Displaced

Bodmin Moor, Cornwall

Picture by Diana Morrison 22-08-12

Everyone needs to know where they belong and I'm struggling with that now.

 I moved to Ireland from Cornwall eleven and half years ago. When we moved, the Celtic Tiger was roaring and the grass was definitely very green - even more so with the rose-tinted glasses that were firmly fixed to my face. My son was just shy of his third birthday, so he had not made any firm attachments to the UK. It was the perfect time to make the move to a land that seemed to be brimming with opportunity for both ourselves and him. Times were good in the early days. There seemed to be no shortage of work for Jonathan and he established himself as a first rate carpenter/joiner/cabinet maker very quickly. The education system seemed vastly superior to that in the UK and Sylvan thrived in his early years of school, mastering the Irish language with incredible ease. Sure, he had a bit of a turbulent time through bullying, but that was rectified with a change of school and bullying is not unique to Ireland. Time passed and we were content.

Castlehaven, West Cork

Picture by Diana Morrison 16-09-12

It seemed too good to last, and it was.

 Global recession struck and Ireland was hit very hard. The work that was always plentiful was more hard to come by, as ordinary people could no longer afford to replace their windows or commission pieces of fine furniture. Thankfully, the rich are still rich (and possibly getting richer) and there are still a few people (mainly British) in the area that are able to keep some work coming in for Jonathan but prices in the supermarket and utility bills soared and it is hard just to stay afloat. 

The biddable three year old is now a sulky teenager with an attitude somewhere between drama queen and rock star, and a passionate dislike of mornings and school!

I have been quietly contemplating a move back to Cornwall for a couple of years now. It's not really deserting the sinking ship, it's more a case of needing somewhere to belong and feel comfortable. This thought has been compounded more recently by the birth of my grandaughter and the longing to be closer to her mother, my step-daughter Bethany. It is now a dull ache that won't go away.

Unfortunately, Jonathan and Sylvan are not with me on this one. Sylvan has a great social life and has made a lot of friends that he would not give up easily. Jonathan says that he needs to be by the sea and that he thinks that he would miss Ireland too much, adding that I probably would too. He might be right and herein lies the feeling of displacement.

 I know that the Cornwall I left will not be the Cornwall I would return to. Our visits have always confirmed that. People I knew and loved have grown and moved on and the economy is not much better than it is here. Ireland is very beautiful and I love  it very much, but at the moment, it is stagnant and almost without hope. Most of her people have lost their  passion and fire and idly sit  back and let all the cuts and changes happen without much of a fight. Ireland has been known to have a second referendum on important issues because they didn't answer correctly in the first one! 

The dilemma will continue for me. All I know is this: The main reason for staying right now is for Sylvan to finish his education but if I have many more mornings like this one, I'll be on that ferry in a flash!

21st Century Prejudice

Picture of Pam and Len Watkins with their restored Reading Wagon

by Laurie Kinsley

Racial prejudice is alive, well and kicking in the UK. Whilst it is unlawful to discriminate against a person on the grounds of race, colour, nationality, citizenship or ethnic origins (Race Relations Act 1976) it seems that discrimination against the Travelling Community is not covered by this law. In fact, it seems to be encouraged. During his speech to the Conservative Party Conference this week, Eric Pickles MP for Brentwood and Ongar  launched his latest policy to “stop caravans in their tracks”. He confirmed that Councils would have new powers to eject Travellers from private sites before they settled, promising that “Never again would local authorities have to spend a fortune in time and money enforcing planning laws against the Traveller Community”.

Look at this statement from a different perspective. 

"Communities’ secretary Eric Pickles chose the Conservative Party Conference on Monday to launch his latest policy to “stop caravans in their tracks”. The announcement was Pickles’ response to last year’s Dale Farm confrontation, where Basildon council completed decade-long proceedings to evict Jews occupying pitches without planning consent. Never again, he promised, would local authorities have to spend a fortune in time and money enforcing planning law against the Jewish community."

If this is what he had declared there would be a public outcry. And what about these headlines?

