A Victor Meldrew Moment!

Anyone who knows me will tell you that I am not really one for getting tied up in knots about the 'Queen's English'. I still struggling with knowing what are nouns, pro-nouns, adverbs etc so I basically write instinctively. (Although others may not agree). I have tried teaching myself this grammer stuff, but I struggle to really understand but yet I am still able to write. I think growing up in the 60's and going through modern teaching practices, which really seemed to mean they taught you nothing (especially at in country secondary modern). I am dyslexic (what an awful word to describe someone who struggles with words) although I think it is quite mild by some standards. I struggle with a,e, iou, type words eg Brian becomes Brain and Dairy becomes Diary (not helpful when using a spell checker). But I struggle on. But recently something has really been 'pissing' me off. Everytime I turn on the TV, someone is using this work incorrectly and I find myself screaming at the TV.
What am I talking about?
The use of the word specific.

specific
adjective relating to one thing and not others; particular:

The virus attacks specific cells in the brain.
The money is intended to be used for specific purposes.
FORMAL
The disease seems to be specific to (= only found in) certain types of plant.
Is there anything specific you want from the shops?

NOT

pacific

pacific adjective peaceful or helping to cause peace

or the name for an ocean

The two words are not (in my opinion) interchangeable and should not be used as such.

So the next time some idiot on the TV talks about a pacific item or even pacifically I am going to scream, shout and probably throw something.

I just can't help it.

Selling aprons

My mother used to sell aprons in a local department store. In the 70's most women wore aprons whilst doing the housework so they were big business. What type of apron you wore kinda defined your class and status. My mother sold them all from her neatly folded and carefully placed display on the ground floor near the back entrance.

My mother sold the pink and blue tabards, that had a strip either side that buttoned up with neat white buttons. Many ordinary housewife's wore them - sort of middle/lower middle class women. Not those that still scrubbed the door step.

She sold the full overcoat overalls, in full block colours of pink or white or blue, maybe trimmed with a white strip and neat white buttons. Some of the fancy ones had large silver poppers up the front and were made of a strong cotton. These needed lots of ironing, but were more for the middle/upper class. Although 'nice' women wore their underwear underneath - others answered the door to the milkman commando.

My mother also sold the smaller shield shape aprons, the ones that tied around the waist by long ribbons of matching material. The good ones often had contrasting frills around the main body of the front that fluttered around the outside. These were much cheaper and often plainer, made of polyester or nylon, so easy to care for and even then considered old fashioned, only preferred by more mature ladies.

All aprons were made of cotton, or cotton mix (they had to be ironed but could be boiled and so kept spotlessly clean), or polyester or nylon. The nylon ones were often patterned and more brightly coloured and much easier to dry but not necessarily preferred as they inferred lower status.

My mother tied the stand constantly, folding and re-folding the aprons; she kept the area spotless and incredibly neat. She chatted to her customers because there was always time to talk. She talked to the staff from other departments nearby. It was a friendly area. There was always time for the old ladies who probably didn't need another apron but like to come into the store for their lunch in the cafe and a chat with the staff. They came in on the bus every Wednesday because Wednesday was market day.

My mother also sold tea towels and wash clothes and small hand towels.

DiH

6 Words to describe your life

I went on the One Minute Writer site today http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/ and decided to have a go. The subject is 6 words to describe your life. What a great task although very much brings out the glass half full; glass half empty mentality.

It is great to think about how your feel about life in the simplest way.

Any one out there I would love it if you would write in my comments 6 words to describe your life. Go on I dare you.

Here are my attempts.

• Happy, sad, confident, confused, tired and alive.
• Carpe diem - seize the day - today.
• Awake - rush, drive, work - rush, sleep.
• Alive, watching, listening, smiling, loving, alive.
• Wake to work, home to sleep.
• Wake to friends, home to love.
• My family, my dog, my cats.
• Money - bills, money - work, money - fun?
• Breakfast, elevenses, lunch, high- tea, dinner, supper.
• Fat, chocolate, cheese. Diet, veggies, fruit.
• Dreaming, writing, looking, creating, writing, dreaming.

