tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68905553979973233892024-03-13T01:40:26.230+00:00Louise's Love of LifeA blog about loving life and writing ghost stories. Yes, the two can mix!Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.comBlogger188125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-10512227605342247412016-05-20T20:16:00.000+01:002016-05-20T20:16:17.700+01:00Friday Five: Five Things People with Anxiety and Depression Need You To Know<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
It's <a href="https://www.mentalhealth.org.uk/campaigns/mental-health-awareness-week" target="_blank">Mental Health Awareness Week</a> and, rather ironically, it's coincided with my own rather nasty bout of my old enemy, <a href="http://www.nhs.uk/conditions/depression/Pages/Introduction.aspx" target="_blank">depression</a>. </h3>
<br />
I've met people who don't believe in depression; they see it as a self-indulgent response to the everyday stresses that life throws at everyone. Well, lucky them.<br />
<br />
I've also met many people who have suffered (and I do mean suffered) depression, and made it out again. And I'm one of them. I don't keep it secret as I see nothing in it to be ashamed of. <i>Sometimes I get ill</i>. This will be my third round of treatment in fourteen years, so I am positive that I will make it out this time too. I know how this illness works- and I know how it can be beaten.<br />
<br />
Most people know me as an upbeat, optimistic and positive person. There is a reason for this. After the last time, I worked damned hard to protect myself from people and situations that bring me down and drag me dangerously close to the edge of the darkness. I take care of myself; I know my breaking point. I guard my happiness <i>ferociously</i>.<br />
<br />
I also know that my depression will never go away- that I'll never be cured, despite the huge gap in years between episodes that require intervention- but I can be vigilant so it doesn't hit me so hard next time. But when it does hit, I know that dealing with it alone is an almost impossible challenge.<br />
<br />
So, speaking from a very personal viewpoint, but on behalf of many people, here are five things people with anxiety and depression need you to know.<br />
<br />
<h4>
1. We don't want to worry you.</h4>
Please don't be hurt if we don't tell you what's going on, or try to hide it from you. Sometimes we are just trying to deal with it (in the early stages) and need everything to be as normal as possible. Sometimes, we can't bear for you to see us have a meltdown. As bad as it is at the time, the knowledge that someone who loves and cares for you had to watch- helpless- makes the aftermath so much worse. We're trying to spare you.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, we don't want to talk about it, or can't because admitting it will make it real. And sometimes, it's because we think no one will believe us. If we let you in on the darkness, it's because we trust and love you absolutely, and trust that you will care for and love us when we are at our most vulnerable. That makes you very special to us.<br />
<br />
<h4>
2. We can't always ask for help.</h4>
People going through depressive episodes are a pain in the butt. They can alternate between agitation, hysteria, uncontrollable crying and catatonic states (sometimes all in the same day). They might stop eating. They might stop sleeping. They might look like hell. They know this is upsetting for others. But they can't stop it from happening, and they feel guilty and pathetic about it. "You know where I am if you need me" is a common phrase, but we need to <i>really</i> trust you to be able to ask.<br />
<br />
We get through mild bouts of depression by being strong and proactive, and admitting you're not strong enough- especially for someone who prides themselves on being independent- is <i>hard</i>. What is helpful during the bad times are the friends and family who check in every day- a couple of times a day even- to ask how we are at that moment. Sometimes we're fine; sometimes we're not- but we're more likely to feel like we can share with you if you ask us. And if we're having a meltdown and you don't know how to help- ask us what we need.<br />
<br />
<h4>
3. We don't always see it coming.</h4>
Like other medical conditions, once someone has been through depression, they can often spot when it's coming again- but not always. For me, the warning signs are losing interest in things I normally enjoy, feeling abnormally tired, becoming withdrawn and anxious about social situations (especially ones where I feel trapped), panic attacks (a massive clue), being oversensitive and emotional, and restlessness. I also get edgy opening mail for some reason- which is probably the most bizarre one!<br />
<br />
The first time I had no idea what was happening and it took my Mum shouting at me before I sought help. The second time, I recognised the signs and acted accordingly, getting back on the happy pills in a preemptive move before I reached the meltdown stage. This time... This time, I was so distracted by other things going on in my life that I didn't realise it was happening again until I'd gone so far past meltdown that I didn't know if I was going to get back.<br />
<br />
Every year or so, around this time of year in particular, I'd notice when I began feeling and behaving differently and would fight hard to pull myself out of it. It was a regular thing- so I suppose I'd become a little complacent about being able to take care of myself. It's only been in the last week that I've been able to pinpoint how my mood and behaviour had changed over the last couple of months- and how much it had affected others around me. So sometimes we need people to tell us what we can't see for ourselves.<br />
<br />
<h4>
4. We need you to love us extra loud.</h4>
Being depressed makes you feel worthless- a burden on others. We know we're hard work and sometimes we can't see why people should even bother with us. That's why the daily check-ins count, the cups of tea, text messages, quick phone calls to ask how our day has been: they show us that we are loved when we can't love ourselves. Listening to us overthink without judging; holding us while we scream and cry from the emotional and physical pain; walking with us as we pace out the agitation; sitting with us in silence while we stare at nothing: that shows us that we don't have to go through it alone.<br />
<br />
We know we will get better, that this will pass, but when the fear that we might not has us gripped tight, sometimes the only thing that gets us through is having someone there that loves us.<br />
<br />
<h4>
5. We appreciate everything you do.</h4>
We really do. Really, really, <i>really</i>.<br />
<br />
Thank you to the friends who text me three or four times a day; thank you to the friends who make me eat; thank you to the friends who let me sit on their sofa and watch TV when I can't be alone; thank you to the friends who distract me with cinema trips and walks; thank you to the friends who let me sleep over when I'm too scared to sleep in my own bed; thank you to the friends who send me silly pictures and messages to make me smile; thank you to the friends who don't get frustrated when I have bad days and do everything they can to get me through the scary times; thank you to the friends who make me feel that I am worthwhile. Just... <i>thank you</i>. For not giving up on me.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Depression sucks. But we will get better: we just need to get the right help and be patient while it works. And, to the ones who sit it out with us, you have our eternal love and gratitude.</b>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-44500667962839366982016-04-09T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-12T19:59:24.449+01:00Strange Ideas: Hunger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXA7JR8s5GP6vDh1Zhx_JNj4nAdu98gnQZG7ejnm15QcEqfqTrm6jnWjanlHL5eyQJrMFJCqppQD05FZV9tN7taCK9SbyYiIRmE_TjsRUB76Jj9a9Lk-Z-JAJzLjF6VAxZ1ovfUmaVNpMd/s1600/H.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXA7JR8s5GP6vDh1Zhx_JNj4nAdu98gnQZG7ejnm15QcEqfqTrm6jnWjanlHL5eyQJrMFJCqppQD05FZV9tN7taCK9SbyYiIRmE_TjsRUB76Jj9a9Lk-Z-JAJzLjF6VAxZ1ovfUmaVNpMd/s1600/H.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Continuing with the A to Z Challenge 2016</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison drove
home in brooding silence, his hunger for knowledge by no means sated by the
information Emma had provided. Was India really capable of murder? Was she
really the person Emma painted her to be? Something just didn’t add up. How
could the girl, the woman, he’d spent so many precious hours with be a murderous
nutcase that could shoot her husband and then turn the gun on herself in a fit
of desperation?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No. Not his
India. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He flicked
the stereo on and shuffled through the tracks until he found it. Their song. As
the melody washed over him, he sank into his memories…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I could get used to this.” India
swigged from her can of lager and wriggled closer into his side. Harrison wrapped
his free arm around her shoulders and buried a smile into her hair. She smelt
so good: a heady mixture of shampoo and lotion and promise. Harrison dipped his
chin to brush a kiss across her freckled forehead, breathing in her scent. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Yeah, it’s pretty decent.” And it
was. In just a few short days, Harrison had found happiness with this free
spirit who danced in the surf, this beauty who matched him drink for drink and
stayed standing. Her sweet nature was like sunshine; his hunger for her
insatiable. How strange that, in a seaside town where everybody knew everybody,
their paths had never crossed before when it was obvious to Harrison that they
were destined to be together. The details would work themselves out; all
Harrison knew was that he and India fit together like pieces of a puzzle:
imperfectly shaped yet entirely complete. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“But it’ll all be over soon.” India
sighed and took another swig. Harrison stiffened.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What will?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“The summer. I’ll have to go back to
school and you’ll have to find a proper job. You can’t make a living out of lazing
around under the pier.” She laughed up at him, eyes sparkling in the reflection
of the sun on the sea. “Or maybe you could- Harrison Shaw: professional beach
bum.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison snorted in relief and tossed
his long fringe in imitation of the male models whose posters adorned the bus
shelters. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Yeah. And when I’m rich and famous,
and Kate Moss is begging for my number, we’ll be sipping champagne on a yacht
in Ibiza instead of necking lager on Brighton beach.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“You’ll still want me then? More than
Kate?” India’s voice was teasing, but her face was serious. </span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison pushed her
onto her back and kissed her deeply, relishing the feel of her fingers tangled
in his hair. <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“India,” he whispered. “I’ll
always want you.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sunburned tourists picked their way
delicately over the pebbles, skirting around the young couple who had eyes only
for each other...</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>The story continues on Monday with Infidelity.</b></span></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-1353664713821800972016-04-08T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-09T14:26:37.730+01:00Strange Ideas: Gossip<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYS5qMBaYOQGWZv8KtW9SdImldfDqHqPkcTGwuJqlvvNuskPKnX1vQkeIoT1yMouZ1ZevCRiDgoEmBLCRQDmLpLKHSXlrx0tHNrlyrWRxSbPXD2hwdvWfhoErGdoGOXgmwioW2pdLZfviY/s1600/G.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYS5qMBaYOQGWZv8KtW9SdImldfDqHqPkcTGwuJqlvvNuskPKnX1vQkeIoT1yMouZ1ZevCRiDgoEmBLCRQDmLpLKHSXlrx0tHNrlyrWRxSbPXD2hwdvWfhoErGdoGOXgmwioW2pdLZfviY/s1600/G.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
Continuing with the A to Z Challenge 2016</h3>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I can’t
thank you enough.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison
smiled in acknowledgement, sipping the coffee that Emma had insisted he have, letting
his gaze roam around her living room at the family photos and assorted
knick-knacks that decorated the walls and shelves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“I only took
my eyes off him for a second… he’s a monster when it comes to wandering off.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Buddy
thumped his tail on the floor in agreement, none the worse for his adventure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Honestly,
it was my pleasure. He looked so frightened- it was the least I could do.”
