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Sunday Scribblings has come up with the word 'Toys' as the prompt this week
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I’ve been on writing strike! My friend Keith (hey, I’ve done my first solo link!) had women problems (again) and said he’d got writers block (actually I think he was playing the sympathy card). Anyway I refused to write until he got his act together. Not that it did any good; I don’t think he even noticed!
Anyway, up popped this prompt about toys and I suddenly remembered that I had a box of my old toys stored away in my Ma and Pa’s attic. ‘Let’s dig it out Rosey’ I said to myself. Do you do that sometimes? You talk out loud to yourself and then feel a complete idiot! Fuzzeybut and Scruff (my kitties) looked at me as if I was mad!
While I think about it, have you ever heard Keith boast that he was married for twenty one years? What he doesn’t always say is that it was in three lots of seven!
Where was I? Oh yes, my toys. To cut a long story short I got the box from the attic (I don’t like going up there ever since I trod between the beams and put my foot through the ceiling plaster!) then blew the dust off the lid causing me to sneeze in a violent fashion, put it in my little car, took it home, opened it, sneezed again, and there they were! Lots of my childhood toys.
Unfortunately this is where my tale goes downhill. I was so excited about what I’d find, but as one by one I took out the toys, I thought that I must have been a very boring child indeed. I mean, most little girls had sparkly tiaras and angels wings. I had a policeman’s helmet and a strange back pack with a picture of a train on it. I’d forgotten that I never owned a Barbie doll or a jewellery box with a pirouetting plastic fairy on it. But I had an action man and an Oxo tin full of silly badges instead of girly necklaces and bracelets. I did find a Teddy bear, but even he had a sarcastic smirk on his face. I had a few toy cars, a cowboy gun and a book about tying knots. There was a catapult and a magnifying glass and a broken plastic skeleton.
It was SO depressing. Anyway, I packed it all away again and right now it’s sitting by my front door so I can take it back to my parent’s loft next time I visit them.
I’m sorry if I’ve made a few mistakes. Usually I run everything I write past Keith but right now it’s not worth the bother. Actually I don’t think I did too bad (sorry Keithy – I think that shoud read badly!)
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28.6.09
5.6.09
About my Aunt's cat.
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The folks over at Fiction Friday have given us the following prompt.'Don't sit there' she commanded 'that's the cat's chair'
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Now don’t ask me where she got that name from. I investigated it once and I found out that to moucher means to blow a child’s nose in French. But more interestingly it is also the name given to someone who smokes other people cannabis. I remember Great Aunt Maud used to smoke, and Moucher was probably a passive smoker, but weed? Not so sure. Mummy used to call it Mousetrap!
When I was a kid I was terrified of her. She was a little deaf but refused to use a hearing aid. She was clearly unaware of how loudly she spoke. Did I say spoke? Bellowed would be a better word to use!
I was, believe it or not a shy child, particularly when I was in the company of my Aunt. She would yell a question at me and I would start to answer, but as I spoke she would glare at me and my voice began to tail off! ‘Speak up gal!’ she would scream.
I suppose I was about twelve when I last saw her. It was our yearly visit and I can still see my parents and me filing into her room for our annual audience. There she sat, arms folded over her ample bosom and dressed in a blue and yellow floral dress the size of a tent! Her hair was skillfully sculpted and tinted in her favourite lilac colour. Wisteria she called it. ‘Sit child’ she boomed ‘you are making the place look untidy’
I backed toward a chair and started to sit down. ‘Don’t sit there,’ she commanded. ‘That’s the cat’s chair’. Unfortunately it was too late and I felt a soft lump of something under my bum. I jumped up again, turned round a there was Moucher, motionless,looking somewhat flatter than usual with its mouth open and two glassy eyes peering up into space.
I was mortified, and began crying uncontrollably. ‘Stop grizzling child’ she yelled. ‘Just plump him up then go and sit over there. I paid good money to have him stuffed when he passed over , but I didn’t intend him to be a cushion’.
