7 Days Of Blog #10

When I first started 7 Days Of Blog, my intention was to only pick blog posts, and bloggers that don’t seem to get the comments and traffic they deserve. I wasn’t going to pick anyone with more than one hundred followers, and defiantly no BBON. But now after ten weeks of 7DOB I know that I have repeatedly broken my own rules, and have mentioned all of the above at least twice! At the end of the day, I’ve chosen the posts that I’ve really enjoyed over the last 7 days, no matter who has written them, no matter what the subject matter. I hope you enjoy reading these posts too, and please email me if you find anything out there that you think I would like to read.

My favourite post from last week (20-26th) is from a blog that I have mentioned before, that I have been following for a long time, and is an incredible true story. 

The Qur’an incident– My Walkabout

     "You are not leaving until we get that book back."
     "I don't have it with me." 

     "You lie. You will not leave here alive. We want the book."

During a trip to Kenya, William the blogs author, and a very experienced traveller, tries to buy a Qur’an to take home with him. The resulting story is fascinating, and terrifying at the same time, and as I read it, I actually felt scared for his safety. This post could easily be the plot for a movie. I loved it, and I know you will when you read it.

WTF Fun In The Sun – about last weekend

     “It's the next morning and we're on the beach. It hasn't rained for a year in Maui and now it's pissing down. Mother finger.”

I only discovered this blog because the author left a comment on one of my posts. I went over to have a look and leave a comment, but instead found one of my favourite funny posts of the last week. Holidays and children are a difficult mix. It can be heaven, it can be hell, and it can also be very funny. 

Bar etiquette for those with rookie livers - Author Phil Torcivia's Blog

     “ The two attractive ladies standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they’re scanning your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and colouring.”

I feel cheeky to even mention Phil’s blog, and once again refer to my comments at the beginning of this weeks 7DOB. Phil Torcivia is a divorced man who transplanted himself from Pennsylvania into the treacherous dating pool in Southern California, and I love his blog. He doesn’t need any support from someone like me, but I‘ve chosen him this week because this post made me smile just when I needed it – thanks Phil. 

Please visit this week’s blogs, and if you enjoy them, maybe leave a comment.

Last summers dead flies and wasps

[A short piece of fiction inspired by a dream I had, mixed in with a little reality.  Who is the man?  You tell me.]

Sat on the floor of the railway station waiting room, he notices for the first time, how filthy dirty he is.  His clothes are black; they were always black, a cool black, but now they are encrusted with the dirt and muck of his travels.  Getting from A-B has always involved dirt; he has found, but getting from A to say... S - gets a man really fucking dirty.

     Rubbing his hands together to remove some of the grit, he sees the ring on his finger.  It’s been with him for so long, that he sometimes forgets it’s even there.  Like a tree that grows around and envelops an obstacle over the years, it has become part of him.  He stares at it for a moment, and smiles to himself, allowing a rare moment of light into his life.  The ring still manages to shine, despite the grimy finger that it lives on.   

    Stretching out his legs, he crosses one over the other, and then rummages through his worn out rucksack.  The metal bottle is at the bottom of the rucksack – predictably he thinks – and as he pulls it out, he hears the water sloshing around inside.  Unscrewing the lid, he puts the bottle to his lips, and tips it up until warm, slightly metallic water hits his parched tongue.  He closes his eyes and enjoys the moment, after hours of walking across dry desert.  On the way into the station he noticed a tap against the wall outside, and he hopes; but doubts, that it’s still connected to the water mains supply.    

     His stomach growls at him demanding to be fed, but his food supply ran out two days ago, and he doesn’t see any way of replenishing it in the near future.  He has heard rumours that you get food on the train, real good food.  Anything you want - you can have; is the rumour.  “Well we’ll wait and see about that” he says out loud startling himself.  It’s been weeks since he heard a human voice, even his own, and the sound of it echoing round the empty waiting room disturbs him a little.  He decides that he won’t speak to himself like that again; bringing a smile to his face.  Only madmen talk to themselves he thinks, and I’m not mad yet; getting there, but not yet.