Essex Jews facing eviction threaten 'Big Fat Jew War' on the authorities

Bill for evicting just 90 Jewish families from UK’s biggest illegal site could face £18m

So why are the Travelling Community not protected under the Race Relations Act? The problem stems from Society’s refusal to accept or believe that Travellers are an ethnic minority, despite the fact that case law established Gypsies as a recognised ethnic group in 1989 and Irish Travellers as a distinct ethnic group in 2000 in England and Wales. Throughout history, they have been regarded as trouble, as dirty, as scroungers, (all of which are untrue) but it seems incredible to me that in the 21st century these labels still apply. Sure, they have their share of trouble makers and scroungers - in common with every area of society, from the bankers at the top to the unemployed at the bottom. But isn’t that just tarring them all with the same brush? That sort of logic could implicate the whole of the British Army for atrocities to prisoners or the whole of the Irish nation for the death of Lord Mountbatten.

In his Conference Speech, David Cameron talked about spreading privilege ( a bad choice of word, surely he meant opportunity, but what can you expect from a privileged Eton educated man?). I wonder whether he factored the Travelling Community into this vision of Britain. It is very unlikely - surely he would not stand by and let Eric Pickles go ahead with his new policy if he had. 

There are changes afoot to the planning laws in the UK too. Laws will be relaxed for those fortunate enough to be able to afford to build an extension on their home or even build a new house in an effort to kick-start the economy. Will the Travellers benefit from this?  I think not. The NIMBYs will protest against any plans to increase the number of sites that are needed to house this ethnic group, the planning applications will continue to be rejected and racial equality will continue to be flouted.

Examples of racial prejudice against Travellers in the 21st Century

Picture from www.bbc.co.uk/kent/voices/prejudice

Picture from www.bbc.co.uk/kent/voices/prejudice

The Ravages of Time

Diana Morrison c1983

I came across this old photograph of myself the other day and it made me feel sad.

Ageing is such a cruel process. It creeps up on you stealthily and without mercy. One minute you're fresh faced with glossy abundant hair, flawless skin and a firm, healthy body and then one day you glance in a mirror and scarcely recognise your reflection. The lines around the eyes and mouth begin to appear, very subtly at first. The chin replicates itself like some cancerous cell. Hair loses its shine and colour and becomes finer and more brittle. As for the body - the waistline thickens and bits slowly begin to head south. Niggles of pain soon begin to make themselves apparent, joints begin to click and become less supple and energy levels become depleted more quickly. 

My poor mother never believed herself to be intelligent (she was, of course,) and her looks were everything to her. She was a very attractive woman but began to panic when she hit forty. The amount of money that she would spend on cosmetics and anti-wrinkle creams was outrageous. She became such a slave to maintaining her young, beautiful self that it became an obsession to her. In addition to the cosmetics, she would punish her body with a Jane Fonda work-out for an hour every day, and scarcely eat. We will never be sure whether this worked for her. She did lose a lot of weight, but she also had cancer, and may have had for a couple of years before it was diagnosed. She died at the age of 46, and the only consolation to that was that she never had to grow old. I would give a lot to see how she would look now, as it comes up to what would have been her 69th birthday.

I too, was proud of my looks and do understand what drives people to retain theirs for as long as possible, but I learnt from my mother that you cannot halt the ravages of time and the best thing to do is accept it with good grace.  Whilst there is no need to let yourself go altogether, there is also no need to work so hard that the fun goes out of life because you are constantly thinking about how you look. We all accept that our minds, ideas and outlook on life change as we get older, so why can't we accept that our bodies will do the same thing? 

Having said all this, it's time for me to go for my monthly eye-brow and lip wax!

Diana Morrison (with my beautiful grandaughter) 2012

Another Story

Sidney Harris and Edith Hind C1937

I've just posted another story, Final Confession, on my fiction pages. I wrote it back in May. It's not one of my best - but see what you think.

The picture is a photograph of my grandparents. The story is not based on theirs.

What a Farce

Photo - guardian.co.uk

 I hadn't watched the X-Factor since Matt Cardle won it in 2010 and I can't say I have missed it. However, last Sunday evening, my Facebook news feed went berserk - lots of my friends were talking about something called Rylan (mostly in derogatory terms) and I was intrigued. I was informed that Rylan was a contestant on X-Factor this year and that he (I established then that it was a he) was a bit of a diva and he had made it as far as the judges' houses. My curiosity grew, so I had a look on YouTube and discovered what all the fuss was about - yes, that pathetic, completely hammed up reaction to the news that he had made it to the live shows - obviously as the novelty act!

