tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11448915611912773452024-03-04T21:05:12.372-08:00Crickey and HocketThoughts, musings, random theories and conversations. That's what it's all about Alfie.Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-80163521764807938772019-09-13T08:08:00.000-07:002019-09-13T08:08:34.083-07:00Are You Getting Enough.....Cricket? <br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I play cricket. In fact, in the eyes
of some people – a handful of friends and, well, more than a handful of
ex-girlfriends – too much cricket. The debate around that comment aside,
especially as I approach 40 in a couple of years…….OK, a year and a half…… the
fact is that unless you’ve been part of it, part of a club, a good club, you
just won’t understand why there is such a draw to those of us who play. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5M4zlKdmgwRvFKsdWIc7CYxle3xFRw167_0_GmLP_8dwmrik9EjZ5nVeoeOgOx8SWvCSuvwvtKcPCSCZkipQrM0xwE1treH6UcQR1CZMivMXQAAjhh8cIkWg3qzaZXDRNRvhFa1qfXv4/s1600/GCCC+Ground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5M4zlKdmgwRvFKsdWIc7CYxle3xFRw167_0_GmLP_8dwmrik9EjZ5nVeoeOgOx8SWvCSuvwvtKcPCSCZkipQrM0xwE1treH6UcQR1CZMivMXQAAjhh8cIkWg3qzaZXDRNRvhFa1qfXv4/s320/GCCC+Ground.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Plenty of clubs in plenty of
sports talk about being a “family” but I’ve never found this to be quite the
case so much as in cricket. I’ve played for our club for 24 years. Perhaps 25.
I’ve represented other clubs in that time too, when I was away at uni or couldn’t
get in to the Saturday sides, but across all those years, on Saturdays, Sundays
or both, I’ve represented one club throughout. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This means that I’ve grown up with
some players, seen people join, move away, seen juniors become seniors, get
married, have kids, some players become older, stop playing, and even some
players and supporters pass away, at times far too soon. Whilst cricket may have boring, lengthy
periods of not doing anything to some, these are the moments that make it
unique amongst sports. This is the time when, tea in hand, you talk, bond, muck
about, laugh, resolve all of life’s ills or simply forget that they exist – not
necessarily with like minded souls, but with a mixture of people from all walks
of life who just happen to share one thing – cricket, but with whom you can
talk about anything.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Across the years I’ve captained,
coached, committee’d, quiz mastered, umpired, scored, painted, rolled, you name
it! Aside from actually cutting the hallowed turf, which would only be
permitted once hell had frozen over, I’ve pretty much been involved in every
aspect of club life. But they aren’t the moments that stand out. The moments
that do are almost incidental to the game. Like when a young player I’d known
since they were a junior felt that they could talk to me about being bullied, or
sitting on the boundary benches talking about historic clashes with gentlemen
who stopped playing decades before I started. They are hearing a parent tell me
that they’d rather their kids played cricket at our club that other sports as
it teaches them sportsmanship, or someone asking about how to approach their
boss about handing in their notice or asking for a sabbatical. They are sitting
watching the openers put on a good stand, unable to move from our positions for
fear of angering the cricket gods! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In a world where more and more
people can only converse through a keyboard or screen, where depression and
anxiety are becoming more prevalent, where traditional support networks are neither
as common or as stable as they once were, the importance of the role of team
sport cannot be overlooked. Cricket especially affords that time to be outdoors,
to meet different people, to be competitive but in an arena where sportsmanship
is still held in a high esteem and perhaps above all to talk. In my career I’ve
had to deal with different people from all walks of life, all levels of
responsibility, seniority, all with different motivations but a small area of
common ground and shared interest. Sounds pretty familiar. In my life I’ve had different
challenges, personal and professional, and I’ve been fortunate that I have a
large extended network of support, a family, who I could rely on – whether they
realised it or not. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, the next time I’m asked, am I
“playing too much cricket?” perhaps I ought to be asking – are you playing
enough? </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17314998280534737160noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-51263412157912418492019-03-24T03:42:00.000-07:002019-03-24T03:42:51.632-07:00A Disappointing Dating Story<br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, I’ve been seeking the motivation, perhaps the
inspiration to return to a spot of blogging / creative writing for a while. A
few folk suggested a dating blog, which was something that existed briefly some
years ago. Well, this blog post is a little bit about that – but you may well
be disappointed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I ought also caveat what you’re about to read with the
following - soul bearing ramblings may well not be my strong point. I’m not
confident that I’ve ever tried all that hard to be a fully-open-to-the-elements author of honest content. I’m also not sure if, as you get older, you become more introspective, more
aware or just more inclined to muse openly about any feelings, emotional
roller-coaster moments and the grand journey that is life, at least what we
believe it to be. But I was inspired by reading the blog of a newly acquired
friend this morning, and it was the nudge if not kick up the proverbial that I
needed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So, I thought that I’d write about dating. Kind of. It may
be a personal thing, or a reflection of modern society though I’d never think
for a second I’m wise or grandiose enough to linger on such a thought for long,
but I have a sneaking suspicion that in my own case the more independent I have
become as a “fully fledged” adult, the more dependent I have also become in other
ways. Let me explain.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The independent thing is easy. I am relatively happy with my
“lot”. I bought my house a couple of years ago now and do you know what, I love
it. I love coming home to my own space, my own mess and invariably the home
comforts of some good food and a comfy bed. Is it perfect? No. But it’s mine.
And after I have finished writing this, I will enjoy a cup of tea, a sausage
sandwich then go and reorganise my garage to how I want it to be after 12
months of pretty much lobbing things in to the far corner. Do you know what? I’ll
feel pretty chuffed afterwards! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">What I have found though, conversely, is that I have become a
bit of a self-saboteur in the other parts of my life that should be the
guaranteed positives. The social pressure of being the only single chap in my closest
of circles I’ve found pushing me in to being somewhat of a stereotype of myself,
which becomes a difficult habit to break. I love that disappearing to
university gave me an opportunity to break that circle from my school persona
but in adulting terms I think it’s even harder to say “I’m not going to be that
person anymore”. As the singleton the inevitable questions come relentlessly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Who you’re seeing?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">“Don’t you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to
settle down?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And the ever so special “Why don’t you try <insert dating
app here>? Geoff and Susan met on there and they go married last year.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Firstly. Congratulations Geoff and Susan. And it’s
marvellous that my friends have met their lobsters, it truly is. But it does
drive an over dependence on the age-old search for “the one” and though they
may not realise it, it’s a pretty exhausting affair both physically and
mentally, which I am guilty of periodically letting get the better of me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">When I look back on the happiest times of the last 12
months, none of them involved dating. None. I spent the start of the summer
pretty much living at the cricket club - playing, supporting, providing Twittery
updates on the “action” much to the delight of some of the younger members and
doing what I could to help coach and mentor. Conversely in January I sacked off
the dating for the most part and spent time with people who brought joy and
happiness to my life. I prioritised how I ought to, and it felt great. Then I
find myself slipping back in to old habits, old dependencies, until I found
myself at a real low recently. I let this happen too often. Far, far too often.
So. Let’s have a reset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The goal is that spending time with things and people that enhance
my life will come first. And as hard as it will be, the expectations of others
and perhaps, more weighty, myself, well they’ll have to find some other perch
for the time being. Less duty and responsibility to others, more focus on duty
and responsibility to myself. Back to writing, food (be prepared to be fed
should you venture near!), holidays (Galapagos Islands anyone?) and should the weather
allow plenty of laps of the cricket ground in the sun, tea in hand. Nothing
life changing. Just some fine tuning. Plus a return to working on a story / screenplay
that’s been long mooted about a mouse….long short story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17314998280534737160noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-26797480988017039782018-09-24T09:02:00.002-07:002018-09-24T09:04:10.468-07:00A Good Crack at Adulting<span style="font-size: large;">So, it's been a while. No. Not like that. Well. Not just like that! Over four years! And let's be honest, the 2014 return was a bit of a token gesture. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
In my writing/blogging pomp six years ago (SIX YEARS!), if you'd call it that, I managed pretty much a monthly post, on top of completing an OU Creative Writing course and managing a Facebook group for like minded writey types. A lot of my blogs were either creative writing snippets or random musings. Then, well, following a change of job - back in to the career I love following a 20 month credit crunch enforced exile - I found a goldmine of excuses that were stopping me from writing.<br />
<br />
I didn't have time.<br />
I spent all day, most days, writing in one form or another.<br />
I was working on something bigger than a blog.<br />
Perhaps I lost a bit of that spark.<br />
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In the interim I was definitely missing something so I've decided it's time to make time. That and I think, seven years on from my initial musings, maybe I have a different perspective and a different outlook on life.<br />
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Yes. I'm adulting. Well, I'm trying. I bought a property, one in which I occasionally bake, read, mow the lawn, plant herbs! I have a career not just a job. My friends are all getting married, having kids, doing, you know, grown up things. OK, I'm still working on those bits! But for the most part, I'm giving it a real go. The missing step I guess, was pointed out succinctly by a taxi driver at the weekend who, until we were almost at my chosen destination, I genuinely liked! Our conversation covered a number of areas, working history (RAF, miner, taxi driver), the issues of people not paying, tips, cars, and then family, all wrapped in his warm, West Indian tones.<br />
<br />
He'd been married four times, an old school patriarch, and asked about my own status. No, no wife. No, no girlfriend at the moment either. Children, not that I know of (standard joke in response to that question now - though best not said to anyone under the age of 18 as it brings with it complex questions that are a struggle to answer in a polite way).<br />
"Well, you get to live the high life I bet. All that freedom" he rejoiced, "how old are you?"<br />
"37" I replied.<br />
"Ah, you'd best look to settle down then." came his reply.......thanks!<br />
<br />
So I thought that, as well perhaps as the odd bit of creative writing from time to time, I may start to write a little more on just that. Being single, dating and trying my damnedest at adulting as my mid-30s lean alarmingly towards my mid-to-late 30s. We'll see how it goes.<br />
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<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-8506250141282006112014-01-03T07:25:00.000-08:002014-01-03T07:35:29.568-08:00Back in Black......and WhiteIt’s difficult to write nowadays.<br />
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There are that many outlets for social media that it’s hard to pass a day without knowing what everyone in the world is thinking. As soon as an opinion is spawned or thought sparks in to life it’s normally there in text for us all to see and be made aware of.