     After placing the metal drinking bottle onto the wooden floor, he shuffles about on his backside, getting as comfortable as he can, and leans his head back against the wall; closing his eyes as he does so.  He thinks about the past for a while; and also about where the future might take him.  In some ways he knows that the past; whatever happened; is at least over and done with.  It can try to come back to haunt him, but as he travels further and further away, it affects him less and less.  No the past isn’t so bad – he can deal with that; it’s the future that truly scares the absolute living shit out of him.  He smiles at the use of the word living.  “Oh the fucking irony of it all,” he says in a loud voice; already breaking his earlier rule about not speaking to himself.  

     Just as the man has started to relax, a distant sound grabs his attention.  He lifts his head from its laid back position against the wall, and tilts it to one side listening like a dog when it hears a whistle.  His ears desperately strain to hear that noise once again.  Convinced now, that he imagined the sound he starts to lean his head back against the wall, when he hears it again, but this time much clearer and slightly louder.  Although its still miles away; its coming, the train is coming. 

     He picks up his water bottle and stuffs it back into the rucksack, and raises himself up from the floor.  His bones ache and he is tired, but the train is coming and he can’t afford to miss it.  He slings the rucksack over his shoulder,  and is walking to the double doors that lead out onto the platform when he stops dead in his tracks.  Lifting up his left hand, he stares at the plain gold band on his ring finger for a moment, before rotating it, and gently sliding it off the finger.  He walks over to the window that faces the direction he has come from, and places the ring on the ledge below, where it will sit forever with last summers dead flies and wasps.  He turns and heads once again for the platform, pushing open the blue door that is covered in peeling paint, but then stops, taking one last glance back, and then is gone.

100 Words: Murmuration

Estate agent “for sale” signs,

heralding the housing apocalypse.

Financial Armageddon, doom and gloom in the city

St. Pauls gazes on at protesters camping on concrete.

Rumours of job losses and new bosses; endings with no beginnings;

as one door closes, another shuts, taking your fingers off.

Stinky food smells in the office after lunch;

the blur of whizzing numbers at the petrol pump.

My receding gumline, hairline, and an ever so slightly,

twinge in the left side of my chest. 

All these, and other terrors of mine, that gather,

and congregate like winter Starlings on a TV ariel.

7 Days Of Blog #9

I’ve always had this idea that there are many more female bloggers out there, than male. This wacky notion (in my head) was based on the fact that most of the fellow bloggers that I correspond with are ladies (not fellows); although recently I have found many fine male bloggers in the bloggersphere to read. I wondered if there was any data or statistics to back up my theory, and so I had a look at the “Technorati: State of the Blogosphere 2011” survey and found out that I was totally wrong, and that most bloggers (according to Technorati) are female. If you haven’t read the State of the Blogosphere 2011, I fully recommend you do; you may be very surprised by the results. 

In Pendleton's Shadow - Tales from beyond the end of the world

My favourite blog post last week (13th-19th) was by Robbie Grey author of "Tales from beyond the end of the world."  I love these lines so much because it reminds me of the way I feel at this cold, dark time of year:

     “Much in the same way, sometime in the very latest days of autumn, I start to look forward to the longest night, marking the winter solstice. Why? Because it means there's that much less time before the sunlight returns...” 

I too wait for that day just before Christmas, knowing that from then onwards, there will be a few minutes more daylight every day. 

I agree to purchase a cow – Private secret diary

I have been reading PSD which is set in rural Norfolk for a while now, and this very funny post is typical of the type of stuff you get over there. To get a grip on the story, imagine that you’ve just agreed to buy a third share in a cow: 

     We examine the freezer, which is a smallish one connected to our fridge. It is not like it is totally, absolutely, completely full. There is a bit of space between the sausage meat and the ‘Smarties’ ice creams (on offer), and the peas could probably be flattened out a bit. 

     “How big is a third of a cow?” asks the LTLP (Long Term Life Partner). 

     I am at a bit of a loss as to this. “Well a cow is…” I make a sort of cow sized shape by stretching out my arms and waving them out. She eyes the freezer with some scepticism.

At times I'm sure PSD could be the script for a sitcom, and if you have a look I'm sure you'll agree.