Harrison felt a thrill in how easily the lies came out. “Good job he had a
collar and tag on so I could bring him back to you before the kids realised.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Emma nodded.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Yes, they’d
have been distraught.” She smiled faintly. “It’s been a rough week already.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison
couldn’t help himself. He leaned back in his seat, forcing the question to come
out casually. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“How so?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Emma paused,
clearly unsure as to whether this kind stranger really wanted to hear her
problems. Harrison flashed her his gentlest, most understanding smile. She
stroked Buddy’s head absent-mindedly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Their uncle
and aunt died a few days ago.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison
composed his features into a look of sympathetic concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry to
hear that. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Was it sudden?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Emma barked
a humourless laugh. “You could say that. It was suicide. Well, one of them was.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What do you
mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“She shot my
brother in the stomach and, while he bled to death, turned the gun on herself.
Back of the head. Face blown clean off. I found them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Jesus… that
must have been…” Harrison struggled to find a suitable word, but couldn’t. “Any
idea why?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Who knows
why she did it. She was messed up- in the head, you know? The press are calling
it a suicide pact but I know my brother and he never would have-” Emma shook
her head, as if shaking away the image of the scene. “He wouldn’t have agreed
to it. Why would he? Everything was perfect as far as he was concerned. He didn’t
know about-” She stopped herself, the end of her sentence trailing tantalisingly
in the silence. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison bit
the inside of his lip to stop the question from jumping out<i>. Best to let her talk. Best to let her think spilling the beans was
her own idea.</i> Instead, he nodded encouragingly. She was on the verge of
telling him; he just needed to be patient. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He didn’t
have to wait long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“She
murdered him.” Emma spat the words out, unable to contain her anger. “No one
will listen, but I know the truth. She murdered him because it had gone too far
and he’d found out.” Emma raised her chin, defying Harrison to argue. “I know
it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>The story continues tomorrow </i></span><i style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 17.12px;">with <b>Hunger.</b></i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-41801179559903924862016-04-07T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-07T18:44:52.933+01:00Strange Ideas: Frenemy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJz5F1HIZbXwtZARfO-5opWJkFs1uPreosdpudpPnWECrcF9dyFF4sdEBGYFqfVnjVGmbnYcOpU7lrK4pJbCqQvPbgZbL_If2ZVMMNUu2ouJMwLjpr_teIVJoCKSf9dqwlF4rjwXEWQTUs/s1600/F.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJz5F1HIZbXwtZARfO-5opWJkFs1uPreosdpudpPnWECrcF9dyFF4sdEBGYFqfVnjVGmbnYcOpU7lrK4pJbCqQvPbgZbL_If2ZVMMNUu2ouJMwLjpr_teIVJoCKSf9dqwlF4rjwXEWQTUs/s1600/F.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Continuing with the A to Z Challenge 2016</span></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">From his
hiding place behind the tree, Harrison watched the woman unclip her dog’s lead
and send it bounding over the grass. A quick search on the internet, plus his
access to house records, had made Emma Yates easy to find. It was a simple lie
to leave early to “meet a potential client” and, with Ted out of the office,
there would be no one to miss him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Following
Emma all the way out here hadn’t been part of the plan though. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He ducked
behind the tree as she turned her head in his direction, using the leaves as
cover in order to study her from a distance. She wore no make-up now, only a
vacant stare, wretched in its blankness. She pulled her phone from her pocket
and began scrolling and tapping mindlessly as she followed the direction the
dog had taken.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison
didn’t know what to do. His plan, if he could call it a plan, had been to somehow
bump into her and start a conversation that he could steer round to India. <i>How much did she know?</i> But it was
proving harder to engineer than he’d hoped when he’d followed her car from the
address he’d looked up. If he approached her out here, a lone man in office
shoes, with no dog and no business being up on the hills, he’d be lucky not to
get a face full of pepper-spray and a swift kick in his groin. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Think. Think…<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ahead, the
dog veered off into the bushes on the right and the woman glanced up from her
phone at the rustling sound.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Buddy- no!”
she called, but Buddy, intent on catching the rabbit or fox he’d sniffed out,
paid her no attention and disappeared from view. Harrison watched her to see if
she would follow, but she merely tutted and turned her attention back to her
phone. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">An idea- a
crazy idea- popped into his head. Impulsively, he backed away from his hiding
place until he was level with the row of bushes behind which Buddy had vanished.
Crouching low, he pushed through a gap and emerged on a narrow dirt track on the
other side. Buddy, only ten feet away, raised his nose from the ground and
regarded him curiously. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hey there,
Buddy,” he murmured. Buddy wagged his tail, unsure. Harrison took a step
towards the dog, his mouth dry with the anxiety of what he was about to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Good Buddy.”
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He took
another step closer and Buddy padded over to sniff Harrison’s outstretched
hand. With his other, Harrison grabbed the dog’s collar and scooped him up,
hurrying back to his car as quietly as he could manage along the dirt track.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Good boy.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As he
bundled the dog onto his back seat, Harrison could hear Emma calling Buddy’s
name with increasing irritation. As it rose in pitch, panic setting in, he
started the car and drove down the hill towards the main road before she could
turn back and see him. Buddy panted at the window and wagged his tail, clearly
enjoying his ride in the car. Such a friendly, happy dog. Such a wonderful
family pet. Such a shame that he was missing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Harrison was
sure that Emma would be very grateful to the Good Samaritan who returned her
lost dog. Very grateful indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><i>The story continues tomorrow with <b>Gossip.</b></i></span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-50724290275334974932016-04-06T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-06T18:16:34.931+01:00Strange Ideas: Enigma<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-lbQnycBoJAASsW079li3zETp1-6oEk2pIR4x_kKDBGgNJ9vDkDo6ADeAqdJybeX_Cjfl0nBHqTwF-RDWV-RNTYyZYocvbkHnGBTNNehl_SInEXsYR-eo4YbslGXGvIcGCNrLo1kqQcs/s1600/E.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs-lbQnycBoJAASsW079li3zETp1-6oEk2pIR4x_kKDBGgNJ9vDkDo6ADeAqdJybeX_Cjfl0nBHqTwF-RDWV-RNTYyZYocvbkHnGBTNNehl_SInEXsYR-eo4YbslGXGvIcGCNrLo1kqQcs/s1600/E.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
Continuing with the A to Z Challenge 2016</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The most recent photos filled Harrison’s screen: standard
selfies, arty landscapes, a few snaps of various lunches if they had been particularly
well-presented. Nothing that gave him a clue as to India's state of mind in the
weeks leading up to her suicide. Harrison let out the breath he hadn’t been
aware he was holding. What had he expected to find? A montage of misery? A
catalogue of complaints about the hopelessness of life? Surely the police would
have checked all this stuff already anyway?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Answers. I thought
there would be something…</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From the looks of it, India documented her life through
Instagram, posting random enigmatic details of her day with obsessive regularity.
He clicked on a photo of India and a blonde woman, taken a couple of weeks ago,
to enlarge it. It looked like it had been snapped in a bar: the empty glasses
and cheesy grins hinting at the length of time the two women had been there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Liquid lunch with the
in-laws ;) </i>the caption read. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tore his eyes away from India’s face and studied the other woman more carefully.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>So this was the
sister-in-law? What was her name? Emily something? Emma?</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was in her late thirties, maybe, wearing too much make-up,
with mousey-brown roots revealing the truth behind her sun-kissed salon highlights.
Harrison hadn’t paid much attention to the photo of James Cooper that had
accompanied the article, but he supposed there must be some resemblance between
this woman and her brother. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He clicked off the picture and scanned through the others,
searching for James in order to confirm his hunch. He reached the bottom of the
page- nothing. <i>Strange. No smug couple
shots?</i> With every other detail being worthy of an upload, it seemed odd
that her husband should feature in none of the moments she deemed necessary to
record. But maybe, given her recent relationship status change, it wasn’t so
unexpected. Intrigued nonetheless, he clicked to view India’s full Instagram
account and kept scrolling down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>No…no…wait.</i> There.
A selfie, taken in bed, brunette curls fanning across the pillow, a man’s arm
draped across her chest, the top of a fluffy blond head just visible below
India’s cheeky smirk. Harrison’s heart skipped a beat. <i>That tattoo</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A simple heart, composed of black Celtic-style swirls. Manly
enough to show off at the beach, yet soppy enough to hint at a more spiritual side.
The sort of tattoo that a teenage boy, giddy on alcopops and drunk on love,
might ask for to impress his summer crush. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
His tattoo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The story continues tomorrow with <b>Frenemy</b>.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-88919623243381445242016-04-05T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-06T16:49:27.009+01:00Strange Ideas: Details<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPgXzSNS71H3FfY4EM0CYV4ADBKaqbBZrSeABygDfoNFZLPfdxNZa93qBLY5vSDixueTriTu1KcDHdOg0cJQjp8td84VVqncLjj_CjjaD4n4HgMI5DOmkTnqMkcnEPW-EVGkNirQ7mKd7/s1600/D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzPgXzSNS71H3FfY4EM0CYV4ADBKaqbBZrSeABygDfoNFZLPfdxNZa93qBLY5vSDixueTriTu1KcDHdOg0cJQjp8td84VVqncLjj_CjjaD4n4HgMI5DOmkTnqMkcnEPW-EVGkNirQ7mKd7/s1600/D.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
Continuing with the A to Z Challenge 2016</h3>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day brought joy and misery in equal measure: the
joy of getting his car back tempered by the misery of how much it cost to
restore his bumper; the soft kisses and forgiveness he’d received this morning from
Suzanne moderated by his guilt over how much more he needed to be forgiven for.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ted was in a foul mood too, and not inclined to hide it.