I’m not one to Tweet. I rarely have a Facebook status that exhibits my inner most thoughts or outpouring of my joy/dismay at any recent news story. This year I even opted out of a generic “Happy New Year to all” post. My problem with all of this is that really, it’s all a bit predictable and boring.<br />
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I am of course delighted to see any friends getting married, engaged, having kids, getting a dog…….even a cat….maybe…..but the rest of it – I’m hungry, tired, fed up with a colleague, annoyed at the sky, frustrated by the rain or any of the rest of it - let’s be honest none of us are really that interested in be it from me or anyone else.<br />
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The other issue that I have is that really it makes it hard to write anything fresh. Having been a frequent writer and blogger it all of a sudden got a little bit difficult – what can you say about any event, small or large, that’s not already instantly been written about a thousand times in varying degrees of inane musings? Before you even start to put a piece together any research is muddied and clouded by a tidal wave of information, mostly horrendously un-factual and ill-informed but all burying the detail in a torrent of, well, crap.<br />
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So there are a few options left. Either be blooming quick off the mark and become a journalist, beat everyone to the punch and all that. Sadly I feel it may be a little late in the day to engineer that career change from, well, engineering. The other options are to get back in to the creative stuff, which I love and will do at some point, or find other more obsolete things to ponder. Things that are personal but, maybe, may be of enough interest to garner and, hopefully, entertain an audience. We’ll see.<br />
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In earnest I suppose this is one of those posts. Something that I doubt will honestly be of vast interest to anyone but it had to start somewhere. Essentially – I am writing…….again! I should’ve just sent a Tweet…….Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-69714691583517941732012-08-07T06:15:00.000-07:002012-08-07T06:17:38.132-07:00The Olympian’s Spirit<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gk9QcoMN34sh0UCR1HzqmL0CrF8dl4onsutt0lB7dgRcSwMuhG9VoyM3O4oQ7JFY8rbg7Tg6kdsSBT5jENS_DQ84oO0r6iFNXr3P2S6IIYXjcoA-OmqUsU1L_Wl-kxpi1s3VuzSe8uI/s1600/Olympic+Rings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="156" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7gk9QcoMN34sh0UCR1HzqmL0CrF8dl4onsutt0lB7dgRcSwMuhG9VoyM3O4oQ7JFY8rbg7Tg6kdsSBT5jENS_DQ84oO0r6iFNXr3P2S6IIYXjcoA-OmqUsU1L_Wl-kxpi1s3VuzSe8uI/s320/Olympic+Rings.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Four years isn’t all I’ve had to train, almost ten years I
have abstained from bars and fatty fast food chains to snatch those PB busting
gains.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now London 2012 does call, a beacon in the urban sprawl, I
must not stop - I can not stall, if I’m to go and give my all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No watching from my TV screen, I’m at the greatest show I’ve
seen, its opening night - this feels obscene with Bond and our sky-diving
Queen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Off to the village then to rest, to mentally prepare to test
myself against the worldwide best, adorned with my own GB vest.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The thumping of my aching feet, to simply win the opening
heat, it’s already my greatest feat, but victory would taste so sweet. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And now my heart won’t cease to pound as I pace up and down
the ground, no respite peace or quiet found between the first and second round.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But to my mother’s own relief and shock of the athletics
chief I’m in the pre-final de-brief, somehow, against all true belief.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Get set, waiting for starter's gun, a spring about to be
un-sprung then run and run and run and run, flash, wait – could I have really
won?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I’m trying hard to fight back tears, it’s what I’d waited
all these years for beating all those shocks and fears and tonight, believe me,
there’ll be some beers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">For whilst I could not match the pace I’ll take silver and
second place and smile’s upon the nation’s face – then I’ll be back, just watch
this space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So to all you kids who’re at the start, but want to win let
me impart you don’t need wealth, there’s no dark art – you too can win if you’ve
the heart.</span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-45654618864253856882012-07-26T08:23:00.000-07:002012-07-26T08:23:38.418-07:00Banana Splits<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Ok so it's been a while. Not just writing but also posting. I've been working on a few things but slowly....and mostly weekly newsletters and match reports for the cricket clubs! I have finally found some time to contribute to the Weekend Writing Challenge and took - <b>banana skin </b>as the topic for this week! Here is my 'bit'.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">How had it come to this? A rain soaked summer had left his
Prospero postponed and his Demetrius drenched whilst in July two of the Merry
Wives of Windsor had been washed away! Daniel’s outdoor Shakespeare season was
an unmitigated disaster but nothing compared to this. With bills to pay and
plays cancelled left right and centre he was delighted that the agency had come
up with an acting job. Then to find out it was not only acting but television,
well, he dared to dream – could this be the big time? What he hadn’t envisaged
was stomping around a sweltering studio as a singing, dancing banana surrounded
by babbling foam-headed children’s TV characters and quite possibly the
nation’s worst behaved six year olds.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Let me just get this right’
Daniel panted, ‘after I finished the song, you want me to try the splits?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Pretty much Danny boy. Oh this
time give it more spajazzle will you?’ enthused the director. The fact the
director looked like he was just out of nappies riled Daniel just slightly less
than being called “Danny boy” and slightly more than his propensity to invent
words in every other sentence. Apparently “spajazzle” was a mixture of sparkle
and jazz. Daniel fought the urge to tell the obnoxious chap to “pizoffle” and
returned to his mark.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">By the fourteenth take things
were getting not only ridiculous but outrageously hot. When his head emerged,
red faced and saturated in sweat he was hardly recognisable compared to his
Malvolio last year in Hyde Park. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Just focus on the money, focus
on the money’ he chanted under his breath, casting his mind back to the cluster
of red topped bills scattered across the kitchen worktop. ‘It’s all about the
money, money, money’ he deliriously sang. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Right we’re nearly there’
interrupted enthused Vince the writer, a veteran of such hits as “The Bumbles
in Toyworld” and the irritatingly infantile “Gagoo Gogaa”. It was no wonder
people derided the hopes for our species mused Daniel. ‘Just one more go eh
Francis?’ The director nodded and attempted to organise the chaos.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Okay okay places people. Can we
get those kids the fruit again please?’ it was like watching a man herding cats
and provided welcome amusement as well as a rest of Daniel as he looked on from
the wings. ‘James take that peach out of your pocket, thank you. Will someone
please ask Michelle to stop crying and play nicely? Get her the kitten again if
you have to, excellent. Henrietta, what’ve you done with your banana? No
darling your banana that’s your leg. The banana sweetie? No? Never mind, a new
banana here please someone.’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Exhausted Daniel trudged back to
his mark before taking a lung full of air and donning the head of his tortuous
costume. As he waited for his big moment he swallowed down the burgeoning rage
not to mention his pride, quelled the irritation at the inane lyrics and
annoying tune and prepared to burst on to stage to deliver the closing
verse. Daniel struggled to stay in character;
he was a serious method actor after all, as the brats adorned with fake, gap-sprinkled
grins and bright eyes, fuelled by a constant conveyor belt of chocolate and
e-number laden fizzy pop raced about belting out the song. Finally his moment
arrived and he skipped onto stage, front and centre, bursting into a frenzied
wail.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Apples peaches pears and
strawb’rries if you want to thrive.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And don’t forget bananas ‘cause
then you’ve got five.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So now we’re fit and healthy we
can go out to play,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Singing our Fruity Booty song the
Fruity Booty way!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As Daniel flung his arms out with
as energetic a set of jazz-hands as ever seen in children’s television he
strode forward. Unbeknownst to him Henrietta’s banana, or rather the leftover
end and skin, had re-emerged at the most inconvenient time. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Despite the extra £500 paid to him for not only managing the
splits but also an impromptu high-note that really “sold the whole meaning of
the song” and his “commitment to the Fruity Booty Bunch” Daniel couldn’t help
but feel rather sick. As he hobbled home, tears still trickling from his eyes, there
was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that he had in some way sold out on his
chosen career path and, perhaps, it was time to look for something a little
more sedate until the autumn castings came about.</span></div>
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<br />Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-72461791657110566372012-06-15T06:45:00.000-07:002012-06-15T06:46:00.449-07:00Cornwall - Draft<br />
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<i>This is the draft or rather part 1 of my recent Weekend Writing Challenge: Locations effort. I grabbed "Cornwall" from the offerings but it's by a long way incomplete as it seems to've turned into somewhat of a longer piece than normal. Still. Here's P1! </i></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The cool, salty sea air swept Captain James “Jim” Stevens
hair back, waving in the wind echoing the long grass surrounding him along the
cliff top. He breathed it in, slowly and deeply, as if taking long gulps from a
hearty local ale. It enlivened him like a healing elixir. Not just the air but
the din of waves crashing against the rocks below, fizzing away as the water
retreated only to renew it’s assault seconds later. Gulls swooped, screeched
and dived all around. When he had first returned from France they terrified him
to the core, making him jerk his head towards the unexpected screams and
bringing on cold sweats and shaking hands. He was sleeping more. That and Nurse
Yvonne Lotte, Yvie to her patients, had spent hours sitting with him so that,
over the months, he’d become far more accustomed to the Cornish wilderness. Now
he couldn’t picture anywhere else. The hustle of his London life, former job
and his wife, all gone. The mud, sodden trenches and dying comrades of the
Somme too. It all seemed somehow imagined. <br />
<br />
‘Best get back Corporal.’<br />
<br />
He was still a stickler
for rank regardless of the end of his role in the war. He was still a member of
the British Army and if anything was worth doing, it was worth doing properly. Captain
Stevens wasn’t to know that Corporal Evans had wandered down the path and was
smoking with a couple of other men.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘Corporal Evans?’ confusion and panic tinged his calls and
Stevens’ pulse increased as he gripped his wheelchair tightly. He raised his
voice ‘Corporal Evans? Are you there Evans?’<br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘Sorry Sir,’ Evans coughed as he jogged back from the others, tossing his
cigarette over the cliff edge, ‘I was just…’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Before he could finish Stevens cut him off ‘Never mind boy.