So last night, I thought I'd check out the results show, just to see whether things had improved since Simon Cowell's day. I was strangely gratified to see that Rylan was in the bottom two - (I had no idea how he had performed or whether he has any talent as a singer, having not watched the programme on Saturday.) It was as I feared - he was dire! The judge's would get rid of him there and then. The other contestant completely outclassed him! But no, in true X-Factor style, Louis Walsh took the vote to deadlock and  because of the public vote, this joke of a man went through. It was odd, Louis Walsh had stated first of all that he wanted to keep the woman singer (can't remember her name) but he was all of a dither, (I thought he was going to have a nervous breakdown, surely it's time he bowed out and left an opening for someone who is fit to do the job he's being paid for) and retracted what he had previously said.

I have finally come to realise that the X-Factor is not a talent show, it is just an ITV light entertainment show, that seemingly has nothing to do with discovering new stars. It's strange how you don't hear from many of the winners a few years after their triumph - anyone remember Leon? It's almost better not to win  (JLS and One Direction, being the most notable non-winners. Not that I like them either!) Better still though, not to enter. If you have a talent and are prepared to work hard to realise your dream, you have more chance of making it and emerging with some kind of (possibly battle-scarred) personality, with the added satisfaction of knowing that you did it your way.

I have finally been weaned off X-Factor for good and I really don't give a toss whether Rylan makes it or not.

The Downside to Being a Cat's Pet!

Mews

Photo by Diana Morrison 07-06-12

Help! Help! There's a riot going on downstairs! 

There is a pitiful squeaking, much growling and unsheathing of claws and feathers strewn all over my kitchen! I'm a prisoner in my own room!

Intrigued? (It's not that exciting.) Three of my four cats are squabbling over a bird that is, unfortunately still alive. I'm guessing from his possessive growling, that Mews caught it (his first successful hunt, other than a few hapless spiders, flies and moths,) and was going to give it to me as a present. I'm guessing also, that he was intercepted by matriarch, Kismet and her very vocal daughter, Mackerel on his way in - and now there is a stand-off!

I'm a bit concerned for Mews, he is such a softy and generally backs down if there is a confrontation - Kismet and Mackerel are much more streetwise, being semi-feral - I hope they don't hurt him - and whilst I don't really want his gift laid at my feet, I can't help but feel sorry for him if they do take it off him. I expect he was feeling quite proud of himself until they stole his thunder. So, why don't I go and sort it out, I hear you asking?

Kismet

Photo by Diana Morrison 17-09-12

Well, to tell you the truth, I'm scared; scared of birds, scared of mice, rats, snakes (although there are none in Ireland!), spiders - you name it and I'm scared of it! If it were dead, there'd be no problem. I'd be able to scoop it up with a shovel and and throw it outside so that none of them could have it, but being such a coward, I am now condemned to sit, barricaded in my room and wait it out - and yes I know that it is horrible for the bird and I do feel guilty for its suffering but there is little I can do about it. 

Mackerel

Photo by Diana Morrison 09-11-11

Oh! It's gone quiet now and Mews has just left the building. I'll just creep down and see what is happening. ... 

*Update* - All three cats have disappeared, the bird has breathed its last, at least I hope so, I'm not brave enough to get up close to it yet, in case it makes a sudden move and gives me a heart attack and the kitchen is in chaos. I have shut the door so they can't get back in for a while and now I face the gruesome big clean up. 

Cats will be cats, and I love mine dearly, but it's times like this that I wish they hadn't chosen me as their pet!

An Unashamedly Over-Protective Parent

I can only imagine the distress that April's parents must be suffering at this awful time; the uncertainty, fears of the worst and, I would imagine, a huge amount of self blame; those inevitable what-ifs and if-onlys. My heart goes out to the them.

What has happened to April is every parent's worst nightmare. My son is fourteen and he cannot understand why I won't let him hitch home from friends' houses and insist that he sends regular texts when he is away for a night. He is even more baffled by my refusal to let him go, with a seventeen year old school friend, to an Enter Shikari gig in London (bearing in mind we live in Ireland!) later this year. "I'll be fine," he says. "My friend is seventeen," he says. "Nothing is going to happen to me." And he might be right, but I'm not prepared to take that risk. 

I have always been unashamedly over-protective of him. Whilst I like to think that humankind is on the whole, decent, kind-hearted and civilised, the abduction of April and all those before her only serve to reinforce my convictions that things CAN and DO happen to vulnerable children and teenagers (who think they are older and more mature than they really are).

I do remember what it is like to be a teenager, and although very rare in my day, children were still abducted (I was the same age as Genette Tate when she was abducted in 1978. I also had a regular newspaper delivery round.) But, like my son, I just didn't think about it. It was something I'd heard on the television but it didn't have much impact on me. I also remember not understanding my mother's furious reaction when I arrived home at midnight, having been off on a treasure hunt with a friend's family without informing her of where I was going, when I was about 15. It did not occur to me, that she might have been worried. I feel very sorry for what I put her through now and I know that one day, my son will understand too.