Harrison had already received a roasting over his handling of the second
viewing at the Gatford property which, according to the Keanes, had been “amateurish”
and “uninspiring”. Needless to say, he hadn’t closed the deal, and he couldn’t
really blame them. His head had been so mixed up with the details of the
newspaper article that he’d had a hard time remembering even the most basic of
specifications to do with the bungalow. The only aspect of his workday that
could be considered anywhere near joyful was the fact that Ted had left the
office for a “business lunch” at eleven, and probably wouldn’t be back for the
rest of the day.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was the need for details that continued to nag at
him, even as he typed up the glib script for the glossy handouts for this house
and that house. As well as he thought he had known India, as huge a part of his
life she’d been, there was so much he still didn’t understand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Facebook, the go-to social platform for casual stalkers, had
proved annoyingly private. The only additional information he’d been able to
glean was that, just over a week ago, she’d changed her relationship status
from “married” to “it’s complicated”. Harrison couldn’t help but let a wry smirk
slip at that, even as his stomach sank. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>I wonder what her husband
made of that? What the police will make of it?</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The rest of what was publicly available, the profile
pictures and life events and such, he already had committed to memory. He couldn’t
find her on any other sites, not under her real name anyway. But maybe there
was something he’d missed…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harrison glanced over his shoulder to check no one was
nearby, and minimised the property details document he was working on. He
loaded up India’s Facebook profile and scanned the page again. <i>There.</i> Under the tab marked “More”, all
the way down at the bottom. <i>Instagram. </i>How had he not spotted that before?<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
Another furtive glance around the office. Satisfied the coast was clear, he clicked on the link, suddenly afraid of what he might see.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<br />
<i>The story continues tomorrow with <b>Enigma</b>.</i>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-20997455050312811182016-04-04T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-06T14:49:47.075+01:00Strange Ideas: Corona<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIP29Mnh9-sTd5UqqoA4k1oeVCWh-TFJNGcqx3DLkeMuMNxQlSZvCQov0t7N5X-bTqB-XisePvfkS-6H92YA9NrtLyK43g_EQ1r5D7D4SVJC6WT2ijSZUF9RtDbkjFZnl82_yuxvmPW1aF/s1600/C.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIP29Mnh9-sTd5UqqoA4k1oeVCWh-TFJNGcqx3DLkeMuMNxQlSZvCQov0t7N5X-bTqB-XisePvfkS-6H92YA9NrtLyK43g_EQ1r5D7D4SVJC6WT2ijSZUF9RtDbkjFZnl82_yuxvmPW1aF/s1600/C.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
Continuing the A to Z Challenge 2016</h3>
<div>
<br /></div>
“I’ve never <i>been</i> so embarrassed.”<br />
<br />
Harrison flinched at the anger in her voice and averted his eyes from how her mouth twisted up in a tight knot as she spat the words in his face.<br />
<br />
“Suzanne, I’m sorry. I-”<br />
<br />
“Sorry?” Suzanne threw her hands up in the air, eyebrows raised, eyes hard and cold. “Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to have to stand there and scrabble around to find a card that hadn’t hit its limit? For Christ’s sake, Harrison- you could have at least told me you’d taken the money for your car out of our account.”<br />
<br />
“I was going to- it just slipped my mind. It’s been a really weird day…” He ached, suddenly, to tell her everything. To share it all like he used to be able to, to let her rational, logical mind make sense of what he was going through and advise him. She was so good at that.<br />
<br />
“Weirder than having the manager at Waitrose think you can’t pay for £170 of grocery shopping? Weirder than having to admit to a stranger that you don’t know what your boyfriend has spent your money on? I doubt it, Harrison.”<br />
<br />
She turned her back on him and started unpacking the bags, shoving shopping into cupboards with the savagery of a boxer pummelling an opponent.<br />
<br />
At a loss for what he could say, Harrison said nothing. Instead, he sloped off to the bathroom and locked the door. Resting his head against the frame, he screwed his eyes tightly closed to stop the tears that pricked suddenly. When had it gone so wrong? Not just the money, but between him and Suzanne?<br />
<br />
When they’d first met, at a summer wedding between mutual friends, Harrison hadn’t been able to believe his luck. This stunning woman who laughed at his jokes and danced close to him. This intelligent beauty who held his gaze and gave him her phone number. It was too good to be true, too unequal to be comfortable.<br />
<br />
Not like it was with India.<br />
<br />
<br />
<i>Brighton. 1998. Summer. If you could call it summer. Stubborn dreariness masquerading as weather, the sun oblivious to the yearning of teenage boys like Harrison who coveted the hedonistic Ibiza vibe but lacked the funds and, instead, had to make do with hanging out on the pebble beach with a few beers and a portable stereo. A summer of cheap lager, bummed cigarettes and late nights dancing to Big Beat under the arches.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The summer Harrison fell in love.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Got a light?” </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Behind sunglasses, Harrison opened his eyes and lifted his head from his makeshift pillow on the pebbles. Above him, blocking out the sun so that it radiated behind her cloud of curls, a corona around her head, stood a beautiful stranger in a sunflower-yellow dress. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Um…yeah.” He lifted his hips to fish it out of his pocket, sitting upright to stretch out his arm and hand it to her. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“Cheers.” She lit her cigarette, tilting her head and blowing smoke as she scrutinised him. She didn’t hand the lighter back and Harrison didn’t ask for it. It was a small price to pay. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“I’m Harrison,” he managed at last.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>“India.” And then that smile.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Behind the bathroom door, Harrison pressed his face against the cool wood and shook his head in tight, regretful movements.<br />
<br />
No. Life now was not like it had been with India. Not at all.<br />
<div>
<br />
<br />
<i>The story continues tomorrow with <b>Details</b>.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-46977098874840243682016-04-02T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-04T12:23:36.637+01:00Strange Ideas: Blemish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloPmcQyhRMMsW2j4HJVnv82B-tILroGg12ViWFnUrbkYMP6le9bduU8neeiuszLI0BGTEDAQMtfH3RCnd-XS5Fit1mqV9Ubim180gwGy-mkLHUKXSobJf6VH95MR-igigv03P5UTgcSZO/s1600/B.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjloPmcQyhRMMsW2j4HJVnv82B-tILroGg12ViWFnUrbkYMP6le9bduU8neeiuszLI0BGTEDAQMtfH3RCnd-XS5Fit1mqV9Ubim180gwGy-mkLHUKXSobJf6VH95MR-igigv03P5UTgcSZO/s1600/B.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3>
Continuing the A to Z Challenge 2016</h3>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trudge up the hill from the bus stop to the house took
forever and, by the time Harrison made it to the cover of the porch, he was
drenched. Memories of India soaked his brain with as much determination as the
puddles soaked his shoes. A short wrestle with the key and he was inside, the
air tropically warm compared to the autumn rain that had saturated him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Shaking droplets from his hair onto the expensive runner in
the hallway, he hurried through to the kitchen to set up. With practised
efficiency, he laid out the contents of the file in neat piles of paperwork. His
eye was drawn to the newspaper, crumpled and crushed at the bottom of his bag
but, other than smoothing it out flat to dry on the counter, he ignored both it
and his burning curiosity for now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Timmins, a middle-aged couple looking to upgrade, were
punctual. Harrison greeted them with a welcoming smile and ushered
them into the kitchen to begin the tour. Falling into the mindless sales patter distracted him from the turmoil in his head and he performed with as much charm as he would on any other day, even though this wasn't a day like any other. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Twenty minutes later, he waved them off and closed the door
behind them, letting his smile drop and his jaw relax. A glance at the clock
told him he had ten minutes before the next viewing. Hurrying into the kitchen,
pulled out the now dry newspaper and began to finally read.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
DOUBLE SUICIDE TRAGEDY SHOCKS COMMUNITY<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>A community in West Sussex has been left reeling after the
discovery of two bodies on Thursday morning, the result of an apparent double
suicide.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The couple, named locally as James Cooper and India Cooper,
were believed to have been found by Mr Cooper’s sister, Emma Yates, after she
became concerned that her brother was not replying to her attempts to contact
him on Wednesday evening. On entering the house, she discovered Mr and Mrs Cooper
in the bedroom with severe gunshot injuries. Attempts by ambulance crew to resuscitate
Mr Cooper were unsuccessful, and both were pronounced dead at the scene.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>“They were a lovely couple,” said a neighbour. “We had no
idea that anything like this would happen. They always seemed so happy and we often
waved at each other when I saw them about. It’s just awful.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Sussex police are not looking for anyone else in connection
with the incident.</i><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Harrison pushed the newspaper away, fighting the bile that
rose in his throat. The photograph, blotchy and blemished from the rain, swam
out of focus until he saw only the India he remembered, the way she had looked
the last time they’d met. Had she really been so unhappy? He struggled to
recall a tell-tale sign, a clue that he should have noticed, but there was
none.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The doorbell cut into his thoughts and he jumped from his
seat at the counter. Shoving the newspaper back into his bag, he blinked away
the image of how her hair had curled where it touched her collar bone and straightened
his shoulders. He pulled his lips up into another smile and opened the front
door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mr Keane- Mrs Keane. Please, do come in.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The story continues on Monday with <b>Corona</b>.</i></div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-75526624807885424702016-04-01T07:00:00.000+01:002016-04-01T07:00:00.240+01:00Strange Ideas: Article<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENNj-GTwgJFrHeW9xITjObpY6xPK7t9jG2VBHuDm713O8p2c3p72i-hzsVJ-1CAqQAzeRS5iYIF-oWaws6O8xtXHaxftrzl5Aqe7N9RF3aKOk9Lip3Z3EA9-slomQTDZ3oJY_Q4MIvYw6/s1600/A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgENNj-GTwgJFrHeW9xITjObpY6xPK7t9jG2VBHuDm713O8p2c3p72i-hzsVJ-1CAqQAzeRS5iYIF-oWaws6O8xtXHaxftrzl5Aqe7N9RF3aKOk9Lip3Z3EA9-slomQTDZ3oJY_Q4MIvYw6/s1600/A.jpg" /></a></div>
