'Oh thanks Nana’, the grandson spat flinging his apron off and striding towards the carpark. 'I'm going to have a fag, and no little twat in a zip up Woolies cardy is going to stop me'. Colin knew he'd lost though, all the bluster had gone out of him.

'Sorry Colin, I won't let him do it next time'.
'Fair enough Mrs M, fair enough. We'll overlook it this time eh? But you know the rules, a second time and we'll have to talk about you moving on.'

'Now there's no need for that, is there?' McDonald senior batted in 'I mean, we won't do it again now will we? Especially not now the weather’s turning.’

The last thing anyone wanted was for Mrs M with her little ‘accidents’ to be sent home again. They were happy to have her off their backs, and she was happy to be living at Stanhope OAP Caravan Park, with lots of home help visits, the on-site nurse, the clubhouse with a good canteen, and lots of other oldies to gossip with.

Legs trembling, Colin tried to keep a straight back as he walked back to his cabin. He could feel the eyes of the McDonald family slamming into him with every wobbly step. If Mrs M was happy there, the family were even happier that she was there. And if that meant no fire, no flames, they'd do it. The families were actually very grateful usually. Despite only being open two years, the waiting list for Stanhope was growing by the week.

Getting back seemed to take far longer than it should, blazing hot and pulse racing. He was grateful to slump into his favourite armchair. He even had to unzip his cardy to cool off, which made him feel a bit funny, like he was naked. With tea on hand and ‘Deal or No Deal’ on, he drifted off. The incident reminded him of his mum, and her passing was still fresh in his mind. Still a bit sore after four years, everyone said it'd pass eventually, but hadn't yet.


He’d been in a blue funk for the year after her death. Well, what with losing the house as well, never mind the cat, he was lost too; completely. Still kept his job at the factory, work helped a bit. Next door took him in, and looked after him for a while. They found him a bedsit in the next street, went round for his tea most evenings, they were very kind. But despite all the rallying round, and the terrible kindness, he just couldn’t get the image of her body in flames out of his head.

John had come to see him one day, one of the fireman who’d tried to save her. Had a quiet word. Because everyone in the town knew him, knew about his dad dying too, they’d sort of fudged the investigation. Electric blanket fire was the official verdict. It was very old, faulty wiring. Mr Blake the coroner was happy enough with that.

So he got the insurance pay out after all, and no questions asked. Everyone wanted to see him right, after all he’d been through. What with his mum, and that after they’d both nursed his father through emphysema. And his, well, his terrible going.

He still heard his dad in his dreams sometimes, wheezing, desperate to catch a breath. Smoked for 45 years, hadn’t even given up when he was diagnosed. ‘I’m too far on the road for that Colin. If it’s my time, it’s my time. Now nip down the shop and get us 20 B&H would you?’

Colin has tried to make him see what he was doing to himself, but with his mum still smoking too, it all fell on deaf ears. His death was too horrible, so much so that Colin refused to remember. To console himself, he’d done the house up. Colin had painted it, painted the whole house once he went. Painted the yellow nicotine away. Anything to keep himself busy.

The insurance money did come in handy. His mum had a new kitchen, and they’d gotten the windows done finally. Changed the garden, after what had happened that had to be done. But she’d never been the same.

Six months later he’d come home from a night shift to find the street blocked off. Fire engines, police, ambulance. It was just like the telly. Only it was his house on fire, and that hadn’t felt like the telly, not at all. They were lucky to save the next house along, the Browns all standing outside in their slippers and dressing gowns, Mrs B crying.

But no-one had really blamed his mum. They knew she hadn’t been right without his dad, probably just a matter of time, everyone said.

Thinking it through when his head cleared, Colin reckoned she'd been smoking in bed, a sneaky fag. Probably devouring a Mills and Boon from the library van. Probably fell asleep with the ashtray on her chest, cat at the bottom of the bed and that was that.