In the meantime, I will continue to neurotically over-protect my boy until such times that I feel happy he is able to protect himself - even then, I expect I'll find it difficult to loosen the reins.

Let us all hope and pray that poor little April Jones is found alive and well very soon.

The Dying Season

Photo by Diana Morrison 31-10-11

Autumn seems to be creeping in slowly this year. We have had more sunshine and warmth over the past couple of weeks than we had all summer. The leaves are still firmly attached to the trees, although they are beginning to change colour, and the temperatures are continuing to hold. 

It is a strange season for me, one of melancholy and impending bereavement; invoking memories that are not knowingly mine of families in their wagons and bender tents striving to keep warm and find food and work, as the harvest season was drawing to a close. Of babies and elderly folk struggling with, now curable, diseases and fevers, their relatives wondering how many would survive to see the spring. When I lived in the UK, the bonfires, now firmly associated with Guy Fawkes, would epitomise the firing of a deceased person's vardo, as was the custom of the Romany people after a death and the sadness would remain until the spring, with its hope and promise of new life.

 I find it extremely depressing that in modern day Ireland, there are still people who will be wondering how they are going to stay warm and whether there will be work for them throughout the unforgiving days of the approaching winter. Will they be able to feed and clothe their children? Will they be able to care for their elderly relatives? Unfortunately, the return of spring, will not make much of a difference to them.

Hibernation time for me, I think!

Frustration

Photo by Diana Morrison 25-09-12

What a frustrating morning! I sat down to write a new Morning Tale, but decided that the idea I had was too big for a short story. It would have to be a novel. Now, as I have mentioned before, I have been writing a never-ending  novel for many years now - never-ending because it has no structure and is basically going nowhere. So, I thought, maybe it is time to write a structured one based on my idea. A very scary prospect - but wait! About 10 years ago, I bought the first version of "Newnovelist" - the creativity software that claims ' it doesn't feel as though you are writing a book'! Whoopee, thinks I! It's been installed on my computer for a long while now and I've dabbled with it, but never really used it.

I located it on my computer and opened it. There is so much rigmarole involved with it and certain elements were not working - I believe its on its third version now - that by the time I'd done character profiles and settings - I had convinced myself the original idea was so lame and could not be slotted into the convenient little sub-categories that I couldn't be bothered to take it further. 

I know that there has to be a certain amount of planning involved but it seems to me now, that just getting something down on paper is the most important thing. Ideas can be re-worked and twisted and deleted. My characters can grow as they are being written and the spark stays alight throughout the process. I'm not sure if there is a right or wrong way to produce a credible piece of fiction - but for me spontaneity is definitely the key! 

I shall now take my frustration into a nice hot bath!

Reading v Writing

Photo by Diana Morrison 21-09-12

Considering I call myself a writer - I have actually only just begun to read in the last eighteen months or so. It's not that I couldn't (obviously), I just didn't get any enjoyment out of it. It was on a solo trip to the UK, last year for a funeral that I decided I wanted something to read on the plane. I made for the bookshop at Cork airport and headed for the non-fiction section, as usual. But being only a small bookshop, the array of books, mainly self-help, aimed at  empowering women (you know the ones I mean!) did not appeal to me at all,  and I found myself in the unfamiliar territory of trying to choose a novel. What genre was I interested in? Did I like crime stories, historical, chick-lit? The truth was, I hadn't a clue! I pulled books from the shelf, read the blurb and put them back, I wasn't interested enough to find out what would happen. 

I thought of my own attempts at writing fiction, my never-ending novel and how I always strived to use the best language that I could in order to make it come alive. I thought good writing wins prizes! So I looked through the books again and picked up "The Tiger's Wife" by Téa Obreht, noticing with satisfaction that it had won The Orange Prize for Fiction that year. So that was it. I bought it, I read it, I loved it! This is now how I choose all the books that I read - the novel or at least the author must be the winner of or  long/short listed for a reputable prize (that doesn't include the Richard and Judy Prize!!!!) and I have not been disappointed, well with only a couple of exceptions. I am now an avid reader of what I think is quality fiction. Call me a snob if you like and yes I may be doing myself out of reading some cracking novels, but to have come to reading so late, there is nothing more annoying to me than to read something that has been poorly written, no matter how good the story is.