<h3 style="text-align: left;">
The first part of the A-Z April Challenge 2016</h3>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
The newspaper landed with a soggy plop on the bus-station tarmac, headline facing up to the cloud-laden sky, the grainy, overexposed photo smiling at the raindrops that fell in a drumming tattoo.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
DOUBLE SUICIDE TRAGEDY SHOCKS COMMUNITY</div>
<br />
Blinking stupidly, oblivious to the hurrying crowds that brushed and barged past him, Harrison Shaw stared into the eyes of the pretty brunette on the front page and fought the urge to throw up.<br />
<br />
<i>India Rayne. Jesus... </i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
No time to read it now; his bus was pulling in. Shaking the memory away before it had a chance to fully emerge, Harrison stooped to grab the newspaper and, tucking it under his arm, fought his way onto the packed bus.<br />
<br />
<br />
At the office, Harrison barely had time to snatch a cup of coffee before Ted, his line manager and general pain in the backside, was on his case.<br />
<br />
“I need you to show the Gatford house this morning,” he barked, abrupt to the point of rudeness as usual. “Got a couple of potentials lined up, so you can do the viewings back to back.”<br />
<br />
Harrison stifled a groan. The Gatford house, a spacious bungalow up on the South Downs, wasn’t on the bus route and, after an unfortunate prang with a supermarket bollard the previous week, travelling by bus was his only option until the garage managed to repair his bumper. Ted wouldn’t give two toots about that though, and it could be worse- at least he’d only have to get there and back once.<br />
<br />
“Sure. No problem.”<br />
<br />
“Excellent.” Ted grinned, uneven tobacco-stained teeth adding nothing to his charm He threw the file on Harrison’s desk and spun on his heel, sauntering back to his private office with the smugness of a supreme delegator who’d just off-loaded a particularly troublesome task.<br />
<br />
“First one’s at ten.”<br />
<br />
Harrison swore under his breath, drained his mug, and jumped up to race back to the bus stop. Halfway to the door, he remembered the file and, swearing again, returned to retrieve it. It was already damp, landing as it had on the newspaper, and the article about the girl he’d once loved. Indias’s smile, wide and genuine even in a poor-quality snapshot, brought the scent of Anais Anais perfume to his nostrils, the echo of lusty laughter to his ears. He bundled the newspaper into his bag, along with the file, and was away, less than ten minutes after he’d arrived.<br />
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>The story continues tomorrow with <b>Blemish</b>.</i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-69923996523668166202016-03-30T14:30:00.004+01:002016-03-30T14:30:51.776+01:00The Bunny Suicide...<h3>
... or murder most horrid?</h3>
<br />
So, after a wet and miserable Easter weekend, the sun decided to shine today. Unfortunately, I had to go into work (despite it officially being my holibobs) but I knuckled down and was back home by the early afternoon.<br />
<br />
Time for a cuppa and a nap on the sofa as a reward for all my hard work, I decided. And perhaps a little nibble on one of my Easter eggs- yum!<br />
<br />
But, in the kitchen, I was met with a most unsettling- terrifying- spectacle... a shocking vision of horror that will haunt my nightmares for weeks...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*WARNING* *GRAPHIC IMAGES*</div>
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjvEUG2483hyRo9YtlXYrmSxkaEPk1_POq1NcVzMk_V-7l-CzslX0swHXAeB2tPOPN9mtNdlMmBpUpSJIaeHgVeZGH33p5K2QB0pRLavQs1hXI7yc6INVGS9mhQW6eRg3YCZOP-WtCIrf/s1600/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+54+07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcjvEUG2483hyRo9YtlXYrmSxkaEPk1_POq1NcVzMk_V-7l-CzslX0swHXAeB2tPOPN9mtNdlMmBpUpSJIaeHgVeZGH33p5K2QB0pRLavQs1hXI7yc6INVGS9mhQW6eRg3YCZOP-WtCIrf/s320/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+54+07.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhibit A</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The cute Harry Hopalong, on whose ears I was hoping to nibble, had morphed into a demon creature from the pit of hell...</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAkW_jYdQsEmn9AECe7DiggAI_shLq1u86OPRhlmOv0xqT9Ue3j2kWvY77CvzJT3bqI4aT3T7fK4aSjBPuKIbitt4BRAYNDHnpn36yKavYVujBnIkeg39J22wmkqJ5QoyGn2aQhMHveXE/s1600/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+52+26.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinAkW_jYdQsEmn9AECe7DiggAI_shLq1u86OPRhlmOv0xqT9Ue3j2kWvY77CvzJT3bqI4aT3T7fK4aSjBPuKIbitt4BRAYNDHnpn36yKavYVujBnIkeg39J22wmkqJ5QoyGn2aQhMHveXE/s320/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+52+26.jpg" width="206" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, the humanity!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
... his face literally melted by what I can only imagine were the torturous fires of Hades... Before my very eyes, he drooped even further...<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__WML8KlQOVMDO-XhB2xNHSyckpUa8sR1FXmuzxhcKNmw2NyRtz05MfS8LqQNvPy4AtM2CXJ5L8Wmhe4EpE5h6TkYs2jxmHZ53wmRv9vUot2SfR6eyOITqR3TAuk-5POEXICAWIxBM7M5/s1600/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+52+37.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg__WML8KlQOVMDO-XhB2xNHSyckpUa8sR1FXmuzxhcKNmw2NyRtz05MfS8LqQNvPy4AtM2CXJ5L8Wmhe4EpE5h6TkYs2jxmHZ53wmRv9vUot2SfR6eyOITqR3TAuk-5POEXICAWIxBM7M5/s320/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+52+37.jpg" width="219" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Is it wrong that I'm wondering how his flesh will taste?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How could such a thing have happened? What was the cause? Who was the culprit? Had he ticked off the Easter Bunny in some way? Was this a revenge attack for those mini eggs I scoffed on Sunday? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My mind boggled, even as my mouth watered... and I realised I didn't have to look far for the prime suspect...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVGVXLgUFJdr-vrBjAmqzFmW5G56rG61icdJ5tkNhLFC4uVny0jqCg9uI_YUV9aRY-vDY30jXWpWyG2ETqjtzyADKM9M6tPoyUolA33eXqp7Ktx-4We717RHNZLq_K-42nnnRD90bm4wh/s1600/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+52+32.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvVGVXLgUFJdr-vrBjAmqzFmW5G56rG61icdJ5tkNhLFC4uVny0jqCg9uI_YUV9aRY-vDY30jXWpWyG2ETqjtzyADKM9M6tPoyUolA33eXqp7Ktx-4We717RHNZLq_K-42nnnRD90bm4wh/s320/Photo+30-03-2016%252C+13+52+32.jpg" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Suspicious...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Anybody else thinking this chap on the left is looking just a little smug? Those wide, innocent eyes don't fool me- I'm a primary school teacher!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Now, should I interrogate the suspect or perform an autopsy on the victim first? Either way, things are going to get messy ;) </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-20539057889317209412016-03-21T07:00:00.000+00:002016-03-21T07:00:13.345+00:00Blogging from A to Z Challenge 2016: Theme Reveal<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVaAcZuhLuAXh8odW_5sm8QY4d0sXTlVlY9PseydxmFhv6zjbz912UtEcM15sNwgXev8X4lBQezef8C1CQg2Ew7Go4-wxYLZtxy-w4ncq-GUEhg2bnF30D2OWzaQqS8AVctVU4huaEFBs/s1600/atoz-theme-reveal-2016+v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEVaAcZuhLuAXh8odW_5sm8QY4d0sXTlVlY9PseydxmFhv6zjbz912UtEcM15sNwgXev8X4lBQezef8C1CQg2Ew7Go4-wxYLZtxy-w4ncq-GUEhg2bnF30D2OWzaQqS8AVctVU4huaEFBs/s1600/atoz-theme-reveal-2016+v2.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<h3>
I'm chuffed to bits to announce that this year my theme for the A to Z Challenge is <i>Strange Ideas!</i> </h3>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I haven't quite made up my mind whether each post will be a random short, or whether I'll find some cunning way to weave them all together, but I can tell you that my first post will be <b><i>Article</i></b>, about a man who finds out that someone from his past is not the person he believed them to be...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>Intrigued? See you on April 1st! </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-63512470472648030872016-03-20T14:54:00.001+00:002016-03-20T14:54:21.649+00:00It's coming...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEir363OTMYE6-QgVPedqVhM1t3X77jf659U99pG6L6zlEQq2jnR-J0_kzPaOeq6lxCQz2z9nzNDUiX803Lt47QGfDKUfjNmcva1zJV_2InhfBF1T0orGvQjAlxeccXXVOE1jRsvG9g4_C/s1600/atoz-theme-reveal-2016+v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEir363OTMYE6-QgVPedqVhM1t3X77jf659U99pG6L6zlEQq2jnR-J0_kzPaOeq6lxCQz2z9nzNDUiX803Lt47QGfDKUfjNmcva1zJV_2InhfBF1T0orGvQjAlxeccXXVOE1jRsvG9g4_C/s1600/atoz-theme-reveal-2016+v2.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Pop back tomorrow to find out my theme for this year's challenge!</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-88831052054741988152015-06-29T22:12:00.000+01:002015-06-29T22:12:58.191+01:00Cherish the little things...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33kdaawB0Y6jQvXICF9NA5f4HRorJ1dqan-qwRD7frrg5kqct2RB2M6fRu_7oPh8sHSrE0xBqznDGLTioJiXlyIBg-H7Avqo4pfxifaYYMOfG80WwlWPz7VYCnwY-ZcwNFy-FGifr2Aio/s1600/cherish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi33kdaawB0Y6jQvXICF9NA5f4HRorJ1dqan-qwRD7frrg5kqct2RB2M6fRu_7oPh8sHSrE0xBqznDGLTioJiXlyIBg-H7Avqo4pfxifaYYMOfG80WwlWPz7VYCnwY-ZcwNFy-FGifr2Aio/s320/cherish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<h3>
...something I try very hard to do.</h3>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
New Years Eve, 2014: I spent the evening with friends and, as we chatted about the previous twelve months and our hopes for the next twelve, we found that happiness was the one thing we all wanted to have more of, whether it was in work, relationships, personal achievements- whatever our priorities were. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This got me thinking. I make a point of practising positive thoughts and counting my blessings and, the previous year, I'd taken part in the #100happydays challenge (which I thoroughly enjoyed, despite being very ill at one point). But what if I could have 365 happy days? Could I find something to be happy about every single day?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was interesting. Like most people, I have good days and bad days; days so wonderful I want to remember them forever and days so awful I want to stay under the duvet and never leave the house again. Sometimes it felt like the world was filled with happy; other times, happy was pushed aside by busy, or tired, or stressed. If I didn't keep on top of the happy, it went away. Being happy, I reasoned, was like being an athlete or a musician. I needed to train for it. Every. Single. Day. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The next day, I went out and bought three diaries: one for each of my friends, and one for myself. I set them the challenge- could they find joy in every day? It didn't need to be anything huge- although sometimes it is- but they had to find one thing every day that made them feel happy.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Six months on, my diary has an entry for every single day but one- the day Terry Pratchett died. (I tried, but the hole he left sucked all the happiness that day.) I pushed myself to continue, though, and I haven't missed a day since. I like reading back over them and remembering.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
