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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!
30.5.09
Covert Cheryl
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It's Sunday Scribblings time again! This weeks word is Covert .
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I’ve got this friend called Cheryl. She’s got several jobs including one as a Special Needs teacher at my school. She also
works behind the bar at the Bicycle Arms a couple of sessions a week, but the reason I’m telling you about her is that she also has a little job as a Mystery Shopper! You know, those sneaky covert people who walk into businesses pretending to be a customer when they are actually doing a secret appraisal of their hapless victim.
When she first told me about it I imagined her disguising herself by wearing a false beard and stuffing a cushion up her shirt in case she got recognised, but they usually send her far away from home so it can’t happen.
I thought she would get a voicemail which started "Your mission, should you choose to accept it..." But she doesn’t. She just gets phone call asking to go here or there and pretend she need a new cell phone or something.
She gets all manner of assignments. I get to go with her sometimes. The other day I went to a shoe shop with her and a few weeks ago we tried a restaurant! What A great job!
The funniest one was a weekend at an upmarket camp site. She had to take two friends with her for a whole weekend and stay in a holiday home which looked like a trailer but it didn’t have any wheels. Julie made up the three of us.
Soon after we got settled in Cheryl filled out her forms about the reception we got, the cleanliness of the home, what we thought of the bar and those sorts of things. Then it was time to party!
She popped down to the village and got some essential supplies. Cheryl came back with a take-out Chinese meal, chardonnay, champagne and chocolate (Gosh look at all those words beginning with ‘ch’! Ch ch ch ch ch - I sound like a steam train!)
A couple of hours later a party was in full swing. We turned the music up, (maybe a little too ‘up’) and that attracted a couple of guys who persuaded us to let them join in. Actually they were Australians and one of them was called Steve just like Whitesnake – you know, the bloke that leaves sarky comments at the bottom of my posts?
Anyway they brought some grog with them, a case of long necks, and in no time at all they were zonked. Then there was a bang on the door. Steve opened it and there was a sheila outside. She was a bit of a grizzle and told us to go bite our bums. Steve said she was bloody galah but probably bangs like a dunny door!
The upshot was that in the morning we were asked to leave the site. Not surprising really! I asked Cheryl if she’d get the sack, but she said of course not because the site owners thought she was a private customer. Between us we filled in the remaining forms, guessing about the standard of things like the entertainment, the swimming pool and the shop so her boss thought we'd stayed all weekend! How naughty! We had a ball and Cheryl got paid! Reeeeesult!
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It's Sunday Scribblings time again! This weeks word is Covert .
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I’ve got this friend called Cheryl. She’s got several jobs including one as a Special Needs teacher at my school. She also
works behind the bar at the Bicycle Arms a couple of sessions a week, but the reason I’m telling you about her is that she also has a little job as a Mystery Shopper! You know, those sneaky covert people who walk into businesses pretending to be a customer when they are actually doing a secret appraisal of their hapless victim.When she first told me about it I imagined her disguising herself by wearing a false beard and stuffing a cushion up her shirt in case she got recognised, but they usually send her far away from home so it can’t happen.
I thought she would get a voicemail which started "Your mission, should you choose to accept it..." But she doesn’t. She just gets phone call asking to go here or there and pretend she need a new cell phone or something.
She gets all manner of assignments. I get to go with her sometimes. The other day I went to a shoe shop with her and a few weeks ago we tried a restaurant! What A great job!
The funniest one was a weekend at an upmarket camp site. She had to take two friends with her for a whole weekend and stay in a holiday home which looked like a trailer but it didn’t have any wheels. Julie made up the three of us.
Soon after we got settled in Cheryl filled out her forms about the reception we got, the cleanliness of the home, what we thought of the bar and those sorts of things. Then it was time to party!
She popped down to the village and got some essential supplies. Cheryl came back with a take-out Chinese meal, chardonnay, champagne and chocolate (Gosh look at all those words beginning with ‘ch’! Ch ch ch ch ch - I sound like a steam train!)
A couple of hours later a party was in full swing. We turned the music up, (maybe a little too ‘up’) and that attracted a couple of guys who persuaded us to let them join in. Actually they were Australians and one of them was called Steve just like Whitesnake – you know, the bloke that leaves sarky comments at the bottom of my posts?
Anyway they brought some grog with them, a case of long necks, and in no time at all they were zonked. Then there was a bang on the door. Steve opened it and there was a sheila outside. She was a bit of a grizzle and told us to go bite our bums. Steve said she was bloody galah but probably bangs like a dunny door!
The upshot was that in the morning we were asked to leave the site. Not surprising really! I asked Cheryl if she’d get the sack, but she said of course not because the site owners thought she was a private customer. Between us we filled in the remaining forms, guessing about the standard of things like the entertainment, the swimming pool and the shop so her boss thought we'd stayed all weekend! How naughty! We had a ball and Cheryl got paid! Reeeeesult!