I am reading Sebastian Barry's "A Long Long Way" at the moment and I have been unable to put it down all morning. I love it when that happens but there is that ever present niggle, that I should be writing. I justify it though by making myself believe that reading other authors is the best form of research  there is!

My recommended authors just now are David Mitchell, Alan Hollinghurst, Howard Jacobson, Anne Enwright, Peter Carey, Kate Grenville and of course, Sebastian Barry.

The Pain and Pleasure of Gardening

Photo by Diana Morrison 20-09-12

During 2010/11 I completed Fetac Level 5 in Horticulture, gaining distinctions in all eight modules. I was very proud of myself. I have always enjoyed gardening. I love the spring time when it is time to sow all my seeds and I love the summer time when my vegetables reach maturity and I can cook them fresh from my garden. The Runner Beans are splendid this year, despite the lousy summer and we got a good crop of potatoes and onions as well. In the polytunnel, the tomatoes and cucumbers are doing well too. 

The down side, of course is the general maintenance and most especially the weeding. I was at "m'lady's" the other day, where the weeds are stubborn and very extensive and seem to be taking over the garden. I attacked them with great ferocity, freeing up the established plants from wild strawberries, over-exuberant mint and tenacious violets. It was a hot day and I was wearing just a t-shirt (and jeans, obviously!) My hands were protected with my trusty gardening gloves, but my arms were bare. I was fairly hungover and not paying too much attention to anything other than the nasty little plants that needed to be pulled. I failed to notice the vicious teeth on the leaves of some magnificent shrubs, whose name escapes me just now (see picture above) and each time I plunged into their midsts, they caught at my arms and tore the skin. I just saw them as little scratches at the time and paid them no heed. They stung a bit, but nothing my addled head couldn't handle. It wasn't until I got home that I noticed the swelling and the awful burning sensation on my arms. Each tiny scratch was surrounded by rings of dark red and I thought I was having some sort of allergic reaction. I immediately found and took an anti-histamine (which was six years out of date!) and on the advice of the "Significant Other" rubbed my arms with a slice of lemon. I nearly went through the roof. The stinging was unbearable and I rushed to the cold tap to rinse off the sticky juice that was causing the most unbelievable pain. Next, he made up a concoction of bicarbonate of soda and water and told me to smear it over the rash. I tested a little on one patch, but it burnt as much as the lemon juice, so it too was hastily removed. I decided to leave it and see how it went - I felt reasonably certain that I was not going to go in anaphylactic  shock, as this would have happened much earlier - but I was panicking slightly, wondering about blood poisoning and the like. Oh, I forgot to say, that I'm a hypochondriac! Anyhow, I went to bed, hoping that my body would  sort it out! However, in the morning, it was still angry looking, although no worse. I took another out-of date anti-histamine and had a bath heavily laced with Tea Tree oil. Within ten minutes of the bath, my arms were merely covered in scratches - there was no angry swelling or burning. I was very relieved.

Another down side to gardening are the insects, grubs and spiders that are inevitable in the great outdoors. I am terrified of them all. But yesterday, I came across such a beautiful creature, that I had to take a photograph of it, (see below). There are always pleasures to counter the pains.

Photo by Diana Morrison 19-09-12

New Story

I have just posted my newest short story on my fiction pages. It is called "Ginger Nuts and Peedy Pants" :)

Blackberries

Photo by Jonathan Harvey 16-09-12

"Blackberry picking in West Cork"

Well despite my lamentations yesterday, the rain cleared away and the sun came out. So I was able to go on my blackberry quest. (Although, I didn't trust it enough to go without my waterproof!) At first, I feared I had missed the season, most of the blackberries along the coast road were withered and hard or else tiny and mangled by maggots. Further down the road, is a town land called  Farrandaw (or Farrandau, depending on who you are speaking to.) We hopped the gate into overgrown fields that run along the top of the cliffs and found that the crop was plentiful. The sun beat down on us, as we scampered through the twisted gorse and brambles, filling up our bags and staining our hands. I saw a splendid Dog Fox scurrying along the far edge of the field, obviously enjoying the change in the weather as much as we were. It was a beautiful, lazy afternoon and such a contrast to the hours I spend, poring over my computer screen, willing something exciting to happen on FB or frazzling my brain trying to write a new story. The only downside is my latent apprehension that there might be a bull in the field. The farmers here very rarely put "Beware of the Bull" signs on their gateposts - but that doesn't mean that there isn't some monstrous beast lurking in a corner ready to charge! Thankfully, there wasn't one and I could relax and greedily grab the luscious berries from their thorny stems! We managed to pick over two and a half pounds of them and they are now sitting in my newly cleaned fridge (I didn't get around to defrosting the freezer as well, I can't do it all!) and will be turned into jam later today.