My entries are in a sort of code- phrases that probably only make sense to me and the people I shared the moment with. It's a way of keeping these special moments private but I want to share them anyway. I wonder if anyone reading them will recognise the reference, and if it made them happy too? I hope so.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<b>Here are some of the things that have made me happy:</b></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
a near-miss with karaoke</div>
<div>
Roo getting stuck in the car</div>
<div>
snoozing on a warm bus on the way back from football</div>
<div>
my first band t-shirt in too many years</div>
<div>
the Cask</div>
<div>
"Good"</div>
<div>
starlings</div>
<div>
the kindness of strangers</div>
<div>
playing in the snow</div>
<div>
Mo Chickens</div>
<div>
doing something kind for someone who didn't deserve it</div>
<div>
climbing a fence in heels</div>
<div>
Mary cakes</div>
<div>
Bill's toy car</div>
<div>
doggy dancing to Uptown Funk with Alfie</div>
<div>
epic walkies</div>
<div>
The Hat</div>
<div>
"special" bowling</div>
<div>
Ali breaking a fence</div>
<div>
pizza with Bill</div>
<div>
a Roman banquet</div>
<div>
the last few miles to Fontygary</div>
<div>
Pirate Bay</div>
<div>
the scent of jasmine</div>
<div>
a game of horseshoes</div>
<div>
mucho ale and touchy-feeley good vibes</div>
<div>
arm wrestling John for the last pint</div>
<div>
dancing to Paul Weller</div>
<div>
butterflies in my tummy</div>
<div>
poker night</div>
<div>
buttered crumpets</div>
<div>
manly jobs</div>
<div>
Ryan the parrot</div>
<div>
having my hair stroked</div>
<div>
a broomstick</div>
<div>
"Oh"</div>
<div>
"my woman"</div>
<div>
Spanish penguins</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i><b>If I asked you to tell me one thing that made you happy today, could you? </b></i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Why don't you share in the comments- or maybe you'll decide to keep a happy diary too. </i></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-49256235148166465312015-04-30T07:00:00.000+01:002015-04-30T22:39:35.800+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Z is actually for zzzzzzzz...<h3>
The final day of the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h4>
Wow. It's been a fun and manic month of blogging, where I've speed-read my way through old favourites, rifled through well-worn pages for memorable quotes and stayed up way past my bedtime to keep on track with my posts.</h4>
<br />
I've agonised over Gandalf vs Granny, chewed my nails off over Rhett vs Rincewind, and, in the case of U is for Uriah Heep, given up completely... <br />
<br />
But it's been <em>great</em>. I've made some new friends as I've explored other blogs or they've commented on mine, and the range of creative talents I've seen- from fiction to photography to forensic science- has been an eye-opener. I fully intend to continue with the madness in next year's challenge, and I'm already considering themes. I'd love to hear your suggestions!<br />
<br />
Today, however, Z is for zzzzz... which is what I'll be doing in just a few short minutes (I'm <em>shattered</em>). If you <em>really</em> want to read about <span class="st" sb_id="ms__id27291"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zaphod_Beeblebrox" target="_blank">Zaphod Beeblebrox</a>, I'm afraid you'll have to do it on Wikipedia. I'm going to bed :)</span><br />
<br />
Thanks for joining me on this challenge, and I hope you enjoyed it too.<br />
<br />
Night night,<br />
<br />
Louise<br />
<br />
<em>zzzzzzz...</em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-27475966839657341222015-04-29T07:00:00.000+01:002015-04-30T22:22:28.477+01:00Great Fictional Characters: You Bastard<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<h4>
Pardon my Klatchian, but Y is for You Bastard.</h4>
<br />
You Bastard is the greatest mathematician on the Disc. He is also a camel, which explains the name, as camels believe their name is whatever people shout at them.<br />
<br />
Most people's experience of camels would lead them to believe that they are stubborn, stupid creatures who can barely control their own legs but, as Pratchett explains in <em>Pyramids</em>:<br />
<br />
<em>“The fact is that camels are far more intelligent than dolphins. They are so much brighter that they soon realised that the most prudent thing any intelligent animal can do, if it would prefer its descendants not to spend a lot of time on a slab with electrodes clamped to their brains or sticking mines on the bottom of ships or being patronized rigid by zoologists, is to make bloody certain humans don't find out about it. So they long ago plumped for a lifestyle that, in return for a certain amount of porterage and being prodded with sticks, allowed them adequate food and grooming and the chance to spit in a human's eye and get away with it.”</em> <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://emperornortonii.deviantart.com/art/You-Bastard-136055265?q=favby%3Akrystafer%2F46649968&qo=0" target="_blank">Artist credit</a></td></tr>
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It's not such a bad life. Living in the desert provides an abundance of time to think: there are few distractions and the rhythmic plodding of hoof on sand is a pleasant accompaniment to methodical calculation. It's no wonder that, on the Disc, camels evolved to be so intelligent, if only for something to do to pass the time. It explains why they take so long to get going, too. Imagine if your head was filled with this:<br />
<br />
<em>“You Bastard was thinking: there seems to be some growing dimensional instability here, swinging from zero to nearly forty-five degrees by the look of it. How interesting. I wonder what’s causing it? Let V equal 3. Let Tau equal Chi/4. </em>cudcudcud<em> Let Kappa/y be an Evil-Smelling-Bugger* differential tensor domain with four imaginary spin co-efficients. . .”</em> <br />
<br />
<em>(* Renowned as the greatest camel mathematician of all time, who invented a math of eight-dimensional space while lying down with his nostrils closed in a violent sandstorm.) </em><br />
<em></em><br />
What makes You Bastard such a great character for me is the simple fact that Pratchett has taken the most belligerent, bloody-minded and seemingly dumb animal on Earth and recreated it as a complex, deep-thinking genius that can out-think us all. <br />
<br />
It certainly made me look at them in a different light... although I'd still prefer to look at them from a safe distance :)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-29522300392706288982015-04-28T07:00:00.001+01:002015-04-28T07:00:04.547+01:00Remembering Sir Terry Pratchett<h3>
Today would have been Terry's 67th birthday.</h3>
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<h4>
It's a little over six weeks since that awful day when I heard the news. </h4>
<br />
I'd popped in to my mum's to check on her dogs on my way home from work, and my phone connected automatically to her wifi. It fired off about seven or eight messages in quick succession (I work in an area with a very weak signal, so this often happens when I return to civilisation). <br />
<br />
I let the dogs out and swiped my phone to read the first message. <br />
<br />
<em>Oh sad news today. X</em><br />
<br />
I was confused. Sad news about what? About who? <br />
<br />
I checked the next message.<br />
<br />
<em>Have you heard about Terry? So sorry Lou xxx</em><br />
<br />
I felt like I was about to throw up. I googled his name and there it was. I checked Twitter, just to be sure. <br />
<br />
<strong><em>AT LAST, SIR TERRY, WE MUST WALK TOGETHER.</em></strong><br />
<br />
I sat on the floor and burst into tears. <br />
<br />
The next morning, one of my pupils came straight up to me on the playground to ask if it were true. When I said yes, she gave me a hug. I needed it. <br />
<br />
My pupils know what a fan I am: they've heard all my Discworld stories and in-jokes, can count in Troll (one, two, many, lots) and, last year, our class novel was Truckers. (When I met Terry in 2012, I told him I was a "Pratchett-pusher", which I think he liked.) They saw how sad I was; they noticed how I've worn my turtle pin every single day since his death; they'll understand why I'm wearing a black hat today. The Turtle Moves, and it moves through every reader who loved his words.<br />
<br />
Last week, one of my pupils, the same one who hugged me, gave me this:<br />
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<br />
<strong><em>Dear Terry Pratchett,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em></em></strong><br />
<strong><em>We know you're gone. But I still wanted to wish you a "Happy Birthday".</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>You are a brilliant author and you will be missed.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>By the way my teacher (Miss West) is your biggest fan, she also gets inspired to write books like you.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>At school we've got all (most) of your books.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>WE'RE ALL BIG FANS!</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Hope you were here Sir Terry Pratchett.</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>Take care of yourself,</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>from Natasha</em></strong><br />
<strong><em>x</em></strong><br />
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More hugs, and a tear or two. The Turtle Moves.<br />
<br />
If you'd like to read my post from that day, you can find it <a href="http://louise-west.blogspot.co.uk/2015/03/rip-pterry.html" target="_blank">here</a>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-44359547002756969642015-04-28T07:00:00.000+01:002015-04-30T21:07:07.554+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Perdita X Dream<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<h4>
Ok, I'm cheating slightly here, but X is for Perdita X Dream, the alter-ego of Agnes Nitt.</h4>
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<em>"Inside a fat girl there is a thin girl and a lot of chocolate. Agnes's thin girl was Perdita."</em> <br />
<br />
Agnes has good hair: it's long and glossy, never splits, and is extremely well-behaved, except for a tendency to eat combs. Her voice is amazing, and not just for the fact that she can sing in harmony with herself. She's kind; she's funny; she's clever. She also has a <em>lovely</em> personality.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://adi-fitri.tumblr.com/post/77790035992/agnes-perdita-x-nitt-i-just-realised-agnes-is" target="_blank">Artist credit</a></td></tr>
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<br />
<em>"Agnes had woken up one morning with the horrible realisation that she'd been saddled with a lovely personality. It was the lack of choice that rankled. No one had asked her, before she was born, whether she wanted a lovely personality or whether she'd prefer, say, a miserable personality but a body that could take size 9 in dresses. Instead, people would take pains to tell her that beauty was only skin deep, as if a man ever fell for an attractive pair of kidneys."</em><br />
<br />
Perdita, on the other hand, is vain, selfish and vicious- and, unlike Agnes, she doesn't care two toots for what anyone else thinks. She also isn't real- at least, not in a flesh-and-blood sort of way. She's the voice in Agnes' head, the wicked thoughts she doesn't want to admit to, the urges she doesn't dare carry out.<br />
<br />
<em>"How does Perdita work, then?" said Nanny.</em><br />
<em>Agnes sighed. "Look, you know the part of you that wants to do all the things you don't dare do, and thinks the thoughts you don't dare think?"</em><br />