Got a better one?

DiH

Yes, I thought

‘I don’t do walking in other peoples footsteps’ she said.
Yes, I thought you would rather struggle in the sand
with each step oozing backwards and down
like an escalator in reverse.

‘I don’t do removing my shoes; they make me small’ she said.
Yes, I thought you would rather stumble on tip-toe
making tiny heel pin pricks in the floor
like a host of unruly polka dots.

‘I don’t do unnecessary pills; they make me fat’ she said.
Yes, I thought you would rather go red in the face
and drop to the floor
like a lump of hot lard from a frying slice.

‘I don’t do proper food; it gives me spots’ she said.
Yes, I thought you would rather lather your face
with frothy make-up, thick as concrete
like a badly plastered wall.

By DiH


The first line of this poem came to my whilst walking the dog on the beach and I think it is still a work in progress. I like the work because (I hope) it says as much about the narrator, the voice of the work, as it does about the person (people) being discussed. I would like to do more with this perhaps add some 'he said' lines as well. I think the last line works well (like a) although I can't remember the proper term for saying something is 'like a' - can someone let me know.

Any readers greatly appreciated.
Any views greatly appreciated.

Di

An Unverving Dream

Last night I had a really clear dream. I am not sure how I got to the point but I was in a church (this is a church that I know) although it was much nicer than in reality, much cleaner and more inviting. The Vicar was there. Again a man that I know, a local Father although not the Father of the Church I dreamed about. The Church in my dream is a mixture of the Church I used to attend (a lovely family church that holds good memories) and my local Church as a teenager, which does not hold good memories. The Church where both my parents had their funerals and are buried.

It was a strange dream. When I got to the Church the Vicar (as I called him) passed me a gift and a letter. The gift was a Kite, all wrapped up and new. I was very brightly coloured, red, yellow and white, still in its wrapping and with the card still stapled on the top. It felt strange to get a Kite in a Church and yet I didn't ask why I was being given a Kite. I have recently purchased a Kite and tried to fly it. (I was trying to fly it with a young man who will hopefully become part of my life as we are trying to Foster him), but don't know if this has meaning in the dream, I guess it does.

I never unwrapped the Kite in the Church just put in down beside me. But the letter felt more significant. It was a blue handwritten envelope, neat handwriting, large and clear. I opened the letter and read it.

I remember reading the letter, I remember the look of the words on the page but can't remember what it said, just that I felt very emotional, really happy but also very sad. The Vicar just touched my arm to give me comfort. At this point I looked up.

And there sitting in the Church a few feet away from me sat my Nanny Lou. My maternal grandmother. I have not seen her for 41 years, she died when I was seven and yet she was so clear and she was smiling at me. I could recognise every part of her face, her eyes, her hair, her skin, the shape of her body. It was so real and so beautiful. And it felt lovely and warm and comforting. Like she was there and loving me and holding me. Although I never got close to her. I can't really explain how it felt. Just that it seemed so really, so lovely, so comforting. And I looked straight at her with this letter in my hand and it was wonderful.

At this point I woke up (5.15am) and for a moment I felt happy and loved and comforted and in a wonderful place. I wanted to return to the dream and be back with my Nanny but I couldn't.

And as I lay in bed I suddenly began to feel strange. To feel drained and unhappy, as if the dream, far from being good was a pointer to something terrible that is going to happen. I can't explain why I feel like this. It was so odd to go from almost euphoria to utter misery in such a short space of time.

All day I have felt incredibly tired and drained (I have woken up to write this). I have lacked energy and sharpness and just felt like I am being told that something in the future (the near future) is not good. I have dreaded the day. I felt like I was looking for signals to tell me what was coming. I was often aware of the dream and the memory during the day. I found myself smiling at the memory of my Nanny and then shivering at the feeling that followed. A terrible contradiction. I know this is really OTT but it feels like I should be grateful to wake up tomorrow. That is how strong the feeling is. My body had ached today, I struggled to have any clarity of thought and absolutely no enthusiasm. I just want to go back to bed to sleep and yet am almost fearful to do so.

