Tear across and down

 

On our flight out at 7.10 a.m. to where my sweat-stickied fingers stick to a sticky keyboard, we were given (by BA) a very hot bacon bap as breakfast.  The entire aircraft was abuzz with adjectives which floated up and down the cabin: ‘delicious’, ‘damned hot’, ‘sensational’, ‘yummy’, ‘ouch’, ‘bestest’, and many another surprised and appreciative exclamation.

Much tastier than reheated scrambled eggs, easier with fingers instead of bendy plastic non-cutty knives and a pleasant way to start our day.

HOWEVER, I do have a major complaint. With our coffee (at this distance in time I have no recall as to whether it was palatable, but I think so) we were given a ’stick’ of Freshways British Farm Assured Milk, to be precise Dairystix semi skimmed milk uht.  The offending item made me so cross that I took the wrapper with me on disembarking in order to vent my angst with real quotes from a real Dairystix.

At one end of Dairystix is a little red dot dot dot line and a sort of arrow to tell you where and in which direction to tear it in order to access the contents. Then just below, some fierce instructions:

HOLD FIRMLY HERE

TEAR ACROSS AND DOWN

I don’t know that I need to tell you the end of this story as you will have already guessed it. Broken fingernails (smart pink holiday nail polish gone for a burton), front teeth nearly ripped from gums, back teeth not nearly sharp enough, nail scissors in security bin at airport, husbands teeth too blunt as well, milk wrapper stretched and warped and twice as wide as when it started but as completely sealed as a submersible at 2,000 feet below sea level.

Of course, we could have drunk our coffee black, but I do hate to be beaten. Eventually we got a few splashes in the now tepid cup, which very nearly went flying in the wrestling match. The rest went down my front so that I looked like a 70 year old lactating mother.

But the bacon butty was very good.

 

Music cells

At school we did music practice in tiny rooms that had once been nuns meditation rooms. There was room for a piano and a person. They weren’t very soundproof and walking down the cloister outside one could hear a cacophony of piano, violin, cello, flute, oboe, etc.

But not from my cell.  I used that time to scribble romantic stories -mainly fantasy – in little notebooks and on scrap paper.  I never got caught.

That is why I scribble and am not a concert pianist.

REGRET

Regret. It ought to be banned.

It comes together with waste.  Waste of time, waste of potential, waste of knowledge, waste of life.

Here I am at 70 and I regret my life’s lack of self confidence, that I didn’t train as a teacher, that I accepted how the world was – a place where  the highest I could achieve was  Personal Assistant!   And certainly not ‘the boss’.  Why ever not? Why did I accept the mores of our time, the gender gap, the not good enough for university. Why did no-one challenge me?  I realise now that I am not stupid .

How little my education gave me, how little I made the effort to use what it did give me.  How I regret that I was not kicked and pushed and thrust to achieve. I regret that no-one knew I scribbled my stories – a secret because I didn’t think they were ‘good enough’!  Only now I begin to explore the world of writing, the blogs, the help that’s out there, waiting to be picked up and used.  Of course it’s not completely too late, but I regret I didn’t find it sooner.

The tagline of my one and only story, Dolphin Days, creeping towards publication is “If you don’t experience failure, you’ll never learn to handle success.”  My protagonist is quite like me, really.

Progress

Today the typescript was reduced to single line spacing. Ensure Fast Draft otherwise the ink will bankrupt me. Margins narrowed almost to extinction. Spend time stripping paper off gummed blocks of squash scoring sheets and using it to print. (I am a Scot). Then press button on Print All.  Discover no page numbers printed. Spend time numbering by hand 185 pages.  Discover the squash scoring sheets weigh twice as much as cheap paper and I can barely lift 185 pages.  Write begging email to an author friend asking her to proof and edit.  Think the postage will make me faint.

‘Ere we go

Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere, but I never thought I’d have to Blog. Such a revolting word. Nearly as bad as Moist.

I wrote a story. Now I’m told I have to promote it if I want anyone to read it, so….

What did the earwig say when he fell over the edge?