<em>Nanny's face stayed blank. Agnes floundered. "Like... maybe... rip off all your clothes and run naked in the rain?" she hazarded.</em><br />
<em>"Oh, </em>yes<em>. Right," said Nanny.</em><br />
<em>"Well... I suppose Perdita is that part of me."</em><br />
<em>"Really? I've always been that part of me," said Nanny. "The important thing is to remember where you left your clothes."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Where Agnes is good-natured and sensible, Perdita is dramatic and rebellious- and <em>mean</em>. She makes sarcastic comments (often aimed at Agnes herself) and, occasionally, even takes over in an emergency, or where she believes Agnes is ill-equipped to handle the situation with enough style and flair. She's bold, brash and great fun, in small doses...<br />
<br />
<strong>Do you have a Perdita? What does she tell you to do?</strong><br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-57653524893359873662015-04-27T07:00:00.000+01:002015-04-28T21:52:35.684+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Winston Smith<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<h4>
W is for Winston Smith.</h4>
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<em>“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”</em><br />
<br />
<em>1984</em> is probably the most depressing book I've ever read, depressing in the same sick-to-my-stomach feeling I get when I think about oblivion. Yet I still love it and reread it often. Why? <br />
<br />
Good question.<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because of the main character, through whose eyes we view Oceania, and through whose heart we learn to hate it.<br />
<br />
I like Winston Smith. Unlike the rest of society, who either blindly follow Party rules or pretend to (while breaking them whenever they feel the need), he resents the rules and feels them as a suffocating force. He clings to his humanity while mourning the loss of it in others. He knows that he is different in the thoughts he has, and this makes him both special and dangerous.<br />
<br />
<em>“Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one.”</em> <br />
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He's too intelligent for his own good; too aware of the wrongness of what is happening around him. He can't play along with a system so false. He sees it for what it is and wants to escape it- only he doesn't know how. The best he can manage is a petty rebellion, a war waged inside his head. Convinced that Big Brother is on to him for his Thought Crimes, he begins living his life as he if already caught, already dead. <br />
<br />
Every time I read <em>1984</em>, I'm rooting for Winston and hoping that maybe this time the story will turn out differently: that he'll beat the system and live happily ever after.<br />
<br />
Orwell doesn't let him because to do so would give the reader hope, and there is no hope- not for humanity, not according to O' Brien.<br />
<br />
<em>“If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face—for ever.”</em><br />
<br />
Winston is a great fictional character because he represents the values of a truly civilised society: democracy, peace, freedom, love, and decency. His fight is our fight. Orwell intended <em>1984</em> to be so horrifying that a civilised society would fight to stop it becoming the future. Although many elements of Big Brother are with us now, the reality is that these human values can never be stamped out. I think that's the reason I keep returning to <em>1984</em>: hope in humanity.<br />
<br />
<strong><em>Have you read 1984? What's your take on it?</em></strong> Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-20035529444707879702015-04-25T07:00:00.000+01:002015-04-25T19:17:36.069+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Sam Vimes<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<h4>
V is for Vimes- Sam Vimes. </h4>
<br />
Ye gods, how do I even begin to try and summarise a character so complex and magnificent as Mister Vimes in only a few hundred words? Perhaps I should start with his own:<br />
<br />
<em>"If there was anything that depressed him more than his own cynicism, it was that quite often it still wasn't as cynical as real life."</em> <br />
<br />
Sam Vimes is Harrison Ford, Clint Eastwood and Jack Dee rolled into one messed-up (yet still redeemable) Night Watch guard with a short temper and a chip on his shoulder . And I love him for it.<br />
<br />
Born in the Shades, from a "too poor to paint; too proud to whitewash" single-parent family, Vimes is now a highly reluctant member of the nobility, with an annoying habit (in his opinion) of collecting titles: currently, he is known as <em>His Grace, His Excellency, the Duke of Ankh, Commander Sir Samuel Vimes. </em>The Patrician of Ankh-Morpork bestows titles on Sam just to annoy him or, possibly, because he thinks it's funny. Sam himself likes to add <em>Blackboard Monitor</em> on the end.<br />
<br />
His rise to power came slowly: after many years as captain of the practically-obsolete (thanks to the Thieves' Guild) Nightwatch, Vimes' firm grasp of the nastier side of human nature led to him spending a significant chunk of his adult life as a drunk. The arrival of a dragon, and Lady Sybil Ramkin (not to be confused), kick-started his arc and the creation of one of the best-loved characters on the Disc. The romance between Lady Sybil and himself, unfolding over the course of many books, is the most beautiful yet unsoppy thing I have ever read, and I wish there were a few more like Vimes in this world so I could find one and marry him ;)<br />
<br />
But back to the story. Vimes, though loving married life, is not exactly comfortable with his new wealth and status, seeing himself as one of "us" rather than them, and he hates the idea that he might be lumped in with the upper classes, who sneer at those below:<br />
<br />
<em>“...the helmet had gold decoration, and the bespoke armorers had made a new gleaming breastplate with useless gold ornamentation on it. Sam Vimes felt like a class traitor every time he wore it. He hated being thought of as one of those people that wore stupid ornamental armor. It was gilt by association.”</em><br />
<br />
Don't get him started on the tights.<br />
<br />
One of the reasons Vimes is so fascinating to me is his philosophical outlook (except he probably wouldn't call it that, being far too no-nonsense and slightly suspicious of big words). Here's a good example:<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDLE5uU1RGN56Yd6M501mtdPnfc7ojXBmnxRO43aHtZURDI_OPHOjicHNgAG6UWpd_ncj0ZzNWDSR2mcOfJ2gFYBBFg9e4vGPs9e3utKIpSkwlUdK2oy4VDZI5hkjaWSa7nAwBDKiaKRo/s1600/vimes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidDLE5uU1RGN56Yd6M501mtdPnfc7ojXBmnxRO43aHtZURDI_OPHOjicHNgAG6UWpd_ncj0ZzNWDSR2mcOfJ2gFYBBFg9e4vGPs9e3utKIpSkwlUdK2oy4VDZI5hkjaWSa7nAwBDKiaKRo/s1600/vimes.jpg" height="320" width="224" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Are you feeling lucky?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em>“The reason that the rich were so rich, Vimes reasoned, was because they managed to spend less money.<br /><br />Take boots, for example. He earned thirty-eight dollars a month plus allowances. A really good pair of leather boots cost fifty dollars. But an </em>affordable<em> pair of boots, which were sort of OK for a season or two and then leaked like hell when the cardboard gave out, cost about ten dollars. Those were the kind of boots Vimes always bought, and wore until the soles were so thin that he could tell where he was in Ankh-Morpork on a foggy night by the feel of the cobbles.<br /><br />But the thing was that </em>good<em> boots lasted for years and years. A man who could afford fifty dollars had a pair of boots that'd still be keeping his feet dry in ten years' time, while the poor man who could only afford cheap boots would have spent a hundred dollars on boots in the same time and </em>would still have wet feet<em>.<br /><br />This was the Captain Samuel Vimes 'Boots' theory of socioeconomic unfairness.”</em> <br />
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Whenever I read one of the Discworld novels with Vimes, I feel like I balance out a bit. I'm guilty of wanting everything and everyone to be lovely, and I know that makes me hopelessly naïve at times. Vimes is a wake-up call. He sees things as they really are, and sometimes worse than they are (from experience). One of Nature's policemen, nothing can be hidden from him and he knows that you'll slip up sometime. He's probably the reason policemen make me nervous: according to Vimes, <em>everyone</em> is guilty of <em>something</em>.<br />
<br />
That's not to say he doesn't have a fun side... oh, how he loves to toy with the Assassins who are sent to kill him (though not anymore: they've decided he's more useful alive than dead- or perhaps they are just embarrassed that they've failed so many times). And when it comes to impersonating animals and well-known Ankh-Morpork residents for the amusement of his son, Young Sam, no one can match him. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZx-u7rzoIHgFVP9_7ugxN9K8IoBf2SIejgcb8vxTE7YwS3yOmKXQIS-qc1MNir1mhTDjEhW3UjcSV139XeW27HoD0v_jAdkIQP-NTiqtEun-QxCC-IffCWAGmBBpdzvDDanNV3fUR6DQq/s1600/vimes+cow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZx-u7rzoIHgFVP9_7ugxN9K8IoBf2SIejgcb8vxTE7YwS3yOmKXQIS-qc1MNir1mhTDjEhW3UjcSV139XeW27HoD0v_jAdkIQP-NTiqtEun-QxCC-IffCWAGmBBpdzvDDanNV3fUR6DQq/s1600/vimes+cow.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
<em>“WHERE'S MY COW?!<br />IS THAT MY COW?!<br />HRRRUUUUGGGH!!!!<br />THAT'S NOT MY COW!<br />THAT'S A HIPPOPOTAMOUS!”</em> <br />
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I think his tough exterior, in true trope-style, is only to protect his soft core. His genuine affection for his fellow watchmen, his pride in his city, his unswerving love for his family and his determination to lock up as many bad guys as possible are the actions of a truly compassionate and altruistic man. <br />
<br />
In terms of personality, Vimes bears some similarity to <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://louise-west.blogspot.co.uk/2015/04/great-fictional-characters-granny.html" target="_blank" title="Granny Weatherwax">Granny Weatherwax</a> (another one of my favourites). They are both hugely intelligent, dryly witty, uncannily observant "good" characters who secretly fear the darkness inside them, and constantly strive to control the more poisonous side of their nature. Granny watches herself constantly for signs of cackling; Vimes for "the Beast". <br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><em>Quis custodiet ipsos custodies? </em>(Who watches the watchmen?) </span><br />
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<span style="color: #ba0000;"><span style="color: black;">Vimes does. Always.</span> </span><br />
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<em>"</em>No excuses<em>. No excuses at all. Once you had a good excuse, you opened the door to bad excuses."</em> <br />
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What are your thoughts on Vimes? Is he a moral compass or just a good copper? Feel free to share in the comments below.<br />
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<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-31936734642306934892015-04-24T07:00:00.000+01:002015-04-25T20:56:52.561+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Uriah Heep?<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA00KcZsTGCrxdW1887JmMgOCOM3jqTOPRj90M-MOe5uMgP9AfqoWhrva1jOoQspmGYFZSOWt62e8LU-83Zi57PyzEWqsZC-ToG6MTW7Abti5y527pmxxmTOdQFLz4-y1uw7xJeuADXvS4/s1600/U.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA00KcZsTGCrxdW1887JmMgOCOM3jqTOPRj90M-MOe5uMgP9AfqoWhrva1jOoQspmGYFZSOWt62e8LU-83Zi57PyzEWqsZC-ToG6MTW7Abti5y527pmxxmTOdQFLz4-y1uw7xJeuADXvS4/s1600/U.jpg" /></a></div>