Never mind. It’s time to go back. I, I need to go back.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Evans was a good man and,
although it went unsaid, a good friend. If the Captain needed to get back then
he never asked any questions, he knew that whatever the reason it was reason
enough. As Corporal Evans pushed him
along the path Stevens heard two vehicles pass nearby, scattering the stones
across the gravelled path as they headed around the fountain and up
towards the grand entrance of Hathaway Hall.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘More ambulances?’ a sombre Stevens enquired of his
colleague.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘Afraid so Sir. Afraid so.’ Came Evans’ rueful reply. ‘Poor
bastards.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The two
shared a moments silence deep in thought and memory as orderlies ferried body
laden stretchers back and forth whilst nurses helped those more mobile up the
granite steps and into the beautiful manor house. The stunning building once
resplendent in Edwardian pomp was to be a temporary residence for some, a final
resting place for others. Their time for reflection ended with the slamming of
the ambulance doors.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘How close are we to the house Evans?’ Stevens’ choked tones
betrayed the pity he felt for his fellow wounded and, in part, for himself. ‘How
do I look?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">‘Like a damned smart office of the British Army Sir, as
always.’ came the reply from Evans almost without thinking. ‘Let me just
straighten you up a bit…..,’ Evans folded back the collar on Stevens’ shirt and
aligned the lapels on his dressing gown ‘…..and you’re done. Top notch Sir. Top
notch.’ </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Evans had become adept at lying.
Stealing a deep breath and occasionally fighting back the odd tear whilst
giving away nothing in his voice. If truth be told he was glad that he’d never known
the Captain before they both arrived in Cornwall. His head was, as always,
shrouded in bandages from the bridge of his nose to his hair line. Despite the
warming sun which cascaded down on the two of them Stevens, unlike Evans’
bronzed face and tanned arms, was a pale and gaunt figure. The left side of his
face was a maze of deep scarring where a German shell had torn the flesh from
the bone. The right side showed no direct sign of the explosion but his
hollowed cheek and greyed skin portrayed a man who now lived half way between
this world and the next. Evans knew it and, deep down, so did Stevens. </span></div>
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<br /></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-18701069344306215962012-05-22T04:49:00.003-07:002012-05-23T03:41:20.462-07:00A Pirate's Parrot<i>Again, the weekend writing challenge threw up a series of play on words objects, locations, people and utter randomness and along the way "Pirate" was suggested. Since there were a lot of rather heavy and dark pieces posted, or in fact because I was nagged to write something more upbeat, this was my contribution this week!</i><br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Can you really be a Pirate with no parrot?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Would Bugs Bunny be the same without his
carrot?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">There’s expectancy you see,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">If you’ve just one accessory,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Even if your treasured gold’s 24 karat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Pirates can survive without a wooden leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Or even no rum or grog stored in a keg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">But you’re guaranteed to fail,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">When you eventually set sail,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">With no parakeet hatched from a speckled egg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">To try and lead a motley crew would be absurd,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">If you lacked a rainbow coloured talking bird,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">Could you command authority?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">When lost in a stormy sea?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">With no feathered friend repeating every word!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">When dressed in full regalia they’ll bow in
awe,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">They’ll follow you anywhere, breaking every
law,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">But an essential part of dress,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;">And the captain should impress,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 19px;">Just add the latest, shiny, new, bright red Macaw.</span>
</div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 19px;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmVCkImynt9U8vSbbG6qvuNC_lalqV-_X6OT04fPke91lRUJRFULjkFKa8z_7-nKu3gU5PMPTg2WrMoL39v-zOqhCJGpmteHXEo8sGbyPmBbgizibxxTuUpqUZBaSK2AALJhyoLeGvup0/s1600/Sword+Parrot.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmVCkImynt9U8vSbbG6qvuNC_lalqV-_X6OT04fPke91lRUJRFULjkFKa8z_7-nKu3gU5PMPTg2WrMoL39v-zOqhCJGpmteHXEo8sGbyPmBbgizibxxTuUpqUZBaSK2AALJhyoLeGvup0/s320/Sword+Parrot.gif" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Plantagenet Cherokee', serif; font-size: 14pt;"><br /><br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-48424143412867991522012-05-16T08:41:00.000-07:002012-05-22T04:51:19.085-07:00Hair Dryer<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>Whilst the OU course has been completed the Weekend Writing Challenges have continued. This was last week's effort, albeit a little rushed, having taken up the challenge of writing about a hair dryer.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This was Rebecca’s week. Her friends. Her family. Whilst
Henry loved the idea of a cheap break when the two were courting little had he
realised that it was going to turn into an annual pilgrimage, bundling kit and,
as the years had passed, kids into the back of his beloved BMW and traipsing across Europe. There were many of
her traits, quirks and habits that he’d fallen in love with instantly, many
that he’d grown to enjoy and appreciate and a number that, regardless of how
they may seem annoying or frustrating to the outside world, he simply adored.
This, however, was not one of them. To make matters worse the girls were even
more excitable than their mother.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As the twins were getting older
it was clear that they were going to be a handful. Alice and Emily were eight
and were becoming more and more inquisitive, more and more aware that this time
of year meant one thing. Holiday, snow, skiing and meeting up with all the
other kids at the annual get together. For Henry it meant sleepless nights,
mind numbing idle chat with superficial yuppies and “old school chums”,
feigning a passing interest in strapping two planks of wood to his feet and
trying, at all costs, to avoid another four months in plaster like last year.
To say that skiing was not Henry’s forte was somewhat of an understatement. He
loathed it. But what he did enjoy was a peaceful life and to earn 51 weeks a
year of one he was willing to make certain sacrifices. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It had only taken eleven hours of
driving time to get from their leafy suburb in Tonbridge to Lausanne, taking
out the stops at the regular places and a stolen few hours of sleep at the
roadside motel just outside of Reims. Eleven hours, thirty two games of eye-spy
and three High School Musical sound tracks to be precise. Henry cursed his loins
for their failure to provide a son thus far. As the journey neared its end the
green and brown fields faded out into a white, icing sugar dusted carpet, then
to a washed out quilt as the snow enveloped everything in sight. Whilst this
made the driving treacherous and testing it was, if truth be told, Henry’s
favourite part of the week. The car’s passengers silent with more than a little
discomfort and unease as the road twisted and slithered upwards leaving Henry
to concentrate on the challenge and bond between man and machine. Bliss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Two days in and Henry was already a broken man. No amount of
liquor laden hot chocolates or beer holding steins could prevent it. Two days
of listening to how Jenny’s dad was going to ski down the jump tomorrow, how
Arthur, who was seven, was already a better skier than daddy, how it was better
if mummy took the girls out on the slopes because daddy was too slow. Meanwhile
Rebecca’s friends were even worse. How wonderful that Millie and John just
built a new five bedroom home from French railway sleepers. How delightful that
Arthur’s sister Jemima was in the fast track Olympic skating squad aged twelve.
How superb that Aggie could stop working now Charles was in line for the CEO
role at Jaguar. Urgh. Henry’s suggestion that Rebecca and the girls could walk
home fell on deaf ears like most of his sarcastic acknowledgments and retorts
had already.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He couldn’t even grasp a quiet
night. The two days, though irritating, were nothing compared to the nights.