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28.5.09
About Keithy's Big 500
Hey, have you seen Keith’s blog? He’s just published his 500th post! What? Unbelievable.
Mind you he does spend an awful lot of time hunched over his computer. Take my advise and don’t ever ring him when he’s being ‘creative’. You’ve probably heard him complaining about people who use swear words. ‘Pure laziness’ he says. ‘Shows a poor command of the English language’ he says. He certainly gets lazy if you ‘interrupt his thought processes’!
Oh, I must tell you what happened today. I felt a complete idiot. I was buying a ticket for the train, because I was meeting Keithy for lunch in Bexhill (because that’s where he lives) and whilst I was queuing I couldn’t help noticing that one of the guys behind the ticket counter was pretty cool. Well when I got to the front of the line that funny electronic voice screeched ‘please go to position five’. Guess what? It was Mr Cool’s position! He gave me a lovely smile and said ‘How may I help you?’ I decided against saying the first thing that came into my mind (it was a little rude) and told him I needed a ticket to Eastbourne. He pointed out that this was Eastbourne and chuckled. How embarrassing!
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So I tried again and asked him for a ticket to Bexhill. Then he looked at me with that great big smile and said ‘Single?’
I thought ‘Wa-hey! I think he’s chatting me up’ so I looked him straight in the eye, moved my hand to where he could see I had no wedding ring, and half whispered ‘Yes, single’.
Then he went all serious and started tapping the keys on his machine and a ticket popped out. ‘£4.60 please’ he said. I said it was usually £6.20 and he said that £6.20 was the price of a return ticket. I said that I needed a return ticket so I could come home and he said ‘You asked for a single’. I felt a right prat, I can tell you!
Where was I, Oh yes, Keith’s big 500. That’s it really, not much else I can say about it except that he asked me to tell you that there is a glass of champagne for you if you care to join him in his celebrations. I said that was daft, nobody is going to travel half way around the world for a sip of bubbly. He raised his eyes to the ceiling (the way he does) and said he was joking. And anyway, he doesn’t have any champers. All I got was a bottle of luke warm beer.
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24.5.09
About Molly Sue's great performance
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She was the smallest child in my class. Little Molly Sue was knee high to a grasshopper we used to say! But what she lacked in stature she made up for personality, and when she smiled she could light up the dullest day. Having said that, she never really said very much. She didn’t need to. Her personality spoke for her.
What makes us different from the other schools in the town is that we encourage the kids to throw themselves into art. Our register is to say the least multi-national, and art is a way to involve and integrate children from many different cultures. And performance art is one of the most popular parts of our curriculum.
Every year we have a school concert. Like most schools it used to be held in our assembly hall, but such was the reputation of the show that a decision was made a few years back to move the production into the towns largest theatre so that the audience could include members of the public as well as family and friends.
And this is where little Molly Sue comes into the story. Every year she found herself as one of the background singers or dancers. Somehow, no one ever thought to push her to the front. Until she joined our class!
It was her final year in our school. In a few months she would be joining hundreds of kids at the ‘big school’. I decided to give her a starring role in the finale And the song we thought suited her best would be Castle on a Cloud, the song from Les Miserable sung by the young Cosette.
Straight away we began rehearsing. Her little voice was perfect for the song, and in no time at all she had made it her own.
The big night arrived. Every act during the performance had the audience shouting for more. And then it was time for the big finish.
Behind the closed curtain all three hundred children squeezed themselves onto the stage. The curtain went up and there, kneeling in front of them, was Molly Sue in her ragamuffin clothes bathed in a pool of light.
The soundtrack started. Molly opened her mouth and.....nothing. I can still see her face now.
Two thousand people looked on in silence, and she stared back. Tears began trickling down her cheeks as she tried to see me amid that sea of faces. I got out of my seat and walked toward the stage, but before I got there, the children behind her realised what was needed! A few at a time they started singing and then a few of the audience started joining in. Then suddenly everyone burst out singing.
Molly Sue wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her shirt and began to beam. By now I was standing in the wings. The song finished and I decided to start the soundtrack again, and she started to sing.
It was like listening to the voice of an angel. I couldn’t see for tears. It was spellbinding; there was hardly a dry eye in the house. When she finished the crowd remained silent for a second or two whilst they got back their breath, then two thousand people stood as one. The applause was deafening. I was filled with such delight.
I don’t have any pictures or film of her singing that night, but I have found this video on YouTube which is so like her performance that it could be her! I hope you enjoy it.