<h4>
U is for...uh, is for... erm... dammit.</h4>
<br />
I'm totally busted.<br />
<br />
I can't remember <em>any</em> great characters whose names begin with U from books that I've read. Not one. Not a sausage. <br />
<br />
<em>But there must be!</em> I hear you cry.<em> In the billions of books ever printed, there simply </em>must<em> have been characters whose names began with the letter U, and, surely, at least one resonated with you?</em> <em>Just a </em>little<em>?</em><br />
<br />
Lovely readers, I'm afraid the answer is no. <br />
<br />
With the rest of the A to Z, I've found an abundance of greatness- a cornucopia of corkers. I've struggled to choose between Gandalf and Granny Weatherwax, Tiffany Aching and Tris Prior- even dear old Katniss nearly didn't make the cut- but, when it came to U, I drew a blank. Even Google let me down: the only Us that came up were Lady Una (Stardust: I've seen the film and own the book, but haven't read it yet) and <em>'gulp'</em> Uriah Heep. <br />
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Dickens. <em>'shudders'<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocmoJqcLd6pGHS-TgFr_82uXzoU5o0sOvjcbhlh4GGlw5596m6eUWT3wCD3606Syt9nUHlsuIM4VIYQdsgJJh-7jCMCB-g_eq18yKXA75j09OgdQDfqXMzvcocRwF4347WQ2AjgA7Duqd/s1600/dickens-1_2794642k.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocmoJqcLd6pGHS-TgFr_82uXzoU5o0sOvjcbhlh4GGlw5596m6eUWT3wCD3606Syt9nUHlsuIM4VIYQdsgJJh-7jCMCB-g_eq18yKXA75j09OgdQDfqXMzvcocRwF4347WQ2AjgA7Duqd/s1600/dickens-1_2794642k.jpg" height="199" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm so sorry, Charlie...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</em><br />
<em></em><br />
I can't be doing with Dickens. I feel incredibly guilty about it: it's like admitting to not liking puppies or tea or the Peak District.<em> Everybody </em>loves Dickens! He's a classic author! <br />
<br />
I have tried. I can make it all the way through A Christmas Carol (because it's short and I can imagine the Muppets version) but reading any of his other works feels like force-feeding myself shredded cardboard. A bit harsh, maybe, but a fairly accurate description of the level of my enjoyment. <br />
<br />
So today I'm throwing it over to you: what am I missing? Can you convince me to pick up David Copperfield and find out, straight from the horses mouth, who this Uriah Heep chap is without resorting to copying and pasting from an A-level English revision website? <br />
<br />
What can Dickens do that other authors can't? <br />
<br />
In short, what the Dickens is the fuss about Dickens? <br />
<br />
I look forward to reading your comments.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-61657741580338573572015-04-23T09:00:00.000+01:002015-04-25T19:17:36.097+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Tiffany Aching<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuuF3sRmxugKguA5iV12JgrOmvoqnJ4Dg6UMYCPhyphenhyphen_FAfd-ePzNMxenxv1Bp28Lhyphenhyphen0uKa1nv6qy6bYl61-o8MV_u9zFzY2Qp1DPkkI9f6JOL58UHbpNt41jV9CchMUEETpXgSZWOHa2Rh/s1600/T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKuuF3sRmxugKguA5iV12JgrOmvoqnJ4Dg6UMYCPhyphenhyphen_FAfd-ePzNMxenxv1Bp28Lhyphenhyphen0uKa1nv6qy6bYl61-o8MV_u9zFzY2Qp1DPkkI9f6JOL58UHbpNt41jV9CchMUEETpXgSZWOHa2Rh/s1600/T.jpg" /></a></div>
<h4>
T is for Tiffany Aching.</h4>
<br />
Happy St George's Day! Now, to my knowledge, Tiffany has never battled with a dragon, but she's had her fair share of scary monsters to contend with- and I'm not just talking about the sheep on the Chalk.<br />
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In The Wee Free Men, she rescues her brother, Wentworth, from Jenny Green-Teeth (with a frying pan, no less) and then later, when he is kidnapped by the Queen of the Fairies, she marches off to Fairyland to get him back. From the start, Tiffany always rises to the occasion—even if it's not necessarily what she wants to do. She may not <em>like</em> her little brother that much, but she's his big sister, after all, and that means it's her job to make sure he's okay and to bring him home.<br />
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<em>“All witches are selfish, the Queen had said. But Tiffany’s Third Thoughts said: Then turn selfishness into a weapon! Make all things yours! Make other lives and dreams and hopes yours! Protect them! Save them! Bring them into the sheepfold! Walk the gale for them! Keep away the wolf! My dreams! My brother! My family! My land! My world! How dare you try to take these things, because </em>they are mine!<br /><br />I have a duty!<em>”</em><br />
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Fresh from that adventure, and having set her mind on becoming a witch, she goes to apprentice with Miss Level and soon lands in trouble again- this time with a hiver. A hiver is a strange parasitic entity that takes over the mind until the body is no use to it- often because that body is no longer breathing... Tiffany eventually manages to banish it from her body, but that's not enough. Knowing it will continue to search for a body to inhabit, she resolves to get rid of it entirely, though not without the compassion of a true witch, the support of a great one, and learning some valuable lessons:<br />
<br />
<em>“Always face what you fear. Have just enough money, never too much, and some string. Even if it’s not your fault, it’s your responsibility. Witches deal with things. Never stand between two mirrors. Never cackle. Do what you must do. Never lie, but you don’t always have to be honest. Never wish. Especially don’t wish upon a star, which is astronomically stupid. Open your eyes, and then open your eyes again.”</em> <br />
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Older and wiser, (or possibly not) Tiffany moves on to train with another witch, Miss Treason. Miss Treason takes her to see the Dark Morris, a secret version that balances out the one everyone is familiar with by saying goodbye to the Summer Lady and letting the Wintersmith take his turn on Earth. Entranced by the dancing, Tiffany can't help herself and joins in, drawing the attention of the Wintersmith himself. Intrigued, the Wintersmith pursues Tiffany with the amorous intent and enthusiasm of a teenage boy, his "gifts" becoming more dramatic and dangerous as the season progresses. Tiffany must keep her frozen beau at bay long enough to find the real Summer Lady and complete the Dance of the Seasons before the Wintersmith's love- quite literally- smothers her and the Chalk community she watches over.<br />
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<em>"You could say it was unfair, and that was true, but the universe didn’t care because it didn’t know what “fair” meant. That was the big problem about being a witch. It was up to you. It was always up to you.”</em> <br />
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Her most recent adventure, and the one I'm re-reading at the moment, sees her pitting herself against probably the most dangerous opponent yet- the Cunning Man. From being respected and feared (in a healthy way), witches suddenly start finding themselves mocked, accused and even resented. Tiffany learns this is down to the Cunning Man, a demonic spirit of pure hatred, able to corrupt other minds with suspicion and anger. He has it in for witches, big time, and Tiffany is on his hit list. She needs to stop him and the stakes are high: if she fails, the other witches will step in and do whatever is necessary to restore the normal order- even if it means killing her...<br />
<br />
<em>“Everybody needs a witch, but sometimes they just don't know it.”</em> <br />
<br />
Tiffany's pretty awesome because she uses her head more than her magic, runs toward her fear instead of away from it and, instead of letting the grown-ups deal with the hard stuff, rolls up her sleeves and gets stuck in. She's not afraid of who she is:<br />
<br />
<em>“Yes! I'm me! I am careful and logical and I look up things I don't understand! When I hear people use the wrong words, I get edgy! I am good with cheese. I read books fast! I think! And I always have a piece of string! That's the kind of person I am!”</em> <br />
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What do you think of Tiffany? Let me know in the comments xAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-20385610130880948932015-04-22T09:00:00.000+01:002015-04-22T21:39:48.048+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Scarlett O' Hara<h3 class="MsoNormal">
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015.</h3>
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<h4 class="MsoNormal">
S is for Scarlett O'Hara.</h4>
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<em>“Scarlet O'Hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the Tarleton twins were. In her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, a Coast aristocrat of French descent, and the heavy ones of her florid Irish father. But it was an arresting face, pointed of chin, square of jaw. Her eyes were pale green without a touch of hazel, starred with bristly black lashes and slightly tilted at the ends. Above them, her thick black brows slanted upward, cutting a startling oblique line in her magnolia-white skin-that skin so prized by Southern women and so carefully guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgia suns.”</em> </div>
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Oh, to be a southern belle! To drink mint julep on the porch and go to balls! To wear fine dresses and flutter my eyelashes! </div>
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Obviously, Scarlett manages a little more than that- quite a lot more than that, in fact- and following her as she grows
emotionally from a spoiled, selfish little madam who deserves a good slap to a
resilient and resourceful woman never fails to be a joy for me. </div>
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I love her
feistiness, her complete disregard for anyone but herself, her downfall and
heart-breaking epiphany. Plus, anyone who can look good in curtains and a cock-feather is a winner in my eyes. </div>
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Scarlett taught me to act dumb, think smart, flutter my
eyelashes and that, after all, tomorrow is another day.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-42421273931256729422015-04-21T09:00:00.000+01:002015-04-25T19:17:36.089+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Rincewind<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjlZOa9Gy7hjqX2cmPI0vmS0QXZd2lthwNT6Ve2vQPIevqS_dsWFfKowHtDJe0jSR1ZvubsSXCYMenSifYBDkW0CKOWHfgCRhXnBnTlp6Z9h-guVe4XnjHbCcdQtr0imQzIyNbeXeBQ_Y/s1600/R.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqjlZOa9Gy7hjqX2cmPI0vmS0QXZd2lthwNT6Ve2vQPIevqS_dsWFfKowHtDJe0jSR1ZvubsSXCYMenSifYBDkW0CKOWHfgCRhXnBnTlp6Z9h-guVe4XnjHbCcdQtr0imQzIyNbeXeBQ_Y/s1600/R.jpg" /></a></div>
<h4>
R is for Rincewind.</h4>
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For those who haven't had the pleasure, Rincewind is a failed student at the Unseen University for wizards in Ankh-Morpork, and is often described by scholars as "the magical equivalent to the number zero". A better athlete than he is magician, he spends most of the Discworld books running away from various groups of people who want to kill him. <br />
<br />
Because it's my birthday today, I'm a little short of time, so I thought I'd let the marvellous Sir Terry Pratchett do all the talking. <br />
<br />
<strong>Here are some of my favourite Rincewind quotes from across the series.</strong><br />
<br />
