I could log these brain farts I’ve been having as senior moments, but my oldest friends will tell you I’ve always been away with the fairies. So there is little hope for me now.
Perhaps, constantly sweating over creating new plotlines, means I am beginning to lose my own?
I think a break will do me good.
I started off 2020 with targets, and have been thrown off course already.
I’ve been knocked for six by some microscopic little bastard that has invaded my body and seems reluctant to leave.
I’ve been stockpiling again, but not in anticipation of a no-deal Brexit, which may, or may not, happen in 10 days’ time. At 7.30p.m last night, a lorry load of our annual supply of perfectly dry logs was offloaded outside our garage.
We have been benefitting from this arrangement for about five years and have always taken a cavalier approach to the storing and stacking of the logs, which we always do as soon as the load arrives and involves a considerable amount of physical exertion.
In Jersey and Guernsey, we are only live a short hop from St. Malo and our Entente has been extremely Cordiale for years, thank you very much. Yet the repercussions of Brexit will affect us just as much as everybody domiciled in the UK mainland, not least when it comes supermarket shopping, as all our supplies are brought in by boat.
And when you reach that woman of a certain age status, you’re body is hijacked by menopausal madness. Suddenly you’re itchy, bitchy, sweaty, sleepy, bloated and psycho as your oestrogen levels plummet.
As for politics…well… I am becoming more incensed on a daily basis. The United Kingdom I grew up in, has never been as divided as it is now.
So how can I call myself a niche-less blogger, if I exclude things that are threatening to disrupt and destroy the way we live. So, my long-term writing modus operandi is about to change and I am ready for the backlash. My Social Media following, such as it is, will no doubt dwindle as a result, but there is something I need to get off my chest.
I am realistic when it comes to travelling. No trip goes without a hitch. Trains, boats and planes rarely run to schedule, they are susceptible to the weather, and they go techie at the slightest provocation. Getting on and off the rock I have chosen to make my home, is often Continue Reading
Disappointment comes in various guises. Bad exam results, the guy you fancy… who doesn’t fancy you and the job you wanted so badly, that you didn’t get.
So how do we cope with disappointment?
Cutting a 20-foot hedge did it for me today… after I had re-booked the flights. It took about 3 hours to cut and clear up.
So, physical exercise may well be the answer to combatting disappointment… not necessarily with a hedge cutter in your hands.
At dawn one morning I found myself talking to the Universe, well nobody else seemed to be listening and begging it to make my shit state of affairs go away.
The mighty Universe must have heard, as shortly after my impassioned plea, I was scrolling through Facebook and found Julianne Palmer, a clairvoyant in Australia. I noticed that one of my friends had liked her page, so I had a look.
In the past, I had never paid too much attention to what the stars had to say about what fate lay in store for me, but I was desperate for an indication from somebody, that my life was going to improve. So I took a leap of faith and picked a card.
So how come I can remember what my homework was when I was eleven and I can’t remember which floor of the multi-story car park I left my car an hour earlier? Decreased blood flow to the brain, apparently, so I’m off to see if I can remember how to stand on my head to precipitate a rush of blood to my brains.
Today I was on the same beach I frolicked on almost 30 years ago. Those heady, carefree days I spent topless, chasing a frisbee, unaware that my pert little orbs were flying free. My svelte, flawless, bronzed body, glided across the ochre coloured sands and dived effortlessly into the Atlantic Continue Reading
I was unceremoniously woken by a clap of thunder. When I looked out of my bedroom window, Storm Miguel was battering my peonies and the rest of the garden, which was shaping up to be our best horticultural endeavour ever.
How I wish I’d had a chat with my svelte younger self about eating healthily and told them to keep an eye on things. All too soon, your pert breasts and your taut butt take off on their journey south without you realising.
I watched the sunrise yesterday, as I often do. My writing day starts at dawn. It’s the time of day my brain seems to creatively engage. I threw back the curtains to greet the dawn on the day that marked yet another year since my arrival on the planet.
With just 41 days and counting… nobody said leaving the EU was going to be easy, but nobody said it was going to be a complete musical hall farce either.
After three and a half years of my life and 92,000 words, I’m not going to allow my novel to wallow in the slushy stigma of rejection and, whatever it takes, I’m going to make it grabbable.
I’ve known about the Two Minute Grab Zone for quite some time and it’s time I got to grips with it.
Portugal, for me, is sensory overload; whatever the time of year and after visiting for twenty-six years, it is time to make it my home.
I don’t think my mother read any of my literary contributions since I had poetry published at eleven when she had high hopes that I would become Gloucestershire’s answer to William Wordsworth. Oh, and helping my step-father piece together his aeronautical autobiography, of course.
Capturing the essence of a 90,000 words (±) novel is a bloody nightmare. We spend weeks, months and years, scripting stories, creating characters, in 500; is a bloody nightmare. Or is it because and I’m trying too hard too hard in my attempts to wow a potential agent?
I am someone who is a firm believer in drawing a line under things from the past, you can’t go back and change them, so there is no point dwelling on them. But… I do dwell on one thing though and that is not finding out more about family members who Continue Reading
So reliant I have become on Word to record my every word, I have now programmed myself to restart and try to recapture that inspiration.
Just a crazy old Baby Boomer with a cute dog, carrying a couple of poles
Nothing can ever mean as much as spending a handful of hours in the company of good friends
How much longer am I going to live and how much money am I going to need to see me out?
So. Monday. We meet again. We will never be friends – but maybe we can move past our mutual enmity toward a more-positive partnership Julio Alexi Genao I have done something fairly major to my knee, so walking is a painful process. I am ‘in training’ for the Lake District Continue Reading