I like to dream. It has often helped me sort out problems and definitely helped me find ideas for my writing. But this was not nice. I very rarely have nightmares and even they have not left me with the feeling that I have carried today. This was not a nightmare, it was beautiful and yet it has left me feeling devastated. Even writing this is giving me butterflies inside.

I hope tonight will be better. I hope that I can sleep as normal.

Finding other blogs

I like writing my blog but it has occurred to me that I seem to stop and start because I am not sure anyone is reading my words. I know it does not really matter because it is just good to be writing; it is good to be creative but... I have friends who read my stuff and that is good but I would love to expand what I am reading and perhaps find some new readers. So I am beginning to explore. Tonight I have found a writer in Scotland, she sounds interesting and her stuff looks good. Also she has some excellent links to writing sites. So - here goes - expanding my horizons online (so to speak).

Confidence

These are some words that I have been working on for a while. Trying to understand the difference it makes in attributing emotions to first person (me/I) or male and female subjects. I am not sure how this works but liked trying the differences.

Me Confidence

What is it about me that does not believe in me?
And my abilities to achieve.
Why?
Do I focus on the failures
and forget all the times
I have met my dreams
face to face
by welcoming them
forward to my desired ends.
And felt the enormous highs of self
confidence and power.

Her Confidence

What is it about her that does not believe in her?
And her abilities to achieve.
Why?
Does she focus on the failures
and forget all the times
she has met her dreams
face to face
by welcoming them
forward to their desired ends.
And felt the enormous highs of self
confidence and power.

His Confidence

What is it about him that does not believe in him?
And his abilities to achieve.
Why?
Does he focus on the failures
and forget all the times
He has met his dreams
face to face
by welcoming them
forward to his desired ends.
And felt the enormous highs of self
confidence and power.

DiH

The Steet (Dead Man Walking)

The man was walking down the street. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular. He wasn’t returning from an exciting rendezvous. He was just filling his day in a meaning less sort of way.

The man didn’t walk slowly but he didn’t walk fast. He kinda meandered along, his steps evenly spaced. Sometimes his feet straddled the pavement cracks, sometimes firmly striding up from their centres.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t look down. He didn’t look left. He didn’t look right. He just stared straight ahead.

But seeing.

He manoeuvred around the obstacles of the street.

He manoeuvred around lamp posts; Council rubbish bins; empty Tesco carrier bags; discarded KFC boxes; cyclists; dog poo and people.

He manoeuvred around men and women and dogs and cats.

He manoeuvred past children walking, running, cycling, on skate boards and screaming.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t acknowledge them.

He just kept his regular strides past them down the street.

He strode on.

The man was called Brian.



DiH

The Cat

A friend is blogging some of her older work - which I love by the way - so I thought I would blog a piece I found from 2003. This will make you understand why I don't write serious poetry.

The Cat was Black and White

The cat was black and white

Large and round

He walked the wall

Twice a day

To get his breakfast and dinner

I haven't seen him today.

He must be away

or just not hungry.

DiH

I am so glad I only write poetry for fun!

Chocolate (2)

A little Smartie could kill a song bird
even the special blue ones
before and after
the dangerous colourings were removed.

Twenty two pounds of chocolate;
a lethal dose for a human.

Twenty two large purple-blue bars
wrapped up in foil
with suckable chunks
cold from the fridge
begging to be chomped down on hard
and hurting your mouth
in anxious desire
which melts exquisitely
into the roof of the mouth
to extinguish the pain.

The block stands proud
but wounded
and melts around your fingers
into a sticky scrumptious coating
that longs to be licked off individual
fingers by the tongue flicking
quickly around and between.
A provision of salty chocolate
with each gorgeous stroke.

Chocolate

This is another poem (hic) that I started on sometime ago - not sure what to do with but hey will blog it anyway.

