That time I spent an evening with a Rockstar.

Oh, well.

We had courted, I guess. Via Facebook. We’d chatted loads, and he was always poking me.

I then saw him at a gig, and I was very coy, in the crowd.

Anyway, a few weeks after, he decided to invite me over to his flat.

I was in London anyway, so popped into a black cab. I was tremendously nervous. Though I knew of him – a rock star – and we had chatted a bit online, I didn’t really know him.

I bought some supplies, things I thought he might like, including the best white wine I could afford. I don’t drink.

We met, embraced, chatted. I listened while he strummed a tune on his guitar.

When the white wine I bought ran out, he wanted to pop to the off-licence to buy some more booze. I went with him.

It was a nice walk in the dark breeze, and people along the way knew him and said hello – I guess because he was local, or maybe because he is a bit famous.

We got to the off-licence – the man behind the counter seemed to know him well.

As we left the shop, I said goodbye. I think I was supposed to go back to his place…I didn’t.

The whole episode still makes me feel a bit awkward.

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I did it.

 

Smear

Well, I have to say, writing here is brilliant.

It helps me to focus on what I should be focussing on…even though typing here mostly feels like pure procrastination.

Anyway – I recently wrote about why I would never have a smear test.

Writing that made me realise that, although I had a valid reason for not wanting to open my legs in front of a healthcare professional, I should still go through with a potentially life extending procedure.

So, today, I did it.

I warned the wonderful nurse that I would cry – I did cry. She was extremely kind and understanding and did not press for any gory details. She did signpost me for support.

The procedure did hurt, but only momentarily. I now have a good amount of cramping, and I am happy it is over.

Now, a 10 week wait for results…and hopefully I can forget about this for another three years!

So thank you WordPress, and my dear readers – you helped me to do something that terrifies me.

Hula Hoop!

Hoop

 

Well, what a day.

As part of the induction week at university, I had the opportunity to take part in some sports activities. The aim is to join the campus gym, and I’m considering it. I currently prefer to exercise on my cross trainer, in private, where I can blast YouTube out and look utterly unglamorous.

Anyway – today, for the first time in a l-o-n-g time, I picked up a hula hoop.

I couldn’t hula hoop when I was a child, and rapidly gave up. I gave up on all sports, really. I became so self conscious of my body at ‘that’ age, I always got out of P.E. by pretending to be ‘on’. Tsk!

Anyway, I found myself at the front of the studio today, faced by some seriously unflattering mirrors. Urk. I avoid mirrors, as a rule.

The glorious hula hoop teacher said that EVERYONE can hula hoop. It’s all down to the size of the hoop.

The bigger the hoop, the easier.

I picked the biggest hoop, as wide as I am tall.

And I hula hooped for 45 minutes.

Of course, the hoop clattered past my hips many, many times.

But, I did it. I can hula hoop! I think I’ve found a new hobby. One that I’ll practice in private!

 

 

It’s my Birthday!

Burfday

Shh!

I hate to tell anyone this. But yes. Today is my birthday.

I’ve dreaded September 4th ever since I approached 20…and turning 30 was a near total mental breakdown. I’ve been lucky to make it to this ripe old age…and have a whole year to fret about the next milestone.

Yikes!

Cheers.

Back at it again…

Sunflower

I am the lucky one (said a la Au Revoir Simone).

I started university today – my second bite at the academic cherry.

An easy week to start with – meeting lecturers and fellow students, putting my best foot forward.

Eep.

It’s only for a year, and I am excited, and nervous.

I’m great at procrastinating, so do expect more blogs from me while I am supposed to be studying!

Sigh.

The photo is of a sunflower given to me on my last day of my job, last week.

Onwards. Upwards?

What I did with my first writing paycheck

So, this isn’t my first rodeo.

A good few years ago, I took my writing really seriously. I had a WordPress blog, long since retired, that was quite lovely.

I was doing all of the right things, writing quality pieces, engaging with my readers, gratefully acknowledging interactions.

I also signed up to lots of sites where I could get paid to write. I’m not sure if such things still exist, I’ve been out of the game for too long.

Anyway, I set up this new WordPress blog a few months ago. Just for fun, and to release my SD card of its burdens.