It is dry today and I have to go to the old lady's garden again for a couple of hours this afternoon, so you can guarantee it will rain again then! The price to pay for living in West Cork!

Photo by Diana Morrison 16-09-12

"The Harvest"

A Change in Season

Photo by Diana Morrison 04-09-11

It was too good to last. After a couple of weeks of the summer that should have come in June/July/August (but didn't!), Autumn has arrived in style - lashing rain, blustery winds and a significant drop in temperature. Having gone completely mad, and blitzed my kitchen and living room yesterday, whilst the sun was shining and the temperature was a pleasant 18°C, my plan for today was to go blackberry picking - (yes, I know I might have left it a bit late)- and get the jam pan out. So it's on to Plan B - the less exciting cleaning of the fridge and defrosting of the freezer. 

Most people do a Spring clean, but for me, Autumn is the time to get my house in order. I always have an idyllic image of the house being tidy and cosy for the long winter months. I imagine myself sitting in front of my open fire (with plenty of fuel to keep it burning) and the room snug and toasty - whilst I sip hot whiskies and spend many pleasant hours with my pens and notebooks and an abundance of fresh ideas. It never happens like that though. Within a couple of days, the house will be back to its former untidiness, the fire will be meagre from lack of fuel. I'll be back to my stressed and neurotic self and all creativity will have gone up the chimney, with most of the heat! Perhaps this year will be different. Ha ha, I always say that! 

Right, I'm off to tackle the monsters in the fridge!

Mews and the Butterflies

Mr Mews

Photo by Diana Morrison 14-09-12

Not having a very productive day today. The computer is on a go-slow whilst the anti-virus is performing its scan and the words will not come. It's always a mistake going on line before I've completed the Morning Tale. But I needed to check for an email and of course, one thing led to another - oh, it doesn't help that my internet home page is FaceBook! The Bell Song from Lakmé came on the radio and I felt the need to share it on FB, which demanded a visit to YouTube and - well you know yourself, how it goes from there. So the tale about the mistress about to be jilted and the other one about the runaway husband running out of petrol on the way to Gretna Green never stood a chance. No matter, I'll leave it for today or maybe try again later. At least I can say I had a go. The screwed up bits of paper around my feet are testimony to that. I suppose I better pick them up in a minute!

I've also spent time, staring out of the window. It is a bright, blustery day in West Cork, and my Buddleia bush is in full bloom. The sweetly scented, lush purple flowers are swamped by a rabble of Red Admiral butterflies and Mr Mews is running around, completely beside himself with joy at having something live to chase. I smile to myself as he patiently positions himself in clumps of weeds, picks his moment, waggles his arse, pounces and...misses! They are too quick for him. I howl with laughter as he unexpectedly leaps into the air, paws flailing pathetically at his quarry, back-flips and lands once again, empty pawed. He played this futile game for half an hour or more - trying not to let them get the better of him. There's a lesson in that somewhere and I know that some time soon, he will present me with his catch - well unless he eats it first! 

Ha Ha - who needs TV when you have a cat not long out of kitten-hood!

Photo by Diana Morrison 14-09-12

Praying for Rain

Photo by Diana Morrison 10-02-12

Well I won't do that again! 

I had  some paid gardening work on Monday. I had planned to start at 12, but I felt so lethargic when I got up, I spent the morning willing it to rain , so I could legitimately cry off! The showers came and went but at the designated time, the sun was out and I had no excuse not to turn up. I arrived at the house and set to work. As always, I am fine once I get going. About ten minutes into my two hour stint, the deities belatedly answered my call and the heavens opened. I worked on for a while, slowly getting wetter and wetter, before deciding I should seek shelter until the shower had passed. After five minutes, it appeared to be letting up and I thought I should continue. No sooner had I recommenced my work, down came the rain again. This time, I felt I ought to carry on and within no time, I was soaked right through to the skin and feeling very uncomfortable. The shower lasted for about 15 minutes before the sun came out again but I fear the damage was done. I can feel a cold coming on - my first in over a year. I guess that serves me right for being so lazy!