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My friend Keithy has been trying to persuade me to join in Carry On Tuesday, so I thought I'd have a go. The prompt is the opening of Siegfried Sassoons poem entitled Everyone Sang - Everyone suddenly burst out singing, and I was filled with such delight ..
My friend Keithy has been trying to persuade me to join in Carry On Tuesday, so I thought I'd have a go. The prompt is the opening of Siegfried Sassoons poem entitled Everyone Sang - Everyone suddenly burst out singing, and I was filled with such delight ..
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She was the smallest child in my class. Little Molly Sue was knee high to a grasshopper we used to say! But what she lacked in stature she made up for personality, and when she smiled she could light up the dullest day. Having said that, she never really said very much. She didn’t need to. Her personality spoke for her.
What makes us different from the other schools in the town is that we encourage the kids to throw themselves into art. Our register is to say the least multi-national, and art is a way to involve and integrate children from many different cultures. And performance art is one of the most popular parts of our curriculum.
Every year we have a school concert. Like most schools it used to be held in our assembly hall, but such was the reputation of the show that a decision was made a few years back to move the production into the towns largest theatre so that the audience could include members of the public as well as family and friends.
And this is where little Molly Sue comes into the story. Every year she found herself as one of the background singers or dancers. Somehow, no one ever thought to push her to the front. Until she joined our class!
It was her final year in our school. In a few months she would be joining hundreds of kids at the ‘big school’. I decided to give her a starring role in the finale And the song we thought suited her best would be Castle on a Cloud, the song from Les Miserable sung by the young Cosette.
Straight away we began rehearsing. Her little voice was perfect for the song, and in no time at all she had made it her own.
The big night arrived. Every act during the performance had the audience shouting for more. And then it was time for the big finish.
Behind the closed curtain all three hundred children squeezed themselves onto the stage. The curtain went up and there, kneeling in front of them, was Molly Sue in her ragamuffin clothes bathed in a pool of light.
The soundtrack started. Molly opened her mouth and.....nothing. I can still see her face now.
Two thousand people looked on in silence, and she stared back. Tears began trickling down her cheeks as she tried to see me amid that sea of faces. I got out of my seat and walked toward the stage, but before I got there, the children behind her realised what was needed! A few at a time they started singing and then a few of the audience started joining in. Then suddenly everyone burst out singing.
Molly Sue wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her shirt and began to beam. By now I was standing in the wings. The song finished and I decided to start the soundtrack again, and she started to sing.
It was like listening to the voice of an angel. I couldn’t see for tears. It was spellbinding; there was hardly a dry eye in the house. When she finished the crowd remained silent for a second or two whilst they got back their breath, then two thousand people stood as one. The applause was deafening. I was filled with such delight.
I don’t have any pictures or film of her singing that night, but I have found this video on YouTube which is so like her performance that it could be her! I hope you enjoy it.
22.5.09
Am I worried? Well, actually, yes.
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On Sunday Scribblings this week we've been given the word Worry to write about.
' don't worry - be happy' by claudia alves on deviant art.
I keep telling myself that I should worry more about the big things. I don’t mean elephants! (although perhaps I should because they are still being cruelly hunted) No, I mean big things like global warming and disappearing species and the global monetary crisis and poverty and emmisions and terrorism. Those sorts of things. But they all seem so much bigger than me. Does that make sense?
I get told to recycle things, use low voltage light bulbs, save water, use public transport, re-use my supermarket bags and ya-de-da-de-ya-de-da. I say “what difference can little ‘ole Rosey make?” and they say “if everyone took that attitude where would we be?” and I say “I suppose”, but I’m just not very good at being good.
Know what? I worry about not worrying enough about those great big things.
But I am a worrier (is that how you spell it? I’ll worry about that now!). If worrying was an Olympic sport I’d win gold for England! I worry about my nails, my clothes, my hair, and my makeup. When I go to bed I worry about oversleeping and being late for work in the morning. When I leave for work I worry in case I’ve left something turned on at home which should have been turned off. When I’m at work I worry about some of the children in my class when they seem upset about something. When I leave work I worry about whether or not I’ve done my job well enough, and when I get home I worry about eating the wrong food (bad food tastes so much better than good food)
Gosh, I sound a right misery-guts!
Anyway, I’ll leave you with a few words about worrying. I didn’t write it. You may have seen it before, I certainly remember it from years ago and it’s always remained in my mind (heck – what a clumsy sentence! Am I worried though? No!)
It’s called Two Things to Worry About.
There are only two things to worry about:
Either you are well or you are sick.
If you are well, there is nothing to worry about;
but if you are sick, there are two things to worry about:
either you will get well, or you will die.
If you get well, there is nothing to worry about;
if you die, there are only two things to worry about:
either you will go to heaven or to hell.
If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.
But, if you go to hell you'll be so darned busy shaking hands with friends you won't have time to worry...
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