Missing Pieces – Mama’s log

In her latest post, Mama’s Log author: Liesl Jurock sums up the feeling of isolation that a person can feel when their used to having a family around them:

     I’ve done all these things now. Devoured two novels and a chick flick after busy and very full days of work. But instead of feeling spoiled, I feel a little empty. Cause there’s no one to share this with. There’s no one to discuss and debrief the days’ events with. No one to laugh at a tv show with. No one to reach across the table with a forkful of cake and see what they think. No one to cook a meal for or give a bath to or tuck into bed.

What Liesl -a writer, career educator, and mama - writes about is so true when you have children, and family in your life; you crave some space and silence when the home is full of noise and chaos, but once you are away, it doesn’t take too long for you to miss it. This lovely blog post also delves into the world of writing and blogging, finding and explaining yet another reason to continue to blog, even when you feel that no one is listening.

Please pay these three blogs a visit, and if you enjoy their posts, maybe leave a comment or two.

The reverse cowboy and my bad back

My mouth feels dry and tastes nasty.

     I try to remember why. Ah yes Dicky - way too much wine, cider and pizza earlier in the evening.

     A little time passes as I contemplate the cool glass of water that sits within arms reach on the bedside table; always a good remedy for that horrible taste you get after drinking alcohol. As much as it feels lovely, safe and warm under the quilt, the need for fluid forces me to make a move for the glass and I roll my knees over towards the cold edge of the bed as I have done a thousand times before in my life.

     The intensity of the pain in my lower back surprises me so much that I actually shout out loud, waking Lou B. I apologise to her for the noise, and she asks me if it’s my back again. I lay for a while in my warm cocoon until the pain subsides a little, and then I try again to get off my back and to the edge of the bed. The sharpness returns like a serrated knife plunging into my spinal column tearing muscle and bone, causing me to swear once again and lay still. My eyes are now open, and I stare at the ceiling trying to gauge what time it is. It’s difficult where we live because of the neon street lamp just outside, that casts a near constant glow in our bedroom. It looks near dawn; in which case, if I can actually get myself from bed, I’ll go downstairs for a cup of tea. Reaching up with my arms to grab the top of the chunky wooden headboard, I try to pull myself up into a sitting position, but once again the pain is too much.

     “This is fucking ridiculous” I mutter to myself as I lay stuck on my back like a flipped over tortoise. “Let me help. I’ll roll you onto your side,” says the voice of Lou B, unseen to my left side. She pushes and rolls me over, and I feel my left leg leave the warm sanctuary of bed behind, for the cool autumn night. The pain is still there, but it’s bearable as I push myself back to my feet. I shiver as I stoop to pick up my dressing gown and can feel the goose bumps on my body. Shuffling round to the end of the bed I stop when the pain comes screaming back. I clutch the wooden footer as my legs start to give way, and for a few moments I can feel tears welling up in my eyes.

     Is this what it’s like to get older I wonder to myself. Is this what I have to look forward to; an ever failing body, that can no longer do the simplest of tasks.

     “Where are you going” the voice from the bed asks, and I reply that I’m heading downstairs for a cup of tea. “Did you know it’s only 2am” she says surprising me. That means we’ve only been in bed for a couple of hours, and that I will have to get back in it. “I suppose a shag’s out of the question then - you know - if you have got a bad back” I smile to myself at her joke, which is what she intended, but at the same time; despite the shear fucking agony that I’m in, wonder, if I could maybe manage to finally find a use for a reverse cowboy, if I laid very, very still.

     It’s amazing don’t you think, that even when in excruciating pain, a man will consider sex as an option? 

The strange people of Farnborough

There is a moment, that fatal moment when the weirdo catches your eye. You have tried desperately not to; but unable to drag your eyes away, you have been caught staring.

     I’m standing in the corner of the car-park at work, drinking a cup of tea, when I glimpse him through the grey, iron palisade fencing that protects the building I currently work in. He has dismounted his ladies lime green coloured bicycle; complete with wicker shopping basket, and is about to cross the busy main road onto the housing estate opposite, when he spots me standing there looking at him. It’s too late now for me to turn and escape, because he is obviously making his way towards me; smiling as he does so, in a slightly over-toothy kind of way.