For some reason Rebecca’s impression of a deep sleep was just convincing enough
so that when Alice and Emily awoke, as they invariably did at around 3am on
holiday, Henry dared not stir her and instead answered the squeaks and girly
giggling himself. He wasn’t convinced by Rebecca’s “Is everything ok?” on his
return to bed either, especially knowing
that despite her apparent consciousness now she’d be sounds asleep again in
twenty minutes when it all kicked off again. Still, he kept telling himself, it
was just one week. Besides, fortunately, this trip was going to be different.
This trip was going to change things forever. </span></div>
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<o:p><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></o:p></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It was the third night of the stay and, for once, it was
Emily and Alice who’s harmonious slumber was to be disrupted. Emily was the
first to awaken. Half asleep still she rolled restlessly onto her side, made
curious by the low humming coming from the direction of dresser by the window.
Her eyes lids pulled grudgingly apart, heavy from a full day’s play in the
bright sun. A large, blurry figure
appeared to be sat on the stool by the dresser and, for some reason, it looked
as though it was using their hair dryer. At first almost oblivious to the
character Emily grew increasingly alarmed. As her eyes contorted and strained
to focus she realised that the figure, silhouetted against the moonlight
creeping through the window, had a particularly furry outline. In fact she
realised, as her heart began to race and focus sharpened, that it was covered
from head to toe in thick, reddy-brown fuzz. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Emily
tried to whisper for her sister but was unable to make a sound, her voice
frozen with fear. Instead, as the fuzzy figure continued to tousle and fluff
away just feet in front of them, she tossed her pillow over hitting Alice
across the back of her head. Alice sat, bolt upright, about to return the
missile when she saw that Emily looked like a ghost, her finger to her lips,
shaking. Alice didn’t know what to make of things and paused, confused by this
unheralded attack. Then, as the stool creaked and groaned they both turned
simultaneously to see what was going on. As their gaze moved steadily towards
the dresser the low hum from the hair dryer stopped and ebbed away, revealing
the shuffling footsteps from beneath its din. Both sets of eyes worked they way
up from the knees, across two tree-trunk like thighs, the barrel chest and up
to the sunken eyes of the beast in front of them that had made it’s way over
between the two beds. Big Foot? Sasquatch? Yeti? Neither cared much what it
was, all they knew was that it was, somehow, in their room, and that it seemed
huge. As they went to scream it held it’s hands over each of them, silencing
them before even a peep could be uttered, and said in a low, gravely tone –
“Sleep!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> Without
hesitation both girls lay flat, covering their heads with their quilts,
straight as an arrow and still as a rock. Only the undulating sheets showed any
signs of life as the groaning floorboards and squeaking door hinge echoed the
monster’s exit. The girls didn’t sleep, but they didn’t move an inch until 8am when
their alarm went off and they raced through to their parent’s room. Both girls,
normally preferring their mum’s cuddles, sprinted across to Henry and grabbed
him tight. Neither said a word, just held like two limpets. Despite their best
efforts neither Rebecca nor Henry could get a word out of the twins to find out
what had caused such unheralded affection. Henry just smiled to himself and, as
he made his way down to breakfast with a girl clutching each leg, he kicked an
empty, furry foot and mask back beneath the bed. The rest of the week was as
peaceful as he could ever have hoped for.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-27309210078343260132012-05-11T04:36:00.004-07:002012-05-22T04:51:53.682-07:00The Letter<br />
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><i>So here it is, the final assessment for my course. I've had to wait to post it until the results came back. A short story, 1,500 words with the choice of a number of elements, timeshift, conversation and a few other things to include. After a quick re-edit I'm happy with it, though a lot was chopped out to get towards the limit! Anyway, this is it! </i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkF3hffVzQl9uQ5n0mLnwSINKEUz8gK_JH2ucN9hfIGw3fuKJdKeWdtXT47f2KEBNhcEj4cI0xP9uuwxjFbssh-ejxI2tSClqfOBZrpYTAzS-zWZSb36UwTAnFwsKPtjQO7_mt5msGnc/s1600/The+Letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQkF3hffVzQl9uQ5n0mLnwSINKEUz8gK_JH2ucN9hfIGw3fuKJdKeWdtXT47f2KEBNhcEj4cI0xP9uuwxjFbssh-ejxI2tSClqfOBZrpYTAzS-zWZSb36UwTAnFwsKPtjQO7_mt5msGnc/s320/The+Letter.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b>The Letter.</b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pete paced
slowly across to where the motorcyclist had finally come to a rest, nearly a
hundred yards from where the bike had clipped the curb. It was a cold, grey,
washed out Spring morning. It wasn’t raining but the air was filled with dense
moisture, waiting to lift like a curtain to reveal the oncoming dawn. He had
never seen an accident before but as ever curiosity, more than horror, got the
better of him. As Pete approached his footsteps grew hesitant and his eyes
scanned the motionless body for signs of life. It was obvious that the rider
was male given the stocky build and squared shoulders but of anything else he
couldn’t be certain. Pete made his way closer, edging past the patches of
leather and rubber grated onto the tarmac where the poor soul had bounced and
rolled like a rag doll. The acrid smell of burnt rubber filled his nostrils and
choked his lungs. In the distance the bike’s engine was still running,
put-putting as it clawed for life, mimicking the fate of its rider.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As Pete knelt down the rider’s arm suddenly fell limply and, like a
listing ship, the body slowly keeled over onto its back. Pete’s heart galloped
and leapt as he stood upright and staggered back, startled by the movement of
what after all he expected to be a corpse.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Ignoring the thumping rhythm being hammered out through his chest he
advanced again. There was still no sign of life but there was definitely
something uneasily familiar about the body. As Pete examined further he
suffered an even greater jolt. The rider was wearing the exact same
unmistakable watch as Pete. Identical to the gold plated timepiece left by his
father thirty years ago. In fact, despite their now tattered and scuffed
appearance the leathers looked pretty similar to Pete’s too. In a second his
heart went from thunderous cacophony to silence. This wasn’t some unfortunate,
mysterious body. It was his. Pete’s. Laid out in the gutter in front of his own
startled eyes. Instantly he was overcome with a crippling pain that shot across
his brain like a lightning bolt thrown by Zeus himself. The agony crackled
through his core, stealing his breath. Gasping for oxygen, his lungs burning,
he dropped to all fours.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As he writhed he was oblivious to the sirens screaming their way to
the scene. A paramedic followed closely by an ambulance and police car.
Although adjacent to him their screeching tyres, wailing sirens and urgently
barked instructions seemed somehow damp, distant and muffled. They checked for
vital signs and as they carefully removed the helmet Pete’s worst fears were
confirmed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Consumed by pain and blinded by confusion Pete, without warning, felt
a strong, warm and comforting hand on his shoulder. Instantly, somehow, the
raging inferno of pain dissipated to a cool, halcyon quietness that flowed
across him, overwhelming and extinguishing the panic. Pete regained his
composure and gradually returned to his feet.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Is that it?’ Pete asked in an astonishing calm, not really thinking,
or more importantly questioning who to. ‘Am I dead?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36pt;">‘No Pete,’ came the softly spoken reply, the same voice as before,
‘not yet’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Not yet?’ he remarked in gasped astonishment. ‘”Yet!” That’s hardly a
comfort is it? You don’t believe in plot spoiler warnings do you? Not yet! That
guy doing CPR could succeed. Go on mate, give me another shock, I’m up for it!’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Pete’s pleading words of encouragement were vociferous but vanished
into the chilled morning air. They failed to reach their target or even a level
of audibility that could generate the faintest reaction from the
paramedics. His heart sank and it wasn’t
for a moment or two that it even crossed his mind to wonder who it was he was
talking to. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Are you who I think you are?’ he asked quite forthrightly with more
than an edge of nervousness lining his tone. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Well, that depends entirely on who you think that could be Peter’
came the enigmatic reply ‘but I suspect I am.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">He stood, slightly puzzled and mildly dumbfounded. Finally focussed
his inquisitive mind, eyebrows arched skywards. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘But, as I’m sure you’re aware, I’ve never really believed in, well,
God! So, why now?’ <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Before the unknown, wise and aged figure had time to reply another,
more pressing thought came to the forefront of his mind. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Oh no!’ he declared sorrowfully as he turned his attention back to
his failing body, ‘The letter!’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Everything started to trickle back. After the chaos of the crash his
memories were landing like a flock of birds returning to a field having been
startled by the backfiring exhaust of a passing truck. Why he was on the bike,
where he was going, what was so urgent and finally, most importantly, the
letter that he was carrying? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When he got
back from work last night he hadn’t thought twice about the post. The usual
cluster of red reminders chasing the money they knew he didn’t have. It was
scooped up and dumped on the coffee table amongst their opened and ignored
predecessors. It wasn’t he didn’t want to pay them, quite the opposite in face.