I wrote another reasonable Morning Tale yesterday. It tripped very lightly and effortlessly from my pen - always a good sign! It is curiously titled "Ginger Nuts and Peedy Pants" - but I'm giving nothing away! As soon as I have submitted it for a competition, I will post it here in my fiction pages. 

I'm just loving my spasmodic creativity at the moment!

Paralympics

Well done London on the success of the 2012 Olympics and Paralympics. When London landed the bid, I was not without a great deal of scepticism and doubt that they could pull it off. I am so happy to have been proved wrong. I'm not usually interested in the Olympics, but this summer I have been glued to it!

The Paralympic games were truly inspirational - true life stories of courage and triumph through adversity. Well done to China topping the medal table with 231 medals, Team GB with 120 and The Russian Federation with 102. Even Ireland shined, having their most successful Paralympics ever, placed 19th on the medal table with 16 medals, 8 of which were gold and Michael McKillop (Irish runner) was presented with the Whang Youn Dai Achievement Award, alongside Mary Nakhumicha Zakayo of Kenya.

The only disappointment for me was the closing ceremony. Why did it turn into Coldplay, live at the Olympic Stadium? With "special guests" Rihanna and Jay Z - why? It was dull, it was bland and it detracted from The Festival of Flame, that was supposedly the theme of the closing. It might have been more bearable if Coldplay had written music especially for the ceremony but shamelessly churning out their own hits and plugging their most recent album, did not sum up the spirit of the games. The marvellous British Paraorchestra should have been centre stage and the music for the Festival of Flame should have been composed for them to play. Channel 4's sloppy presentation of the Ceremony centred  on the uncharismatic Chris Martin so much, that all the elements of the theme appeared as incidental lighting to the poorest live (although noticeably lacking in animation) show, I have ever witnessed on TV. I don't know who cobbled together this effort, that should have focussed more on the dancers and acrobats, but I'm sad to say, that it didn't work for me! London bowed out with a whimper!

Rant over!

I completed a new Morning Tale this morning - I will re-write it and post it here in the next day or so.

Resting on my Laurels

Well I had such lovely feedback on my short story "A Strong Coffee and a Cigarette" that I began to rest on my laurels somewhat. So this morning, I had to force myself to write a new Morning Tale. I did it, but I know that it is nowhere near the standard of the last one. Still, I only do them to conjure up ideas and keep the creativity ticking over and of course, no one will read them unless I want them to. It's only practice and I'm sure that another one will just leap out of me again at some stage, but I've been a bit spoilt - "Coffee and Cigarette" was effortless - I wrote it in less than an hour and re-wrote it in less than half that time. Oh to be so lucky again! 

I have noticed that all my tales tend to be bleak and sad and very emotion centred. I don't know whether that is a good thing. Maybe, tomorrow I will try to write something light-hearted - that should be fun - I don't think I've ever written anything light-hearted in my life. Oh dear, what is that saying about me?

Anyhow, I will check the competition rules and their policy on publishing entries on a personal blog and if it doesn't violate the rules I will post "A Strong Coffee and a Cigarette" on my fiction pages here.

Watch this space!

New Fiction

I have just posted another piece of fiction, The Song of the Siren -  an excerpt from my never-ending novel!

The three excerpts that I've posted all come from one chapter entitled 'Horse Latitudes' - a sequence of disturbing dreams encountered whilst my protagonist is in a coma.  

Changes Afoot

As I seem to be getting a few people coming here and hopefully reading my blog rather than just arriving here by chance and then running away, screaming - I have decided to implement a few changes.

I set this up primarily as a show case for my writing and seem to have done precious little of that. So now, anything fictional will appear on separate pages - the titles of which will appear in the sidebar. Anyone who has actually read through the blog will recognise the ones that are already there, but I will endeavour to include more as soon as I can.

I promise!

Competitions and Rats!

Well that's it then! I've done it! I've just submitted my new short story to InkTears.com Short Story competition! OMG! I must admit I was very pleased with it - which, for me, is saying something. I am not very good at praising my own work. It's very difficult to hear your story in any other voice but your own - if you see what I mean, but I would be too shy to ask someone to read it aloud to me - in case it really did sound like an utter pile of shite! But The Lad read it and said it was "really good" which means he either genuinely liked it or he wanted something! The Significant Other read it and his immediate response was to ask a question about the ending, which I was thrilled about because obviously he was still thinking about the story after it had ended! He also said it was a nice piece of writing - never sure about the word "nice" though! And my lovely friend, gave me some useful feedback, said it was grand and was supportive, as ever. They do say that you should never ask opinions on your work from friends or family as they are likely to be biased and afraid of hurting your feelings - sometimes I just need my ego feeding!!! Fingers crossed for me - please!