     “Do you work in there,” he asks in a friendly voice, pointing to the large building behind me. I look over my shoulder at the box behind me, where I spend most of my days, and answer him: “Yes, yes I do.” Now he’s come up close to the grey fencing, I can make out the green skull and crossbones badge which is pinned onto the lapel of the black suit he’s wearing. He has a shirt on – no tie – which is done up all the way to the top button. He has very sensible looking shoes on his feet, and a cycle helmet on his head – which is also very sensible. Underneath his cycle helmet I can see the cheap looking peak, of a pale blue baseball cap. There’s something odd about this inoffensive chap that I can’t quite put my finger on, but then again there are odd strangers everywhere in my local town of Farnborough.

     We once had a weird man in Farnborough called: King Arthur Uther Pendragon who lived locally. Now obviously; he had changed his name, probably from something like Gareth Jenkins, and he was always appearing in the local newspapers, and quite often in the national press, and very occasionally on TV. King Arthur could often be seen walking along the edge of the A30 heading for the West Country, fully dressed as a knight of the round table; Excalibur strapped to his back. It always used to cheer me up whenever I saw Arthur, and it was a very sad day indeed when the former soldier returned to his former home of Salsbury in Somerset.

     But not all of the weirdo’s have left Farnborough. There’s also a well known odd person; known locally as the “Coca-Cola man.” He can be seen on most days, sitting outside the town centre supermarket, drinking a bottle of Coke; not one of the small bottles, but one of the huge family sized bottles. I noticed recently that Coca-Cola man seems to have taken up smoking a pipe, which adds to his weirdness. I’m not sure I see that many people smoking pipes these days, although I’m positive something like that goes on in the stinky stairwells of the local council estates.

     Town centres always seem to have a way of attracting the local weirdoes’, as there is another chap called “Badge man” who can be seen on most days, wandering around Farnborough town centre; pushing his Zimmer-frame on wheels, before going into the local bakery to pester the staff and its customers. Badge man is very well travelled; I know this because everywhere he goes, he buys a badge which he then pins to the front of his kaki coloured waistcoat for everyone to see. Now I hope you don’t think I’m being cruel, taking the piss out of Badge man because of the Zimmer-frame – far from it – what makes me laugh about him, is not only the badge fetish, but also the amount of key rings that he has dangling from his Zimmer-frame, which must amount to at least one hundred. Why all the key rings Badge man? After all; you’re obviously already collecting badges, so why not just concentrate on them?

                                                                    *****

     “Do you remember the building that used to be here before?” asks “Lady Bike man” who I’ve just decided needs a name. 
     “Yes, it was a factory that made plastic insulation cable used for -“
     “I used to work in there years ago; when I was a teenager” he gets in before I can finish my sentence; adding: “They moved the factory away to another town, and I had to leave.”

     He looks up thoughtfully at the very sleek, silver building that stands on the site where he used to work and says nothing. For about half an awkward minute neither of us says a word, we both just stand staring at the building; me on the inside of the fence; him on the outside. It’s me who breaks the silence when I tell him that I used to come over to play at the back of the original building when I was a kid. We would climb up onto the wooden crates, piled up at the back of the factory to look in through the dirty windows. Sometimes the security guard would come out and chase us away, but we never meant any harm. We didn’t break anything or cause any damage; it was just high jinks and tomfoolery. He laughs, nods, and gives me a knowing smile; and then grabs his bike that he has leant on the fencing that separates us.

     “Oh well, I’d best be off,” he says, and with that jumps on the green ladies bike and cycles across the busy main road; giving me another grin, and a pleasant ring of his bike bell. I watch him cycling away down the road until he finally disappears from view. 

     Since that day, I’ve given the stranger; “Lady Bike man” some thought, and although I’ve lived round here for a very long time, I don’t ever remember seeing the fellow before. It’s strange though how the weirdoes’; or local characters of our towns and cities stick in our minds, even once they are long gone.

7 Days Of Blog #8

One of the best things about my recent move from being a Samsung Genio Qwerty owner; to an iPhone user, is that I can read blogs at any time. Stuck on a train, at tea break, struggling to sleep at night, I can just grab my phone and browse through a few of my favourite blogs.

Carriage 5601 to Wimbledon – A little light in London 

My favourite post was so easy to find this week. As soon as I read it, I knew it couldn’t be beaten. This true story has everything including; lost and found, history, a chase on London underground, a family heirloom, crocheting, suspense and a great title.