In the six months since leaving the prison at Ranby he had done everything in
his power to get his life back on track. Not until later that night having
settled with a cold beer and his microwave for one did he notice, amongst the
bold printed fonts and increasingly agitated demands there was one hand written
letter. He picked it up, inspected it closely. A crumpled eggshell envelope
with his name scrawled in blue ink. Pete had hesitantly opened it and as his
eyes scanned down the spidery text a tear welled in the corner of his eye. It
was from his daughter Jessie.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Jessie was eight years old when Pete had gone away and the first visit
from his fiancée Gemma was the last he heard of either of them. It was a
rushed, garbled one-way conversation with confused reasoning that Pete had
understood very little of at the time. He’d had six years to go through it with
a fine toothed comb in his mind and it still made little sense. Gemma believed
that they’d both be better off without him even though the robbery was her idea
and her brother was the leader of the gang. It took less time to come to terms
with the fact he wasn’t going to be around for a while than it did for the jury
to find him guilty. The one thing that did get to him though, that managed to
sneak through the armour at least once a day without fail, was the fact that he
hadn’t once heard from Jessie. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The letter showed that somehow Jessie had managed to find him. Somehow
one of the hundreds of emails, texts or calls since he got out hit the right
note, found the right sympathetic ear or landed on the right desk. Pete didn’t
care how. He had the letter and an address to contact her. That was all he
needed. His reply had taken all night. An emotional outpouring flowed through
the roller coaster of losing and re-discovering her after all this time and it
now lay stuffed into his jacket pocket, creased by the tumbling as he sped to
the post office. All this just to slip on the wet road surface, losing control
of his bike on a damp April dawn ending up in the predicament he found himself,
standing over his body watching his life drain away into the gutter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Why couldn’t I just do this one thing?’ Pete asked with a knowing
acceptance, shaking his head.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Well as the Fun Lovin’ Criminals sung, “Twenty twenty is hindsight”
Peter. We act in a way that we think is best at the time.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘You don’t have to remind me of that. I spent the last six years
telling myself that.’ a wistful Pete replied allowing a mournful tone to creep
into his voice for just a second, before something dropped and he snapped out
of it. ‘Hang on. I didn’t realise that you were a Fun Lovin’ Criminals fan. I
thought you’d be more into your hymns and stuff. You know, the classics?’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Just as I created all men and love all men equally, so too I love
their music.’ The figure smiled to himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Really? Even Justin Beiber?’ Pete exclaimed unbelievingly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘Yes Peter. Even Bieber.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This puzzled Pete but, in the context of a conversation with someone
that he never really thought existed, it made no more or less sense than any of
the rest of his current predicament. In short, he didn’t argue the point. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As the two spoke the paramedic attending Pete’s crumpled body looked
up to his colleague. Without saying a word their shared look and faint shake of
the head said everything.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 36pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">‘You haven’t long Peter. Is there anything you want?’ the robed,
anonymous man sympathetically enquired.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">‘Shouldn’t you be all knowing?’ retorted Pete, ever the sharp mind
despite his life </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">draining from its vessel in front of them, ‘You know there’s
only one think I want. Only one thing I wanted for six years.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The unknown man said nothing. His eyes just crinkled into an essence
of a smile, the corners of his mouth giving away nothing. They both just turned
once more to the paramedic who was searching Pete’s jacket. He removed a
wallet, then mobile phone and finally the envelope. He delicately flattened it
out before reading the address and placing the letter inside his own jacket. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In that moment Pete knew the letter was safe, he knew that Jessie
would see it and have comfort knowing he loved her all those years. In that
moment, he was gone. And so was the stranger.</span><b style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-49407489452801255152012-04-03T06:40:00.001-07:002012-05-22T04:52:24.851-07:00The Clown<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Another week and another writing challenge. This weekend it was decided that rather than the usual "here's an object, write about it" we'd go for a profession. An interesting change. The profession left for me to compose a short piece was a circus clown and so here is the resulting 'bit'. Lots of fun researching!</strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As the sweat poured from beneath his wild copper wig Bobbo gasped for breath. He pulled it off, mopping his brow as he cast it aside, smearing the carefully painted tears and white face mask and slumped against the tiger cages. His lungs screamed for oxygen and heart galloped at thunderous pace, thumping through the chest of his unwieldy fat suit. The water gun daisy pulsated at an alarming speed like the wings of a hummingbird. In fact, as he looked down at the fluttering petals, an idea leapt into his head and he pointed it towards his panting mouth, taking a few gulps of much needed refreshment and allowing him a moment of relative peace before the fast approaching mob found his tracks. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">How he’d managed such a swift getaway in size 22 ruby red shoes and 64 gallon trousers was now a blurry mystery even to himself. He kicked the shoes off, each dropping with a squeak that made his shoulders tense and the hairs stand on the back of his neck and pulled the top of his augmented body suit up and over his head. The only clue to his erstwhile profession was now the smudged and smeared make up coating his face in a suffocating layer of marbled whites, reds and blues. As he frantically scrubbed at his cheeks though his mind was focussed once more on his main task by the increasingly voluminous din. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through the bars of the cage he saw the entrance to the big top swept aside and an accumulation of people, all shapes, sizes and ages march forward. Like some kind of all encompassing cloud, without a true direction or target, they engulfed the caravans, cages and tents accommodating the circus and it’s residents. Tossing hay bales and carts, demolishing tents as beds and tables were overturned and cast aside. They were single minded in their pursuit that was for sure. Still, the extent of their hunt was confined to the immediate and illuminated area close to the compound and whilst their numbers swelled with each passing second, villagers and audience members caught up in the feverish mob mentality, their organisation was diluted. Like a raging river busting through its banks they were now snagged on every obstacle, slowed by their detailed inspection quite literally leaving no rock unturned. He knew that he needed to take his chance now though, before they inevitably seeped through to his hiding place.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">As he watched the leader of the posse barked our instructions and directed his pitchfork laden lieutenants every which way but his. Bobbo noticed that the disgruntled parents of Billy were whispering orders, directing their puppet, eyes aglow, hate filled and wild with devilish intent plastered across each of their faces. Seeing such pure and unadulterated hatred he realised the scale, and desperation of his situation. His heart sank and, just for a moment, he was overcome with a sense of sorrow and great loss. An innocent situation turned against him for what? Befriending a lonely child? For caring? Something Billy’s selfish and oblivious parents had failed to do for any of his eleven years. His wallowing didn’t last for long. All of a sudden his train of thought was stopped dead in its tracks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">A sleek, golden leg with bolts of forked, black, lightening-esque stripes across its fur landed swiftly, silently, blocking his view. His eyes, now leaking genuine tears where once they were painted scrolled slowly down it revealing a giant paw, resplendent with long, curled, onyx claws. His eyes slowly crept back upwards, a shiver racing up his spine as he met the eyes of the big cat, awoken from her slumber by the gathering crowd. She studied him, motionless save a slight nervous tremble scurrying across the corners of his eyes, assessing the worthiness of this strange looking creature and the surrounding commotion. Then, without warning, the Bengal exploded into action as a deafening, fearful roar tore through the night air. Her teeth were incandescent, like daggers shining in the darkness. Bobbo was shaken to his core. For a split second time stopped, an eerie quiet fell and the world held its breath. Realising that their quarry was almost within their grasp the crowd surged towards him with a new found enthusiasm and terrifying intent. He had no choice. With his cover blown, he ran for it.</span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-69181131935232870182012-03-16T09:34:00.002-07:002012-05-22T04:53:24.822-07:00The Ride (Assessment Part 2)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So here is Part 2 of the assessment that I recently sublmitted. A tough one given the subject matter........</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em><strong>In 500 words, write a story or part of a story that fictionalizes something that is mentioned on the radio when you go to turn it on now. At the top of your story, state what the stimulus from the radio was. Choose a setting which you describe somewhere in your 500 words, and tell this mini-story from the narrative point of view of a man or woman (a character) whom the story directly affects. Use some dialogue in your story. Write in either the past or present tense. Try to use clear, vivid language so that your reader can see the setting and character(s). Avoid cliché. </strong></em></span></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Radio stimulus (07/03/2012) - <span style="color: #333333;">Six British soldiers were reported as killed in southern Afghanistan when their vehicle was hit by an IED explosion. </span></span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Despite the whirring tandem rotors of the CH-47 Chinook and constant chattering over the airwaves that whistled and crackled through the crew’s headsets the silence between the members of the Medical Emergency Response Team was chilling. Six pale faces bereft of colour, emotion or being. Only the occasional movement, a solemn glance through despairing eyes or weary sigh suggested any semblance of life.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Grains of sand bounced and danced in unison on the floor of the chopper and Captain Maddox wasn’t the only one transfixed by it. Anything. Any distraction to divert from what they each knew lay ahead. The low hum of the engine. The clatter and rattle of a loose strap against the cold grey shell of the fuselage. The blips and beeps indicating a steady stream of incoming transitions and updates. Any single thing to take their attention away from the carnage that lay just a few clicks east into Kandahar.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The call had come in barely ten minutes ago and the scrambled team was already in the air. There was nothing rare about an IED interrupting the daily games of table tennis or the team’s dissection of the football back home. Chelsea sacking another manager. Some things never change but it was those things that carried the comfort of home and the protective blanket of normality across the thousands of miles of sand and to the insanity of Helmand. This time though it was the scale of things. Patching up the odd squaddie was nothing unexpected. But six. In one incident. With the noise over the radios and none of it coming from the Warrior armoured vehicle itself they all knew that his was a bad one. Corporal Thomas broke the silence.