A little Smartie could kill a song bird

even the special blue one before

and after they had the dangerous

colourings removed.

Twenty two pounds of chocolate

would be a lethal dose for a human

Twenty two large purple-blue bars

wrapped up in foil

with suckable chunks

cold from the fridge

to chomp down on hard

that melts exquisitely

into the roof of the mouth.

DiH

Fat People Like Cake

Fat people like cake
creamy and baked
glazed hard with sugar
that crunches when bitten
and sticks around the lips
to be licked and sucked
long after the cake has gone.

But some
fat people don't like cake
They like hot sausage rolls
that melt in the mouth
or fried eggs and bacon fat
mopped up with bread.

DiH

A first draft but not sure where it is going - if anywhere

Today

Today was a good day. Work went well, I felt sharp and useful and then I met my friend and we had naughty cakes and talked about Uni and art and writing and things that we love to do. We talked about being writers and being published (even in small ways) and ideas; about people from our past. It was good. And I felt like I could say things that I wanted and I felt funny and alive and loved and happy. Why isn't every day like this?

My friend (who will probably read this) told me about her brother turning up very drunk and spending the night. And even though I know it is wrong and really annoying I just can't stop thinking about brothers turning up drunk and spending the night on settees and deciding to take their clothes off. I mean who would really want to see their brother naked! Dreadful but also funny - something to tell their children in years to come. And their children will say 'not you Dad, your too boring for that'. And brothers and sisters will say 'I can't believe when you used to do that, when you used to piss me off!' Its funny and sad, and lovely and families and history.

And I so wish my brother would come around, even really drunk and want to stay on the settee and see my home as somewhere he could be safe; somewhere he could come and just be.

But not take his clothes off though - that would be Yuk. That is too much.

A Dog's Tail

Something strange happened today. Something I had never witnessed before. My dog chased its tail. Just for a few seconds she turned her head and noticed a her fluffy white curly tail standing aloft and began to chase it in circular motion. Each turn increasing in speed and with her head becoming a little closer to her tail. I have seen other dogs chase their tales but never her. She is three already and so I thought she would probably never chase her tail.

What made her do it today or had I just never noticed her chasing her tail, or maybe just never been around to witness it before. (The old if a tree falls in the wood with no one to witness it does it still make a sound question.) I suspect this was the first occurrence as she seems surprised at seeing her tail and shocked at her inability to catch it. In her defence the running circle only lasted a second or two before she cottoned on to the fact that it was her tail and it was un-catchable.

Are we humans so quick to realise how futile chasing our tails has become?

The Reflective Snake

I took a canoe out on the River Waveney and took a photograph of the arm of wood that came out of the water like a snake. Its reflection, on a bright sunny day made it even more snake like. The flattened head hovered over the water poised to bite or sting anyone floating past. I wanted to get close enough to touch it but was too afraid in case it pounced at me. I thought the wood would soften and stretch out, momentarily alive and venomous before returning to its hardened state. Two snakes one solid and set, the other trembling in water lapping under its reflective partner.

Which would do the most harm?

Maybe the water snake would drag me down into its lair before sucking out my last breath and easing my lifeless mould back into the air - a trophy to its staring brother.

DiH

Lost and Found

Two dustbins found on the beach displaying the number 6 or 16.

Each with a white coded council sticker (number not registered because basically who cares how the council code a dustbin).

Presently sitting near the rocks but previously situated on the sea edge being manhandled by two scroats who were intelligently trying to float off to sea in them - Unsuccessfully (unfortunately).

I asked the dustbin men if anyone had lost their bins but they hadn't a clue.

Please see The Beach if you require your dustbins back.

Memory

Why can I remember the words of a song
with perfect recall from thirty years ago.

(apart from mis-heard lyrics
that fit so easily into the real
rhythms of the music
better than the originals)

The joy of singing loud and flat,
screaming out the high notes
in tuneless abandon.

Yet I can’t remember what I did yesterday.