Really dumb things I have managed to do...updated!!! - My point being

When I was younger I used to love to watch horror movies and heavy dramas, but as I’ve grown, the thing I most like to watch and read are things that make me laugh. A blog that does that on a very regular basis is “My point being.” Dan’s post last week is an excellent example, but I’m not going to go on too much about it because he’ll start to get a big head. Just go over to his blog and have a read of his latest post about “Really dumb things I have managed to do...updated!!” If this post doesn’t make you laugh, I’m not sure we can be friends anymore. 

My hero - Crazy Thoughts 

I’m a sucker for stories about grandfathers. I loved both of mine very much and have so many great, and fond memories of them. In this post, the blogs author tells a short tale of the memories she has of a very important person in her life. I love her line when she talks about him laughing: 

     “He laughed very loudly and his laugh was contagious. It still makes me laugh when I remember him laughing.” 

If all we end up, at the end of our days, are memories for someone else; I can’t think of a nicer thing than being remembered for having had a contagious laugh. 

Please have a look at these posts, and if like me, you like them; maybe leave a comment or two.

100 Words: In my head

[A small piece of darkness for you, scribbled down while I was on a train to London.  I usually carry a notebook, but didn't have it with me this particular day; so wrote "In my head" along the bottom of a free newspaper. Imagine if I'd left the paper on the train and someone else had picked it up to read.] 

Like some hideous Jack-in-the-box, waiting until all is quiet to pop open, it sits patiently poised, the tension of its rusty spring, held back only by a paper thin veneer. It listens to my life, and chooses its moment carefully to spring out and surprise me.  The memories come flooding back, like waves of acid washing over my body.  The pain is so unbearable sometimes; that I just have to look the other way; away from all that is my past and history. 

Lypsyl - the pocket addiction

Even now I have one within reach.  In fact, I can’t remember ever not having one in my pocket.  If I couldn’t find one now; I’d get dressed and find the nearest late night supermarket, and buy one immediately.  I think it’s my mums fault. I think she gave me my first one when I was in junior school; when I had chapped lips.  It was probably a bit embarrassing to use back then, and I would definitely have done so in private, although now after nearly 30 years of use, I can put it on during a conversation without anyone being aware that I’ve done so.  Yes I’m finally coming clean and admitting that I’m addicted to... Lypsyl.

I’m carrying a cherry one at the moment, which is my emergency stick, for any situation where I may have forgotten my stick of preference (which I have); my preferred stick is always blue.

Chapstick would do if I was in a fix, but I would always go for Lypsyl if the chemist had it in stock.  It’s become part of my life; never leave home without my phone, keys and a Lypsyl.  If they stopped making it, I would become a wreck. What would I use?  Vaseline, or if worse comes to worse: chicken fat!  Anything to ease my dry chapped lips.  The side of the Lypsyl stick tells me it contains Vitamin E & Aloe Vera, which sounds nice, but if I turn it round, it also tells me about the less friendly ingredients; Methyparaben14720 and Propylparaben amongst others.   I hope to find out in the future that these chemicals prolong life, so that when I’m 127, I can say that it’s all down to my Lypsyl.   If there are any other addicts out there please let me know. 

Can it be beaten?  The agony of the chapped lips while going cold turkey. I just don’t think I could do it.

7 Days Of Blog #7

I have lots of ideas, stories; fiction and non-fiction, to write about at the moment, but just don’t seem to have the time to sit down and put pen to paper. I usually do most of my blogging on a Sunday afternoon, sitting on the sofa, while my girlfriend watches TV. Or sometimes very late at night if insomnia strikes, I’ll grab the laptop and sit in bed tapping away, but I don’t really have a blogging / writing routine: what about you?

My favourite blog posts from last week (31st – 6th), starts with another long time favourite of mine. 

To Hadestown and Back – Suburban Soliloquy 

A brilliant piece of melancholy, set back in 1982. This is the type of writing I love; a mixture of personal history, “what might have happened,” and a post card from the past. This is a great paragraph from her latest post: 

     “She'd close the books and walk down to the beach with a pitcher of kamikaze mix, sit on the seawall and dreamy-stare at the curly waves frothing at the shore. Or she'd slip into a happy hour, which was as easy to find as the steepled churches that hugged nearly every street corner of her Franco-American hometown. There, in those sticky, beer-crusted shrines, or on the beach with her pitcher, she found hollow comfort from the demons that haunted her.” 