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> ‘Do you know any of them Jimmy?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘No mate. They only arrived three weeks back. Bloody Valentine’s Day! I’ve probably seen them around. Think one was a United fan though.’ </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cpl James Stephens knew pretty much everyone passing in and out of the barracks by the team they supported. The silence resumed and heads dropped once more. Captain Maddox knew that this line of thought wasn’t going to help anyone focus on the job ahead. He interjected.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> ‘Did you get that letter off to your lad Pete?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘Yes sir. Second birthday next week sir. Hoping to get online, maybe even see him blow out the candles.’ Cpl Thomas had been in Afghanistan on and off since his son was born. ‘Hey did anyone go and check up on that kid we brought back yesterday?’</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘She’s going to be ok Pete. I couldn’t tell her about her brother though. A few scrapes, some patching up here and there but the nurse thinks she’ll be out within the week. She even managed a smile.’ Some days, to Maddox at least, it seemed all worthwhile.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The chopper slowed, it’s rear end bowing to kiss the earth below and as the door slid open the bright sunlight was briefly blinding before a noxious smell of burning metals and singed earth filled the cabin. The scene before them was catastrophic.</span></span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-36630067104044724982012-03-16T09:26:00.001-07:002012-05-22T04:53:55.283-07:00Shame (Assessment Part 1)<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This was part of the assessment for a course I'm doing. The challenge was......</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><strong><i>In 500 words, write a mini portrait of a character, in either the past or present tense. In this story, note, there needn’t be any significant plot; concentrate instead on describing both character and place, and on conveying a particular mood – and state this mood as the title of your story. (For example: Happiness: Jane had short red hair and ...).</i> </strong></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The piece that I have written is yet to be marked, but since it's submitted I can now post it on here! I'm finding that one of the most enjoyable things about writing for tasks and instructions is the research - this bit especially......</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Shame</b>: As Mykelti screwed his eyes tightly together to shut away the world the piercing screams of his loved ones, his friends trapped in the village, his wife and four year old daughter Neisha all surrounded him, puncturing his soul and crushing his spirit. Opening them once more the screams were distant but no less real. He heart was pounding through his bare chest, his lungs on fire from the breathless sprint over to the overgrown, stench laden ditch in which he now lay covered in the red dust that fogged the air. The adrenalin, which had carried him to safety, coursed through his veins to such an extent he didn’t notice the baking heat of the midday sun on his broad, ebony back or the blood seeping from the musket round lodged in his muscular shoulder. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A gentle, loving father and husband Mykelti was also a feared Chamba hunter and his body was the perfect specimen, as if carved from the great Aso Rock of his father’s homeland, a towering monolith to the north that filled the fairytales and legends of his childhood. As strong in mind as he was in body how such a proud, strong hearted champion was now left for dead by these invading marauders it was hard to imagine. If only he’d had his spear to hand or heard their arrival, maybe then he’d have stood a chance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Mykelti had heard of similar raids on the Yoruba to the west and Mbundo to the south but this was the first time his people had seen these armoured ghosts for real, a nightmare he never expected to come true. What shamed him most was not that this fierce, lion of a man was left helpless, unable to get back to save his companions from capture. That time would come. It was a long and arduous trek back to the coast and one he had made a thousand times before. In his brief 25 years he had climbed to a man of great standing in the village and patience was a virtue held in great esteem. The shame that overwhelmed him came as <span lang="EN">recognised the mungakan dialect of the black raiders assisting these foreign invaders. As he took a deep breath and raised himself to the top of the ditch he realised that h</span>e had even traded with them in <span lang="EN">Bali Nyonga to the north-west. The chagrin of how one people can do this to another, to their kinsmen and brothers, caused his heart to sink and an inferno of emotions swell inside him. Tears began to stream down his face.</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As the screams faded, the waft of burning buildings filled his nostrils as they crumbled to the red earth from which they’d sprung and the sun dipped towards the horizon Mykelti steadily, wearily stepped back towards the scene of utter destruction. With each stride the shame and ignomy that he earlier felt changed, warped and evolved. Each movement brought him closer to his family. Closer to revenge.</span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-41637527952331841612012-02-20T09:44:00.000-08:002012-05-22T04:54:44.879-07:00Chris' Sandwich <em>Well again, an entry that is something taken from my Creative Writing course. After last week's challenge I was left without an item around which to base a short piece. However there were four that had gone before. A button, a chicken a toothpick and a statue. So, for the sake of attempting something a bit different, I thought I'd try and weave something around all of them! Why not! </em><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chris sat at his desk counting away each second of the day. A long day. A Monday. Time had not only begun to drag, for him it was going backwards. He swore that for the ninth time today the clock on his PC ticked passed three o’clock. If he consumed another cup of tea not only, he was sure, would it be a world record but he was certain that his bladder may also explode killing not only himself but everyone within a three mile radius. At this point in the day, he didn’t care.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">He prodded another chocolate button around his notepad before spearing it with a toothpick. One more sugary sacrifice - he consumed it with glee. Making a game out of such mundane activities normally passed a good few minutes of the day. Well, an hour on a good day. But, it being a Monday, the magnitude of boredom was hard to tackle in such a way. Chris knew that he could sit a mannequin at his desk, a statue in honour of the tedium, somewhere that any data processor could worship at and not one of his colleagues would bat an eyelid. People could come from all over the world, a pilgrimage of sorts. Some to pray, others to share memories of when they too were trapped in an office, chained to a computer, brains switched off and emotion left at the reception door. Others to simply pity the poor fools who’d yet to find the enlightenment of promotion, the higher consciousness of middle-management. Maybe Chris could sell tickets. Guided tours? Sell small souvenirs and charge £5 for a photo of you sat at the desk. Black and white of course. Either way he was sure that not a single person in his office would notice in the slightest. “Not even if I were dead” he mused. “Not even then” his sandwich retorted.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now, Chris’ mind and fervent imagination frequently wandered to the realms of ‘what ifs’ and on the more optimistic days ‘if onlys’. He often discussed in the recesses of his mind what colour he would be if he were a dragon, for example. But he had, until now, refrained from starting philosophical conversations with his lunch. He looked at Sal and Shelly, sat opposite. Neither had looked up from their keyboards and the clatter of nails on keys continued uninterrupted. After a moment more, he looked down and whispered, incredibly self aware that he may be crossing the line into utter insanity, “I’m sorry. What did you say?” </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I was just agreeing with you. Nobody would notice. Not even if you keeled over right here.” Chris was taken aback, almost hurt by this. To think it oneself was bad enough but to hear it from an inanimate snack, wow, that was something. “Well. They might. They might miss me?” he replied more with hope than assurance. “No, they don’t even know your name. If you were going to make a lasting impression or a name for yourself you’d have done it by now mate. I don’t know why you even bother. Your problem is you’re chicken.” There was no small irony in it’s statement. But the sandwich, meat content aside, was right. Chris’ heart sank as he pondered this for a moment. He slumped back into his ergonomically adjusted chair. He’d heard the same from his friends, his ex-girlfriend, even his mother. But this time, for some obscure reason, it hit home.</span>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-15847214499053131032012-02-13T04:56:00.000-08:002012-05-22T04:55:11.265-07:00Harold and the Duck<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><em><strong>So I've not written a lot for a while. I know. Well, not a lot that I've posted on here at least! The good news is that I've got the bug again. The bad news, at least in some way, is that I've started a Creative Writing Course with the Open University. Now that is in fact good news but it does mean that I am going to be writing mostly for the course for the next couple of months. Little pieces, projects and the like. However with the fact that any feedback is worth getting I decided that I'd post pieces here too. </strong></em></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;"><em><strong>The premise of the bit below is that we set challenges for one another based on a word or item. The item thrust my way (on a forum, not literally) was a stuffed duck that squeaked. The result, is Harold and the Duck.</strong></em></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Harold carried his toy duck through to Fiona. As he dropped it by the side of the bed a meek squeak crept out as if in fear of breaking the silence. The silence that had lasted for too long as far as Harold was concerned. Still Fiona didn’t stir, her tired eyes stayed fixed on the television but she was taking nothing in. A blur of colours and white noise to provide at least the sensory numbing she needed to hold back the tidal wave of despair. Harold was having none of this, he was tired of being ignored and more importantly, he was worried about Fiona.</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">He rested his head on the edge of the bed. No reaction. Finally he gave in and nudged Fiona’s arm. Startled she flinched, scaring Harold who immediately withdrew. “I’m sorry Harry, I’m so sorry mummy didn’t mean to scare you”. Tentatively he returned to the bedside as Fiona cooed and stroked the hair from his face. As his heartbeat calmed he paused, reached down and held the duck towards her, squeaking it, once, then twice. All of a sudden, as if something inside her had been switched on, Fiona took the duck and a faint suggestion of a sorrowful smile appeared at the corners of her mouth. She lifted Harold onto the bed and held him. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">“I guess you think you haven’t got anyone to play with anymore don’t you young man? I just really miss him. But I know it’s been hard for you too. It's been tough on all of us. Still, you don’t have to worry anymore. We just have to be strong for each other now, starting today. What do you say?”