I note that there is a WordPress blogger who is STILL plugging themselves – hugely – seeking financial reward from readers. Back in the day, this person was stating that they were close to complete financial ruin, that they needed all of the money they could get else they would starve, lose their home, the works. Back then they asked their WordPress contacts – every day – for money. This would pop up on my Reader, and it would make me feel so bad.

Anyway, I eventually got my first writing paycheck. It was extremely small. It was $3. Yes. I told you it was small! Anyway, I live in the UK, and $3 was no good to me, sat in my PayPal account. So, I sent it directly to the WordPress blogger who needed it most.

I didn’t do this for a thank you – I genuinely wanted to help. I was, however, disappointed. I did not have the (admittedly small) donation acknowledged. Not at all.

Imagine my surprise when, after a couple of months on here, I see that self same blogger! Still here, for the $. Though now, you can pay to have a couple of lines of your writing on their WordPress site. For the exposure! What a bargain!

I hope you thank them kindly for their generous offer.

Mother Damnable’s Diary

19th August 1815

 

What wickedness. Today was a hot bright one, and I set about to enterprise. Not all working men can attend the house during day hours, so I chose to take ale to them. Since losing George I need as all the pennies I can get. I filled two heavy pitchers, and each reddened my fingers as I carried them.

I’d heard there were some workmen, bricklaying close to the house. They were from far afield. My visit would bring them refreshment, and an invitation to the house later on. I put on my cap. I’ve always loved my red cap. It keeps me warm in the winter and cool in the summer.

I know the streets here well. Though the men were not working far away, in the heat and carrying both jugs of ale, they seemed very far away. On my walk, I spotted a big black bird. He was shiny and fat. I decided that I would call him Black Jack. I called his name, and he came to me. His brown eyes shone thirstily for my ale. I did wonder, what would a drunken bird think? Could he fly straight after a mug of ale? The idea did make me smile.

As I neared the marble statue, I saw a peddler. On this hot day his big coat weighed him down with pegs, cloths and matches. He pushed a large barrow, filled heavily and covered with a sack. I put the pitchers down as I watched him struggle. I called to him ‘Peddler! Some ale?’. He looked angrily at me. He put down his barrow and started toward me. I did not move. He came close to my face and his nose touched mine. I did not move. Then he stood back, and I can’t recall what he said, but he laughed. He laughed loudly. I began to tremble, and as I did so Black Jack started to attack the man. With his claws and his beak he did stab the peddler’s face, over and over again. The peddlar clutched wildly, to stop the attack. It did not stop until I called Black Jack’s name. Blood flowed from the scratches made in his skin. I did tell that peddler to never laugh at me again.

28th November 1815

Darby is getting worse. We have been as one for many moons now. I always hope that his manner will improve. Alas, it degenerates as each day passes. I have known men but none such a layabout as Darby. He can be romantic, calling to me once he has had the first ale of the day. By the last, he is his usual self. Sullen, wasteful and rude. He smells of a stale pot, left unslopped. I lie in our bed at night, and I pretend to sleep as he tries to make love to me. It is easier if I don’t move, that way he soon falls asleep. I watch him when he sleeps and I think terrible thoughts. I wonder how much better we would be without him drinking the house dry. I think it is time for him to go.

29th November 1815

No sooner had I writ that Darby should go – he is gone. We had the most terrible quarrel. He was soaked in ale. I stood my ground this time. I know not where he is, but I know that he will not be back here. Just like my beloved, Gipsey George. Once they are gone, they are gone forever.

01 February 1915

It was an awful winter. My poor family. My child became weak with illness, and is only just recovering. I tended to her as much as I could, while still working in the ale house. My family barely survived. Folks around here haven’t helped at all. It was a long lonely winter, and I began to miss Darby. Even though he was a terrible drunk, he did care for us. In his way.

My mother and father became part of some terrible trouble. It happened that a girl my father was seeing came to her death. Now, this was by coincidence, and my mother and father had no part of her death. Not at all. Why, they were very shocked when they heard! Even my mother was sorry for the girl.

They say that upon hearing of the affair, my father did lure the girl to the river. They say that my mother waited by the water, and that they both took turns to drown the girl until she was dead.

I think that my father’s story – that she became so upset as he wished to stay with my mother – she did drown herself. I believe my father. We don’t have so many people in the ale-house now.