He’d was very surprised by the size of the estate. With over half the insurance money left from his dad, the payout for his mum and years worth of squirreling money away ‘for a rainy day Colin’, he had quite a big sum. A very big sum. So he’d taken early retirement from the factory – another lump sum, pension paid up for 30 years – and bought a motor home.

Went north, touring the Scottish Borders, staying where he felt like. That’s where the big idea hit him, and Stanhope OAP Caravan Park started to take shape.

The way he saw it old people got the raw deal. They ended up in horrible places, with no privacy and bad food, and often bad carers. They had a right to enjoy the end of their lives. So why not give them a holiday park type place to live in? Besides, he missed his mum and well, he just liked old people. Felt he understood them somehow, wanted to help and put his money to good use. Couldn’t just use it for himself, that’d never do. Felt wrong.

Came upon the perfect site in the borders. High but flat, with good views of the sea. Close enough to Haddington to get to a hospital, far enough to be secluded. Big place. Rained a lot. He liked that. Made the bloke an offer he couldn’t refuse, happy accept in fact, desperate to leave, and that was that.

Spent a year getting it right. Cabins mostly, with ramps up to the doors. Three big rooms, lounge with kitchenette, bedroom, bathroom all set up with handles and pulleys, special baths and all that. Canteen with good food, and some event most nights. Everything done, so they could enjoy their life up till the last gasp.

He didn’t want anyone to go like his folks had. So the biggest rule was no fire, no smoke, no flames of any kind. He’d taken a long time to reach that decision, but he couldn’t face any of it happening again. And the rule seemed like the simplest way to avoid it. He’d still get the odd plonker, like Mrs M’s nephew, but so long as he got there in time, nothing too bad happened.

It surprised him, the standing it gave him in the local community, running the place. Hadn’t considered it. He’d brought in Margaret, to manage the place day-to-day. Wasn’t daft enough to think he’d know what was what when he’d been making electrical components for radios all his life. She’d run a home before but hated the big boss who scrimped on everything and made her life a misery. He promised a free hand and a big budget, she got on with employing locals and the place started coming to life.

Everyone in the village was very happy about it, oldies don’t tend to run riot or cause trouble. And they looked after the senile ones very carefully. The more mobile ones bought a few pints in the local or nipped to the paper shop. The bowling club membership increased threefold. The local doctors had to employ some new people to cope, but that was fine too.

Most of all, the residents (as he insisted on calling them) really enjoyed themselves. They were very happy. They all got interviewed before they were let in, a bit perturbed when he’d sniffed their hair, their coats to find out if they were lying about smoking. But the ones that weren’t, who got to move in, described it as the nicest place they’d lived in. They all thought the world of Colin. Which was something else he’d not expected. Nice though it made him feel a bit nervous, didn’t like the limelight much.

‘Hello there Colin, only me’. He jumped off the chair when the door knocked, cat and remote flying off his lap. Jeanie the local chiropodist popped her head round the door and Colin blushed. ‘Oh dear, what did I catch you doing? You’ve gone ever so red!’ she laughed, and her entire body shook with joy. She was the happiest woman he’d ever seen, was Jeanie, and she made other parts of him happy too. Parts that hadn’t been happy for as long as he could remember., well ever really. His blush turned a deep crimson as he stood up and sat down again quickly.

‘H-hello Jeanie, just having a quick doze. W- what can I do for you. It’s Saturday, w-w-wha- are you doing here?’ Colin really really hated his stutter. Particularly now, as he watched Jeanie trying very hard not to finish his words for him. It would have to be her waking him up, wouldn’t it?

‘Just popping in some extra corn plasters and medicated talc for the Browns in number 16. And I might pop into the canteen after, Mrs Wilson said she’d help me learn bridge with the other “gals”. If that’s okay with you that is?’
‘S-s-s-sure thing. I mean y-yes that’s fine. M-m-might see you there later’
he watched her walk up the path, stopping to chat to Brian Ellis and have a laugh. She was always smiling, always laughing. He always smiled too when she was about. He told himself he might slip to the canteen later, once he’d finished for the day. And immediately went to have a shower and change into a fresh cardy. Women didn’t like the smell of sweat, that much he did know.