The author of Suburban Soliloquy is Jayne who describes herself as a “Former Boston urbanite. Suburban survivor. Mother to sprite and knight. Master of neither. Managing suburban sagas. Inking sundry dreams and dramas.” If you don’t already know about Jayne’s blog, I’ve done you a huge favour. 

Finding strength – Shadows 

As you may or may not know, I’m desperately trying to get into blogging some fiction recently. You may have also noticed, or not that I’m really struggling to get it right. I can easily pour out some piece of sad melancholy, but try to put pen to paper with a fictional story and I struggle. One blogger that doesn’t have that trouble is the author of Shadows. This latest piece really caught my interest, and if you don’t love this line; you and I just aren’t on the same wavelength: 

     “Dawn is about taking a breath and going deeper. It is finding the strength to ignore the mistakes I have made and the ones I will surely make today. It is about being tougher. All pain is finite.” 

I hear Shadows is taking a blogging siesta. I hope it doesn’t go on for too long... 

Living for that moment – Fickle Cattle 

Von Bryan Cuerpo (great name) talked on his blog; Fickle Cattle last week, about the euphoria of spending the night dancing. I too have felt the same sort of feeling myself, many times, when out at a nightclub or party.
He said: 

     “Then there is that magical moment, when, drunk and exhausted, I stare at the ceiling and feel (not think!) that all is right with the world. And the feeling expands and rises and mingles like smoke with the music and the people through the wild, unplanned dance the crowd is participating in.” 

The way he describes the evening in his post is beautiful, and I can almost imagine being there dancing away; slightly heady with alcohol. The blogs author is based in Manilla, and he quotes it as: a repository of stories, thoughts and opinions on relationships, culture and life in general. 

Please pay these blogs a visit, I'm sure you'll enjoy their work as much as I do.

99 Words: Shoes

They are shining now, and making a beautiful noise as I walk along a slick wet pavement.  Click clack click clack, they sing out in happiness as they join me for my daily stroll.  If my shoes could speak to me they would tell me - as they do have a tongue - “We are partners; amigos having our daily adventures together.”

But their days are numbered. 

In the not so distant future, these shoes will spend their last moments - a tear creeping from an eyelet - looking up at me from the bottom of a rubbish bin.  They will wonder as the lid slams shut, leaving them in darkness, if shoes with worn out soles – have souls?

7 Days Of Blog #6

This week’s 7DOB is a bit of a mish-mash, but once again; as I keep saying, these are the blog posts that really caught my attention last week. I’m not saying these are the “best” things blogged during the week, I’m just saying I really enjoyed them; please have a look because I think you may do too.

Places to show your parents in San Francisco - idathue

I maybe breaking the rules here slightly, but my first winner this week is a photo blog. Anyone who knows me, or has read my blogs will know I’m a bit of amateur photographer myself, but these are far better than any photo’s I’ve ever taken. I love the house on the classic sloping SF street, with the red mini parked outside, and also the coffee shop from outside, with the reflections from across the street. 

How to Survive a Divorce... with Children (part 3) - Life as a classroom 

I’ve been regularly reading Life as a classroom since I discovered it a couple of months ago, and this blog post is a great example of the writing here.

The line:  “Try to remember that the decisions you made during the marriage were the right ones at the time,”  is maybe one of the truest things, ever written about looking back on a failed marriage. 

This blog has the most honest writing on the www that you will find; from marriage and divorce to relationships and sex. I love it and I’m sure most other bloggers will too. 

Leap of faith - Living With Bob (Dysautonomia) 

I have always loved toilet humour, and “Leap of faith” is a classic post in the “laughing about a horrible situation regarding my arse” kind of “ring of fire” way.
It’s all very tongue in cheek, and very funny. Here’s an example of what you might find:

“To say I am surprised by the result would be an understatement. From the first day of taking the combined H1 and H2s I have gone from double digit, bolting/stumbling/praying, to the loo, to 3-4 times a day. WHOA! I here you say. You're talking crazy, Crazy Lady! But it's true. These two little tabs have reduced my vacating substantially, and my butthole is oh so grateful.“ 

Please pop over and pay this week’s blogs a visit; I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.