<em>"There are eight levels of wizardry on the Disc; after sixteen years Rincewind has failed to achieve even level one. In fact it is the consideration of some of his tutors that he is incapable even of achieving level zero, which most normal people are born at; to put it another way, it has been suggested that when Rincewind dies the average occult ability of the human race will actually go up by a fraction."</em><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjj2cec6lvM5pXouUKzZOnsWjLFOAEF-HNgsHjoAFxTR_6IqXw10GhOePIjFPCWewPmtb7WAYV6zYYE5UYwPOOwM9YWZpjyCA2ytQj3nxSg8M2Sh25ohsvBVXdyN52cyQbD5KRfELsuQYS/s1600/rincewind1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjj2cec6lvM5pXouUKzZOnsWjLFOAEF-HNgsHjoAFxTR_6IqXw10GhOePIjFPCWewPmtb7WAYV6zYYE5UYwPOOwM9YWZpjyCA2ytQj3nxSg8M2Sh25ohsvBVXdyN52cyQbD5KRfELsuQYS/s1600/rincewind1.jpg" /></a></div>
<em>"He'd never asked for an exciting life. What he really liked, what he sought on every occasion, was boredom. The trouble was that boredom tended to explode in your face. Just when he thought he'd found it he'd be suddenly involved in what he supposed other people - thoughtless, feckless people - would call an adventure. And he'd be forced to visit many strange lands and meet exotic and colourful people, although not for very long because usually he'd be running. He'd seen the creation of the universe, although not from a good seat, and had visited Hell and the afterlife. He'd been captured, imprisoned, rescued, lost and marooned. Sometimes it had all happened on the same day."</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBxkRYNlQFqJtjBauAyBqPI9QBqgnRcmHYxL22jY2WSY1CRdbHDR39ausWzhPxLuOoKYCuLY75-wIvbNGsufYkn68k2Dbs0IaBbZFjmC_ASaSYPoQEg0Gb0r19PvS1t3JZ5460T9YrI8S/s1600/rincewind2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBxkRYNlQFqJtjBauAyBqPI9QBqgnRcmHYxL22jY2WSY1CRdbHDR39ausWzhPxLuOoKYCuLY75-wIvbNGsufYkn68k2Dbs0IaBbZFjmC_ASaSYPoQEg0Gb0r19PvS1t3JZ5460T9YrI8S/s1600/rincewind2.jpg" height="195" width="200" /></a><em>"Rincewind could scream for mercy in nineteen languages, and just scream in another forty-four."</em><br />
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<em>“Preeminent among Rincewind’s talents was his skill in running away, which over the years he had elevated to the status of a genuinely pure science; it didn’t matter if you were fleeing from or to, so long as you were fleeing. It was flight alone that counted. I run, therefore I am; more correctly, I run, therefore with any luck I’ll still be.”</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIlyqcRNOljrgfnv3QR5AsxbuVmUopNz1r6-_lJ-lNPlHGjOc4lCb0v1B2s5YANh2kDSp4Bul8ZkxWepDUIxZNCtGnbzvbe-w7eAmL-44tSmzNWWfANQWRS3X0sFqZRz4mFf7hD3CIrrBA/s1600/rincewind+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIlyqcRNOljrgfnv3QR5AsxbuVmUopNz1r6-_lJ-lNPlHGjOc4lCb0v1B2s5YANh2kDSp4Bul8ZkxWepDUIxZNCtGnbzvbe-w7eAmL-44tSmzNWWfANQWRS3X0sFqZRz4mFf7hD3CIrrBA/s1600/rincewind+3.jpg" height="320" width="216" /></a><br />
<em>"Rincewind sighed. He liked lettuce. It was so incredibly boring. He had spent years in search of boredom, but had never achieved it. Just when he thought he had it in his grasp his life would suddenly become full of near-terminal interest. The thought that someone could voluntarily give up the prospect of being bored for fifty years made him feel quite weak. With fifty years ahead of him, he thought, he could elevate tedium to the status of an art form. There would be no end to the things he wouldn't do."</em> <br />
<em></em><br />
<em>"Multiple exclamation marks are a sure sign of a diseased mind.”</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>“Luck is my middle name," said Rincewind, indistinctly. "Mind you, my first name is Bad.”</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em></em>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-71090266440057404942015-04-20T06:30:00.000+01:002015-04-20T06:30:02.297+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Queenie <h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKuAzMIRZ-kNUFtXLF4t42iLtH9FmYWtN6BldsIqDPtLfs1FR2TNxF8jElO5oy6bp-e6T4iyYcutAR3A2eiQNgE6X3SUbrixQ2kSxPZv6OvqUMzMinM9LcJ4NcBHL4hSEvvYGONVGuAXE/s1600/Q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKuAzMIRZ-kNUFtXLF4t42iLtH9FmYWtN6BldsIqDPtLfs1FR2TNxF8jElO5oy6bp-e6T4iyYcutAR3A2eiQNgE6X3SUbrixQ2kSxPZv6OvqUMzMinM9LcJ4NcBHL4hSEvvYGONVGuAXE/s1600/Q.jpg" /></a></div>
<h4>
Q is for Queenie.</h4>
<br />
<span id="freeTextContainer10376254758142890930">The seductive and beguiling story of Dawn Avalon, who, when wrongfully accused of a crime she didn't commit, flees her homeland to London where she becomes 'Queenie', a star of both the stage and screen.</span> <br />
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I was a teenager when I first read Queenie by Michael Korda, and I loved it. Goodness knows where I found it: growing up, my house was full of books- and car boot sales and charity shops steadily added to the stacks. Books were borrowed, swapped and passed back to car boot sales and charity shops in the never-ending cycle of bibliophiles with limited funds and limited space everywhere.<br />
<br />
I kept it for many years, and read it more than once but, sadly, due to moving house a fair few times (and the occasional necessary cull) I don't own it anymore, and so couldn't reread it to prepare for this post. Looking on the web to refresh my memory, I was surprised by all the critical critic's reviews, as I remembered it being an engaging, interesting and (for teenage me) sexy little number that started me off questioning how people judge people and force them to hide a "shameful" past that I didn't consider shameful at all.<br />
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But then I clicked on the reader reviews (arguably the only ones that truly count) and I found I wasn't alone.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZyXRv6CrcSk93_LXB_Dr62LsnQdZvtWZu3Mx7rJXwjep_oXKubs6YL64zEOYN5UHbHBzoaYZ9Q7UxW8-YUBVTD0Nu9PVHZIZBSU7UVXGmy6122sAr5LqTUICOdkpHJXGfDk-b3qKWbw-x/s1600/queenie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZyXRv6CrcSk93_LXB_Dr62LsnQdZvtWZu3Mx7rJXwjep_oXKubs6YL64zEOYN5UHbHBzoaYZ9Q7UxW8-YUBVTD0Nu9PVHZIZBSU7UVXGmy6122sAr5LqTUICOdkpHJXGfDk-b3qKWbw-x/s1600/queenie.jpg" height="200" width="129" /></a><strong>...a delight from start to finish.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>You can't help being fascinated by Queenie/Dawn and the way she survives through the abuse of the old, british powerful Mr. Rumsey and the hate of his daughter Prunella.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>I enjoyed the book immensely, personally identifying with the heroine's struggle to discover exactly what mold she's "caste" in as well as her personal and political victories over prejudice & racism in the industry.</strong><br />
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(reviews from <a href="http://www.amazon.com/product-reviews/0330291947/ref=cm_cr_dp_syn_footer?k=Queenie&showViewpoints=1" target="_blank">Amazon.com</a>)<br />
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So is it good or not? To quote Queenie:<br />
<em></em><br />
<em>“It must be nice... to be one thing or another, to know where you belonged.”</em><br />
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But so few people, or reviews, are.<br />
<br />
Although my recollection of the plot beyond what has already been described is hazy, I do remember rooting for Queenie on every page, furious at the ones who tried to take advantage of her and cheering when she got the better of them. One scene, where a photographer changes the lighting to mask scars on her face, stayed with me, (because it was so kind) as did her decision to not have children, lest her secret be revealed in their skin colour (because it was so cruel). The most moving part was where she finally admitted (even the word admitted implies shame) her Indian heritage and the world didn't end. <br />
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Queenie is out of print now (and I'm kicking myself for losing/giving away my copy) but, if you can find it, I think you'll enjoy it.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6890555397997323389.post-16997818325994138262015-04-18T18:46:00.000+01:002015-04-25T18:49:59.882+01:00Great Fictional Characters: Pop Larkin<h3>
Continuing with the Blogging from A to Z April Challenge 2015</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicRRVH1U2IWFhPtZkXPikRm762kzMF4nyC-hUD2kgQyStnXtv4ndiAbD-q2WnBRiqCu_AE-raXMZWFuIaVC1a10EFxy09rNg1iyF8qTnlaasONDC5-LFdEPCCiEZlWZrffUCd3QlKugLsg/s1600/P.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicRRVH1U2IWFhPtZkXPikRm762kzMF4nyC-hUD2kgQyStnXtv4ndiAbD-q2WnBRiqCu_AE-raXMZWFuIaVC1a10EFxy09rNg1iyF8qTnlaasONDC5-LFdEPCCiEZlWZrffUCd3QlKugLsg/s1600/P.jpg" /></a></div>
<h4>
P is for Pop Larkin.</h4>
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Like most people in their 30s, the name Pop Larkin immediately brings a face to mind. Not only a face, but a grin, a raised eyebrow and a wicked belly-laugh. <br />
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David Jason was the perfick Pop in the TV adaptation of The Darling Buds of May and is the reason that many, like me, searched out and read the novels in the first place. In them, I found not only evocative description, witty dialogue and nostalgia for an England I never knew, but a philosophy for life- a recipe for happiness, if you will.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX_YwQLkSmPIHnGc4Vrcx7p3iKowKBku2rK2qcX3QFqF4W4VaOt5XmYGWtU06LfTTc1XhBpK6aV4NBbbu7b3S9jIU13SKdahKXKGaVuO2rV6pr98yW2_jigYqg8v1ExMSgEPoB8I4rPmV/s1600/pop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXX_YwQLkSmPIHnGc4Vrcx7p3iKowKBku2rK2qcX3QFqF4W4VaOt5XmYGWtU06LfTTc1XhBpK6aV4NBbbu7b3S9jIU13SKdahKXKGaVuO2rV6pr98yW2_jigYqg8v1ExMSgEPoB8I4rPmV/s1600/pop.jpg" height="393" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It is impossible now for me to read about Home Farm without picturing this</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Pop and his family live in the Kent countryside, where everything is beautiful, golden and ‘perfick’, as Pop likes to say. Happiness is everywhere: he only needs to cast his eye over the green fields, the flowers in the hedgerow or listen to the nightingales sing. Pop wants us to enjoy the simple pleasures of nature as much as anything we could buy. <br />
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I feel sure Pop is a fellow Taurean as we're very into indulging our senses. According to Pop, homes should be comfortable, cars should be stylish, food should be tasty and plentiful, and alcohol should be shared with friends- and often! Life is bountiful and meant to be enjoyed, as much as and often as you can.<br />
<br />
Pop lives by the motto that ‘whatever will be will be’. He finds happiness by simply refusing to fret about the little things and understanding that life is too short to spend it worrying. It puts me in mind of the Serenity prayer- you know the one:<br />
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<dd><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,</em></div>
</dd><dd><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>The courage to change the things I can,</em></div>
</dd><dd><div style="text-align: left;">
<em>And the wisdom to know the difference.</em></div>
</dd><dd><div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
</dd>The Darling Buds of May is no moral lecture. Instead of Pop getting his come-uppance in the form of a visit from the tax-man, he continues eating, drinking and being merry right up to the end of the story. <br />
<br />
What would Pop want us to learn from this?<br />
<br />
Answer in the comments- and enjoy your day xxxAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00823779452137804886noreply@blogger.com0