When he finally plucked up the courage to open the back door of the bar, the sound of laughter hit him in a wave. The bridge game was in full swing. Or rather, Jeanie was, teasing the old ‘gals’ about their glory days in the war.
‘…. So tell me again, he was a GI from Kansas, he asked to meet your dad, so you showed him your knickers? Or did he ask to see your knickers so you asked him to meet your dad?’ Mr Brown got his inhaler out from too much laughing, as Jeanie winked round the table and then caught sight of Colin.

‘Colin! Now ladies here’s a man who’ll put us right. Colin, what would you have made of Verity here during the war? Would you have wanted to meet her dad?’
‘Or see her knickers!’ muttered Mrs Price behind her cards, and they were off again.
Colin blushed again and Mrs Price grinned ‘Told you dear. It’s not Verity’s drawers he’s interested in. It’s yours’. Her hearing aid shrieked as everyone turned to Colin trying very hard to disguise their giggles and failing.

Colin spun round and slammed the door as hard as he could. Almost running back to his cabin, head thumping for the second time that day.

His hands had only just stopped shaking the whiskey glass when the door knocked. When he didn’t answer, he heard Jeanie’s voice though the door. ‘Colin, I’m, I just wanted to, I’m…. Oh bugger, can I come in, I mean it’s starting to drizzle.’ On the step he found her cuddling Ginger.

‘Look Colin, I’m sorry, it wasn’t meant, y’know, just a bit of a laugh. Sometimes I go too far I know. Will you accept my apologies?’

‘You’d better come in.’
‘Well this is nice. I’ve never been in before, only to the others. I thought yours was bigger. Can I take a look around? You’ve done it up very smart. Big kitchen too…’ as she burbled on, smiling up at him, Colin was caught once again by her dimples.
‘J-jeanie’
‘Hmmm? Yes, well as I said…’
‘JEANIE’
‘Sorry sorry, I do go on’
‘Would you, well would you like to erm, g-g-go out with me for a drink?’ He finished quickly, not wanting his sentence finished for him.

She’d gone uncharacteristically quiet and his heart stopped for a minute. Then a huge smile burst across her face ‘Oh Colin, I’d love to, I’d really really like that’.

And that was that. One drink led to dinner, lunch on Sundays, cards in the clubhouse. Colin was happy, happier than he’d ever been. And as the autumn leaves turned, his thoughts turned too. He wasn’t sure what it was supposed to feel like, but this felt, well, like love to him.

Saw her most days, but couldn’t wait to see her, wanted to see her all the time. Really wanted her, if truth be known. Not that there had been any of that. He’d always planned to wait till his wedding night. He blushed at the thought, not daring to think of Jeanie or a wedding night.

He was so carried away with getting the ring and how to do it, that he didn’t really think when she asked about bonfire night.

‘The kiddies would love it Colin, otherwise they’ve got to go all they way to Haddington and you’ve got plenty of land. I know how you feel about fire, but we could have it in the back field, that’s far enough away isn’t it? I could get Pat and the boys, you wouldn’t even have to be involved. I mean what’s the harm? A little fireworks party…’

Deep down something hard jumped, his dad’s face popped up. The last face.
He swallowed and pushed it away.

But maybe she was right. Where was the harm? It wasn’t like anything would happen, and anyway when she asked he found it really hard to say no to anything.
‘Yes love, why not?’

‘Oh thanks Colin, you won’t have to do a thing, I promise. I’ll sort it all out.’ His heart jumped again when she smiled. And he watched her ample bottom as she walked to her car. Love melted him. He’d do anything for her. His dad’s image melted right away. Thankfully.

So, why not? He didn’t have to be around for it, could watch from the park, get the local lads kitted up as fire wardens. It was fireworks night and the village was too small for a big do. Yes, that’s what they’d have. A big do. Then he’d ask her, that’s right. He’d show that he could cope with fire, show himself really, then he’d get down on one knee and ruddy well ask her.