When I told her I thought I’d killed Moucher she actually smiled. I’d never seen her smile before and I never did since. She also passed over. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s still sitting there in her chair next to Moucher, both of them comfortably stuffed!
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My friend Keith asked me to remind you about Carry on Tuesday. The new prompt will be up on Sunday to give you plenty of time to compose your piece!
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The folks over at Fiction Friday have given us the following prompt.'Don't sit there' she commanded 'that's the cat's chair'
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I once had an ancient aunt. Great Aunt Maud she was called. Fortunately we didn’t often see her because she lived in an old folks home in the north of England several hundred miles away. Just her and her big round tabby cat called Moucher.
Now don’t ask me where she got that name from. I investigated it once and I found out that to moucher means to blow a child’s nose in French. But more interestingly it is also the name given to someone who smokes other people cannabis. I remember Great Aunt Maud used to smoke, and Moucher was probably a passive smoker, but weed? Not so sure. Mummy used to call it Mousetrap!
When I was a kid I was terrified of her. She was a little deaf but refused to use a hearing aid. She was clearly unaware of how loudly she spoke. Did I say spoke? Bellowed would be a better word to use!
I was, believe it or not a shy child, particularly when I was in the company of my Aunt. She would yell a question at me and I would start to answer, but as I spoke she would glare at me and my voice began to tail off! ‘Speak up gal!’ she would scream.
I suppose I was about twelve when I last saw her. It was our yearly visit and I can still see my parents and me filing into her room for our annual audience. There she sat, arms folded over her ample bosom and dressed in a blue and yellow floral dress the size of a tent! Her hair was skillfully sculpted and tinted in her favourite lilac colour. Wisteria she called it. ‘Sit child’ she boomed ‘you are making the place look untidy’
I backed toward a chair and started to sit down. ‘Don’t sit there,’ she commanded. ‘That’s the cat’s chair’. Unfortunately it was too late and I felt a soft lump of something under my bum. I jumped up again, turned round a there was Moucher, motionless,looking somewhat flatter than usual with its mouth open and two glassy eyes peering up into space.
I was mortified, and began crying uncontrollably. ‘Stop grizzling child’ she yelled. ‘Just plump him up then go and sit over there. I paid good money to have him stuffed when he passed over , but I didn’t intend him to be a cushion’.
When I told her I thought I’d killed Moucher she actually smiled. I’d never seen her smile before and I never did since. She also passed over. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s still sitting there in her chair next to Moucher, both of them comfortably stuffed!
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My friend Keith asked me to remind you about Carry on Tuesday. The new prompt will be up on Sunday to give you plenty of time to compose your piece!
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2.6.09
About my dreams
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Dreams are curious things. There are sleeping dream and waking dreams.
I mean, the other day I looked down and noticed I was wearing one black shoe and one blue shoe. I thought ‘never mind, it’s only a dream’. I actually was dreaming, but I was having a day dream in which I thought I was having a night dream. And I was wearing odd shoes much to the amusement of the kids in my class.
Waking dreams have often got me into trouble. I’m the first to admit that I am prone to daydreaming, and what makes matters worse is that I talk to myself during my daydreams! I get really carried away sometimes and do all the voices of the characters in my dream. How embarrassing! I also speak home truths during these little outbursts and they don’t always go down terribly well.
My sleeping dreams are usually good fun. Always when I hop into to bed I curl up and wait for my dream to start. It’s like going to the movies but without popcorn! I have the odd nightmare now and again, but that’s fine. After all, I love horror films.
The trouble with waking dreams is that they usually happen when you should be doing something else, and often you are convinced you’ve done something that you should have done when in fact you haven’t done it at all.
Just changing the subject for a moment, the other day I went into the school kitchen to see if I could find something to nibble. Chef wasn’t there and I noticed a big pot of something bubbling on the cooker. Ah, soup I thought. I found a ladle and put some into a mug. When I tried it YUC!I realised that it was the water in which chef was boiling her dirty tea towels. And the moral of this story? What steams is not always as it seems!
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