There was a rat in a friend's garden today. It looked as though it was sunbathing. I was just helping out with a bit of weeding and was about to empty my bucket on the compost heap. I hate rats. I am also terrified of them. I dropped my bucket, having murmured a few choice expletives (in my shocked and distressed state - I'd never use language like that normally. Well not much anyway!) and rushed to my friend and The Significant Other, who happened to be there making a gate - all sweaty and panicky crying out "Rat! Rat!". They thought I'd gone a bit loopy, too much sunshine, perhaps! (We're not used to it!) My friend is like me, she hates them as well and it was left to the Significant Other to shoulder the shovel with which to smack it on the head and carry out the dastardly deed. He returned with the now lifeless but nonetheless, vile and intimidating creature balanced on the shovel looking very pleased with himself. I half expected him to drop it at my feet as a present as a cat might do. Thankfully, he didn't. I didn't go back to the weeding. We sat in the sun eating shortbread biscuits and drinking coffee whilst the deceased rat floated down the river to the sea!

How Does Your Garden grow?

This is a picture of my courgette plant taken at the beginning of July. I was very excited because it (and the other ten) looked so healthy and lush. Now here we are at the beginning of September and apart from two marrows (that were obviously too much of a challenge for the slugs!) I've been harvesting weedy little things, more akin to gherkins than sleek, long, well-shaped fruits! Why do they keep rotting at the flower end? All my books tell me it's down to slugs but I've put down pellets (organic, of course) and kept them weed free (well almost) and still they rot. I've tried pruning back the leaves so that they get more sunshine (a bit of a joke this summer!) and planting bee attracting companion plants to aid pollination - all to no avail. Could it be down to the amount of rainfall we've had this summer? No solution to that one, I guess, except to grow them inside the poly-tunnel - but I have no room. 

Most of my crops were very disappointing this year. We had to pull the potatoes early, for fear of blight and the onions, which are great but just a little too small. My broad bean harvest was meagre and short lived and as for my turnips, well they got mangled by Cabbage Root Fly! On the plus side though - my tomatoes seem to have picked themselves up and at last, the runner beans are coming. So all is not lost. I love growing vegetables but get very disheartened when things go wrong. 

I wrote another Morning Tale this morning. I think it is my best one yet and will be entering it into a competition. I had it completed in about three-quarters of an hour - well the bare bones anyway. I think I will re-write it this evening - maybe after University Challenge and Only Connect on T.V.! 

I am such a procrastinator!

Creativity

My morning tales are positively dripping from my pen! I am so happy. My main problem as a writer is finding ideas so it looks as though I've conquered that obstacle. Now, just from a sentence, the words just come and a (usually dark and sad) tale emerges. To be sure, they are just rough and need plenty of tweaking, but at least now I have things to work on and polish up and hopefully publish at some stage.

I wonder if it is just me whose brain is connected to a pen. If I try to type - nothing ever happens but put a pen in my hand, it just flows and the characters almost write themselves. This is what happens with my novel. My main character is so real to me (he lives in my head!) that he dictates how he is going to react to the situations I put him in. It's like magic. I wish this gift would make me some money soon though!

The teenager saga of the early hours of this morning went from bad to worse. Four more turned up at about 1.30 am and created noise and mayhem. They left at 2 am, just as I was descending the stairs to be really brave and chuck them out. The lad informed me that one of the girls had had too much to drink  (not in my house, thankfully) and had vomited outside my front door! I then spent the next ten minutes swilling down the pavement with buckets of water to clear the resultant mess. Just what you want to be doing at at 2 o'clock in the morning! I guess there's probably a short story in that too!

Teenagers

It's gone 1 o'clock in the morning and two teenage girls have just come to visit the lad! What do I do? I've told them that they have half an hour and then they have to go. Thank god, I have the bottle of wine up here in my room, at least they can't get drunk, unless - oh my god - they brought their own! I find it very difficult to know what is acceptable. The lad is a night owl and cannot understand other people's need for sleep. Is this my fault? Am I not firm enough? Or should I just go with the flow?

My Chemical Romance have it right when they say "Teenagers scare the living S**t out of me". 

When they're babies you can't wait for them to grow up and when they're teenagers you wish they were babies again.

One thing's for certain, my little biddable boy is no longer biddable!