</span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">Harold said nothing but leant lovingly on her listening to her heart beating. It’d been three weeks since the accident and this was the first time that she’s spoken to him. It’d taken Harold ten days himself to realise that Steve wasn’t coming back. That explained the tears. The cards. The strangers who visited almost every day, talking to Fiona behind closed doors and away from the children. Harold was the man of the house now whether he liked it or not so it was his job to get Fiona back to the world of the living. </span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="color: #333333; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 9.5pt;">“So what do you want to do?” said Fiona, energized by his affection. I know. It’s been long overdue. I think it’s about time we went for a long walk in the snow – you love the snow don’t you?” Harold wasn’t waiting one moment. He leapt to his feet, tail wagging, and fetched his leash from downstairs. Finally she was back and he wasn’t going to let her slip away again.</span>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-85219570534768241092011-10-26T08:19:00.000-07:002011-10-26T08:58:53.683-07:00Twitter is the New Paedophiles<script type="text/javascript">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: large;">Officials have announced that using Twitter is as bad as touching kids.</span> </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">This may seem a disproportionate statement and I should apologise if anyone reading was inappropriately handled as a minor but, as a nation, we seem intent on having some kind of epidemic in our lives and Twitter is the new threat to humanity. In the late 90s we were all living next to a paedo. That curtain twitch wasn’t a caring neighbour ensuring that any local ne’er do wells aren’t robbing you blind, crapping on your lawn and spraying “Chaz 4 eva” across your driveway. No. They wanted to do your children. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obey!</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The clamour faded as we realised that they probably didn’t want to touch anyone, they wanted to <strong>kill everyone</strong>! Yes 90 year olds Mr and Mrs Jones with their seventeen cats and rusting Fiesta were actually terrorists, intent on destroying you, your household, the whole street and everything you stand for or had ever considered standing for had it not looked like a bit too much effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now the maniacs Saddam, Osama and Mad Dog are all underground, Bush is ousted and there’s only Blair to be tracked and trialled, we need a <strong>new threat</strong>. Ever hungry to fill our insatiable need for villainy the press are more than happy to provide one. Only this time in the form of social media. Yes, the Premier League footballer, your local MP, the fit one from that forgettable girl band, some bloke at the hockey club and even the scruffy student next to you are all at it. Chances are the person sat opposite you now, seemingly just sending a carefree text to their mum are secretly doing it now! They are Tweeting! Terrifyingly, you might not like what they say. In fact, astonishingly in this day and age, you may even disagree with it! This must be stopped.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /><br />In the space of just 140 characters it would appear that anyone has the power to incite hatred, fear, disgust, disdain or a world-wide “trend”. Something akin to flares in the 60s, or the habit of singers scratching and screeching out lyrics of songs at the moment in order to infer passion and emotion in place of ability and musical talent. It matters not how obviously insane or irritatingly stupid you are. In fact the more so the better by all accounts! God forbid Joey Barton or Jordan, sorry, Katie Price hash tag some sort of revolutionary utterance or else we may be waking up to an entirely different world tomorrow! <br /><br /><br />My hockey club, my workplace, there is no escaping the fact that somewhere people are tweeting idiotic things they haven’t the mental capacity to think through and somewhere else a mass of people with not a lot else on are not only reading it but are literally<strong> incensed that they dare think</strong> such a thing let alone tell their tragic line of followers about it.<br /><br />What happened to the <strong>common sense</strong> in the world? What happened to the naturally in-built filter that stopped us listening (equally dangerously one could argue) to the tried and tested academics, community leaders and national figureheads? Stephen Hawking? Nelson Mandella? Johnny Ball and Fred Dibnah! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How were we suddenly tuned in to the “thoughts” of some tart that screwed some guy on the last reality tv spin off? Most importantly of all – <strong>why do we care</strong>?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /><br />I am all for a free media for the one main reason that I can choose what I take in, what I ignore and most of all, the credence I award it. I will admit to you now that I do, on occasion, read The Sun. I say read. It has pretty pictures and it amuses me. I for not one second care about any of the contents; it has never stirred me to write a strongly worded letter of complaint, moved me to tears or for that matter initiated the batting of a single eyelid. It’s toss. Glossy, imaginative at best, toss. I find it embarrassing that as a nation, a race even, we can’t just take what Twitter is on face value. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">Twitter is a way to while away precious seconds at work, to vent grievances, to report your daily life to the electronic vacuum in the vain attempt to believe that someone actually cares. The fact that people do should reflect more on their own empty lives than the Tweeter themselves shouldn’t it?</span></span></div>
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</div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-10259978762138243682011-06-08T04:09:00.000-07:002011-10-26T07:59:54.367-07:00Big Announcement Time!<script type="text/javascript">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span style="font-size: large;">Dear Blog readers I have some big news.</span> I’m not one for large Twitter announcements about my latest retirement from the <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">England</place></country-region> squad (I’ll play when asked Fabio), newest movie role (still available Mr Jackson) or window breaking episode (tut tut Matt Prior). But I have decided that this may be the best forum to announce this news. Ladies. Gentlemen. <span style="color: red;"><strong><span style="color: black;">I’m in love!</span></strong> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">I haven’t managed to tell the object of my affection this directly but, as any male reader will know, it’s blooming difficult! You don’t want to sound too needy, desperate, and we’ve only been together a couple of months. But the fact is when it is right it’s right and despite being totally different to “my type” I do get the buzz every time we’re together. The tingles of expectation, surge of confidence, the feeling of one-ness and unity that makes the whole world disappear each moment I hold her. It’s something I’ve not felt for a couple of years and I’d almost forgotten the elation. Just thinking about things now brings a broad smile to my face and wistful remembrance of the last time we spent time together. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">It’s almost tragic to admit I know it won’t last. I mean I hope it will but the problem is I’ve learned several times in the past that these things just don’t. One, maybe two years at best before things seem cracked and no matter how much you tape over them, you know the cracks are there and things are just never the same. Sure, there are moments, but they become few and far between and the rest of the time you know that the connections aren’t as sweet. Then, one day, you just bite the bullet and there’s a replacement just around the corner. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana;">Sorry for the melodrama - for now I’m enjoying the good times as I know it’s a rarity to be cherished, adored and savoured whilst I can, spending as much time together as possible. I don’t even care if Bill says you have no middle! I’m sure everyone else thinks theirs is equally as special but they just won’t have what I know we have, my beautiful CA Plus 5000 cricket bat. </span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-17063036401464250452011-05-26T04:29:00.000-07:002011-10-26T07:58:35.611-07:00Bread and Blogging<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I realise that I have neglected writing for a while and I have decided to kick myself in to gear. I have been writing but I admit it’s mostly been cricket match reports and that, for the majority, carries almost no interest at all I know! </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">One of the other writing projects that I undertook was to submit something for a “zine”. In fact this is a foodie zine Cakes and Canapes compiled by my good friend Miriam Nice who was a large part of the inspiration for this blog initially. Her blog inspired publication features articles and illustrations centred around a particular food stuff each issue and I am proud to say I managed to have a short, cautionary (fictional) tale included in the 1<sup>st</sup> edition. Please do have a look at </span><a href="http://www.cakesandcanapes.co.uk/"><span style="color: purple; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">www.cakesandcanapes.co.uk</span></a><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> to find out more. There’s a Facebook group, you can follow Mim on twitter, purchase the zine and she has a blog that I follow which is an entertaining cocktail of life and food combined. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I will be writing soon to update anyone who cares to have a read on: Boys Week (holiday), The Diet (low/no carbs…ouch), Temping (yes I have work for now), sporting conduct (cricket season is in full swing) and the rest that life has to offer in the meantime! For now I hope that you enjoy my submission for C&C.</span> </span></span><br />
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<u><strong>Bread - A Cautionary Tale</strong></u></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">The other day my mate told me that the best thing to do, with regard to my ensuing wifely predicament, would be to use my loaf. Annoyed, I swung my lunch box at him, catching him flush across the forehead. He angrily enquired “What’d you do that for?” to which sadly, I didn’t really have an answer that would most likely have made him happy. Nope, no retrospectively suitable remarks what would’ve satiated his growing ire not to mention lump swelling on his aforementioned bonce. </span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">As he lent forward, hands thrust throatwards with all the intention in the world to throttle the last breath from my very own soul transporter, it dawned on me that, now, his erstwhile words of wisdom made a crystal clear sense in my mind. Quick as a flash I opened my box and offered him a sandwich with a quippy remark of “you told me to use my loaf”. I paused, expecting the worst if I’m honest with you. Imagine my relief when he reached forwards and examined my crusty sacrifice. He was becalmed enough, whilst demolishing my egg and cress, to reduce his threat level to a mild distain and whilst he munched away, murmurs of satisfaction oozing between bites, my mind wandered to the international peace keeping power of the sandwich. Well, to put it more precisely, a loaf of bread. </span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">We’re a simple race with simple needs. Given each worsening famine or fledgling war is proceeded by a sack loads of flour or loaf after crusty loaf of being dished out from the back of a flatbed to the suffering, embittered and impoverished it would appear to be a multinational success story. Bread. The simplest of things. The noblest of things. Saviour of the hungry and bringer of calm and reassurance. It turns out my disfigured companion had had the most valid of points and his initial, irreverent recommendation was not without its merits. </span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><em><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;">In fact it turns out that whilst a useful, if accidentally insightful point, it wasn’t a theory that could be applied to every conceivable situation. Specifically mine. When I approached my good lady wife, tea in one hand and glistening butter covered thick white sliced toasted glory in the other, suggesting that we could talk out our recent difference of opinion and rebuild a loving relationship with the most basic of food stuffs as the cornerstone foundation, she, so it happened, disagreed. Apparently bread, no matter the quality or covering whether it be Golden Churn or love itself, will not rebuild all bridges. Especially those burned by being found in the marital bed chamber with one’s very own secretary. I also found out that hot butter and scolding tea make evil bed fellows when combined in what can only politely be described as a vicious assault! </span></span></em></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><em><span style="color: black;">I do salute you, bread, for all the good in the world that you may well do. Poverty and warzones may, for want of a better phrase, your bread and butter. However I regret to announce that it would appear not even bread can repair the damage caused by crumpet.