5 November was a glorious autumn day. Not too warm, clear skies.
‘It’ll be chilly tonight Colin’. Mr Brown smiled as Colin jumped. He was staring down at the bottom field with an odd look on his face. The bonfire was frankly huge. The local kids had all had a hand in it, and they were all bringing guys to burn on it. He hadn’t thought it’d be that big.
‘Y-yes, it’ll be – it’ll be c-cold’. That stutter. It mostly had gone but the bonfire, something about it.
‘Good that you’re doing this lad, the local kids are made up, maybe make it annual event eh? You and Jeanie?’ Colin blushed again. That was happening a lot. The mere mention of her name made his whole body burn these days.
Mr Brown chuckled as he limped away, stroller gleaming in the low autumn sun.

As the evening started closing in they arrived in a procession. Kids flashing sparklers, dads with guys on their shoulders, some older lads with a man size guy in a shopping trolley. As he looked closer he could see a few knitted cardies, some glasses and brown trousers. Jeanie grabbed his arm and laughed ‘look Colin, they’re burning guys of you!’ It was true, it looked like they’d all made versions of him. He gulped.
‘That’s er, nice’. His voice dropped weakly away. The lump in his throat stopped him speaking.
‘You should be so proud’ she dropped a kiss on his cheek ‘It’s their way of saying ‘thank you’.’ Bit of a bloody odd thank you if you ask me. He thought but didn’t say.

‘Now, I’m off down to the bonfire. All the firewardens are in place. They’re going to start the fireworks in half an hour or so so why don’t you go to the clubhouse and round up the oldies who can walk? If you stay up here with them on the ridge, they’ll be able to see and you’ll all be far enough away.’ The residents had all put in for the fireworks, they loved a bit of a do.

‘Yes love, see you in a bit’.

He went to find Margaret and the team. Yellow hi-vi vest on, torch in hand. As the fireworks threw sky flowers above their heads, everyone ooo-ed and ahh-ed. It was great show, the night sky filled with amazing droplets of light, like pure colour dropped into the blackest sky. At some point Colin felt drawn to the bonfire. Felt himself walking down the hill a bit. Jeanie grabbed his arm ‘Oooh love, you’re freezing, come and get warm. There’s jacket potatoes in the embers. We’ve had 2 tins of beans explode already, tomato fireworks the kids are calling them’.

They paraded through the crowd, arm in arm, everyone thanking him and calling out his name. He’d never felt more safe, more home than now. The crowd went quiet. Everyone’s face was glowing orangey red, as they turned towards him and clapped.
‘och say something love, they wanted to thank you’.

‘Erm, I’m not, v-v-very good at this but it’s lovely to see everyone so happy tonight. Th-th-thanks for coming. Oh and thanks for the guys, I see you’ve made me Guy Fawkes f-for the n-n-night’. At least he hadn’t stuttered much.

He only noticed he was to close to the fire when his trousers started smouldering. ‘Oopps, that’d be ironic, if you burnt up eh?’ Jeanie face was a beautiful orange picture.
‘Jeanie, I’ve got something –‘ he groped in his pocket as she stopped him with a kiss and a push away from the fire. ‘Sssh honey, it’s okay, let’s go back to your cabin’.

But they couldn’t get through, the press of smiling people was too much, there was low hum as if they wanted something but couldn’t speak. They pressed them both back towards the fire. Over the crackles he thought he heard ‘Burn, burn, burn’. And everyone around the fire smiled, and smiled and smiled. The blood rushed in his ears or was that ‘burn, burn, burn’?

As Colin’s head started to smoulder he remembered his dad. They’d had a bonfire in the garden to burn some old papers, just before he died. Didn’t want any mess left to clear up. His oxygen tank had exploded and Dad’s head had burnt to a crisp really fast. Right next to him, he’d never been able to truly wipe it from his mind. Who could forget that? ‘No smoking. Huh.’ He managed to smile as his face started to melt. Everyone said he looked so very much like his dad. Especially now.

Right next to him, Jeanie screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed. A great big roaring bonfire, sending burning Guys, sacrificial spoils up, up, up into the blackness of the cold November night. Burn, burn, burn.

Completed April 2010

'Things happen when you drink'

As my facebooker friends know, I follow russian news stories. They really are some of the most insane people on the planet and I say that with a degree of admiration. Here are my top ones:

• The Vodka Drinking competition where the winner died and the losers ended up in intensive care.
• The rave where they used an industrial laser and blinded people.
• The all time top favourite: the drunken russian who got stabbed and didn't notice for several hours until his wife saw a knife sticking out of his back.

For reference, I find most of them on Reuters Oddly Enough, which is where most of the world's 'end of news' stories seem to start.

Off to check up on the feeds, if you get any more crazy russian stories, send em to me. I hate to miss out.

Lucy

Something what I wrote

Hi all,
It's been a while. But now I'm back. And here's a little taster of what's to come.

The Goto Girl
For GBM

The goto girl is silly and dirty.
She’s high as a kite
She’s giggly and flirty.
And she is the girl
With the very best
Drugs.
Your goto girl, now she’s no mug.

If you want to party daft
Just watch her dance in the dark.
As the breeze takes her very short
Silky red dress
And flips it above knicker height.

Then the goto girl is silly and dirty.
She’s high as a kite
She’s girly and flirty.
But your goto girl, now she’s no mug
So don ‘t start thinking you can be smug.

Cos when she leaves you, sonny boy,
And yes, she will,
She’ll leave your wallet rather light
And flit off with her bag of wares
Into the guiness of the night.

She’ll leave you with some interesting bruises
In very sore places.
With some nasty little shakes,
And your bloodshot eyes, you’re all a bit spacey.

That goto girl is nasty and dirty.
She’s high as a kite
She’s giggly and flirty.
But she is the girl
With the very best
Drugs.
Your goto girl, now she’s no mug.

You go too, girl.
And how.

Mar 2010.

Bring me sunshine

Isn't it funny how life turns out? For the record, I never imagined - not for a second - that I'd be married with two kids and living in Cheshire. But then, I never envisaged living in Dundee either. I suppose what I've done is just let life happen to me. I was never the kind of kid who thought about my wedding day or what I'd do later on. I simply just got on with living.

I did have plans for my 40s, but I've given up making plans. Obviously my life isn't meant to be like that, but the best thing about now, is that I'm starting to enjoy it for the first time. Having the second baby has meant that I have to go with the flow. And that attitude is starting to seep into other areas of my thinking so that I'm not able to push at life. I'm just doing my hardest to be the best I can be on the day. It's tiring making to do lists and forever never finishing them. The striving is very exhausting. I can't say for sure that I'm done with that way of thinking, but I'll try.

I've had alot of hardship and made a point of telling my friends about that. So now I'm always trying to be sure to tell everyone when I'm happy. And today I'm happy.

Yours

Lucy

A woman's work....

Getting up twice a night to feed a small squally son tends to make my creative juices run rather dry, hence the lack of posting. It's the normal early baby chaos: there are piles of washing in various states everywhere, cat litter all over the landing and sheets that SERIOUSLY need changing. I won't go on, you get the less-than-fragrant picture.

I've long held the opinion that it's nearly impossible to look after everyone, have a clean house, clean clothes and a general state of domestic calm AND work creatively at the same time. There's something about the repetitive tedium of domestic tasks that dampens the creative spark. Or at least it always has done in me. Which means I haven't written anything fiction related for several months.

What is interesting is a very old, dear friend of mine (my mentor in book publishing, waaay back in the day) has similar issues but the key thing is - she's ALSO working. And writing and being published at that.

So I'm right, you can't to do it all. The answer is a) staff - what I wouldn't give for a general housekeeper-cum-nanny or b) let it all fall as it may and get the creative stuff done. Unfortunately, I hate mess so feel compelled to tidy up even if it means shoving stuff randomly in cupboards which drives Dr G mad.

Not sure what to add to that, except, thank god for my cleaners.
Lucy