</span></em> </span></span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-69379951654686470142011-04-26T04:43:00.001-07:002011-04-26T10:25:37.256-07:0020x20 Is Hindsight<script type="text/javascript">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">There area many stark differences between men and women with regard to relationships. I don’t think that this is a statement worthy of any sudden gasps or astonishment. However one thing dawned on me fairly recently and I wondered whether it is just the group of rose-tinted bespectacled blokey mates and embittered, twisted womenfolk that I am acquainted with or a reflection on the general populous. It would appear that how the two sexes review our old flames and past partners differs as greatly as how we view our current beaus and romantic leads. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Most guys I know, when referring to “the ex” tend to look back on them with a fondness that is equal in magnitude to their general indifference shown at the time. In essence they remember only the good times. The happy summer walks and winter nights by the fire, how they got on with all of their mates and how much their mum loved the long-gone lady. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“She didn’t mind watching the football”</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“She always came to watch me play cricket”</i>. As friends do it’s of course then our own job to remind them that the aforementioned ex was all of these things but above all a bit of a witch that we all humoured and never really liked or, in less extreme cases, she was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“a bit dull”</i>. No matter how unhappy the relationship was at the time, only the positives and hallmark moments are fresh in the mind of a man. Notably a single man I should add.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Conversely all of womankind whom I have ever known remember their own exes as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“that f***ing a***hole that ruined my life for two years”</i>. Yes he may’ve been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“the one”</i> at the time and his name was every other word that drooled from her mouth but once the six-month break-up sex has passed he is vilified and demonised regardless of the reasons for the end of the relationship (and of who dumped who). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I can’t for the life of me understand why this is. On both parts! I can honestly say that inexplicably I do the same and somehow, in my head, telling my brother “I know she was a bit of a psycho, but they were good times” doesn’t seem in the least bit strange or irrational. A “bit of a psycho”?!? Surely if this were an introduction to a woman you’d steer well clear. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Oh you must meet my friend Claire, she’s a bit of a psycho but she’s perfect for you”. </i>Err, thanks but no thanks! It’s like saying someone’s killed, but only once, so that’s fine right? In the same way I struggle when told by a girly mate that they dated a guy for five years, even though he was a this/that/the other for all that time. Why? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Because I loved him”. </i>Right. That makes sense then. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">Hindsight is a beautiful thing but it seems the further men get from a relationship the more blurred the vision gets where as for women time lends a clarity, or rather darkly shaded perspective gladly absent from the moment. I think that maybe it helps them move on as opposed to us poor saps pondering the “what ifs” and “if I knew thens” that haunt many a manly soul. </span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-14911899669811956902011-03-29T11:25:00.000-07:002011-03-29T11:26:05.165-07:00When I Rule the World!<script type="text/javascript">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>The one problem with not currently being office-based is a lack of “water cooler moments”. You know, the random interactions with people in the office where you chat about pretty much anything that delays the inevitable return to your whirring PC and the daily grind. In fact the problem perhaps isn’t that I don’t have the moments but more that I still have the thoughts that need exploring when such chance encounters occur! </strong></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fortunately, the latest one at least got discussed to some length in the pub last night and so I thought I’d share it with you now. It boils down to this – </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>When you rule the world, what five rules and laws would you instigate?</strong> That the whole of civilisation would have to adhere to and abide upon pain of, well, some kind of deity angered fiery brimstone fate worse than death. Or at least a good spanking. Now obviously, before embarking on such parameter setting you’d have already taken care of the whole world peace, suffering, so on and so forth – I’d expect no less from an all powerful being such as yourself. No. I’m talking about the things that’d irked you, that you have waited long and worked hard until, having climbed the godly career ladder, you could fix, stop, re-shape or simply CRUSH!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Maybe you’ll go from reading this and have your own discussion about it. Maybe you wonder how I ever got any work done in the past. Both are fairly understandable! But here, for your consideration, are my five.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><strong><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>There will be a strict lane rule in all shopping centres.</strong> I’m not talking Tesco, I’m talking your Mall/Shopping Centre type multi-outlet places. It’s a simple rule, but must be obeyed as I’m tired of walking behind dawdlers and stutterers, wanderers and meanderers. ESPECIALLY during lunch times and in the 30 mins before closing. This is the time when people who have jobs shop. It’s hit and run shopping, get in, buy, out, and job’s a good one. The lanes are simple – window shoppers in lane 1, anyone about the age of 70, or likely to moan to the NHS about being too fat, or with seven kids in lane 2, then militant shoppers in lane 3. Simple! </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><strong><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Jeremy Kyle will be killed.</strong> But he won’t be alone. Anyone who’s ever been on the show, shot. Anyone who’s ever been in the audience, sorry, shot. Now anyone who’s watched it on purpose, not through stumbling across it, or in fact has watched from start to end......shot, but only in the leg. There. That’ll do I think. I’m not against people seeking help, do it, it’s good. I just think really I hate chavs and when some poor child looks back when his classmates find his parents proving his dad’s not his dad because his mum diddled her partners mum’s cat at some point, surely we’ll look back and say “yes, that wasn’t too clever was it”!</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><strong><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Drugs and prostitution will be legalised</strong> – and taxed. Now I have no desire to indulge in either to be honest but there is a lot of money spent on each from the public purse and nothing coming back in. So, lets sort that out and remove the criminal element. I know, it’s a serious one, I just would! </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><strong><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Reality TV will be banned.</strong> It’s created too many monsters already. It’s not interesting to anyone aside from people who ought be encouraged to either end it all or just go read a book. Whatever the argument I’ve heard it. It’s controversial but these things breed morons for a host of additional shows and it’s just dragging the world down. If you want to do something informative and insightful at least call it a documentary. </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><strong><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> </span></strong></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Finally, Adam Sandler will be banned from any further involvement in the film industry.</strong> Happy Gilmore, great, that one with the kid and Scooba Steve, good. The Wedding Singer, sweet. But for godsake man stop , please stop! He’s also responsible for Rob Schneider’s career and that is unforgivable. Failure to comply WILL result in dropping him on a Libyan stronghold or from several thousand feet onto Jeremy Kyle. I’m sorry, but you have run out of forgiveness in the hope you’ll recreate former glories. I have a French GCSE but 14 years on I’m acutely aware that I cannot now order a three course meal, buy a house or request unconditional surrender in French. You have to know when to stop. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are many others. I’d ban fruit in cakes (unless made into jam or put on top), pickled eggs, odd socks, tiny yappy dogs and a whole host of things but for five, that’s a start! As you can see I’m a reasonable leader. What about you? </span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-11801684848169675452011-03-21T07:33:00.000-07:002011-03-21T07:49:24.848-07:00Five Simple Rules<script type="text/javascript">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: large;">Since I have newly acquired time on my hands I thought I ought write more. This is in part to really get practising and in part as the fish has little to say and I have a limit on the amount of daytime TV I can cope with.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The job hunt is on. I’ve set myself some standards to work to that I thought I’d share! </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">1.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-size: large;">WORK</span>. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I will apply for at least 5 jobs per day. I’ve done<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>seven today which is a good benchmark and whilst I’m sure I’ll run out of things to apply for eventually I’ll have “achieved” and that’s good. Not least because when people ask what I’ve done with my day then I can tell them that. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-size: large;">PLAY</span>. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Any COD’ing, or any XBOXing in general, will be restricted. Severely! Games follow completion of the above! </span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">3.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-size: large;">ZI LIST</span>. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Also I have a growing list of tasks to be getting on with, kind of like a poor man’s housewife! At least one must be crossed off each day. Oh and I must get a piny......and pink fluffy slippers. Not for housewifery, just because they look nice.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">4.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-size: large;">BLOG</span>. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I must, MUST blog twice a week. In fact I must do some writing twice a week more to the point. I’ve been re-reading some screenwriting guides and books so once the list (3) is nearing completion I will have a bash.</span></div><div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt 36pt; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -18pt;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">5.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"> <span style="font-size: large;">READ</span>. </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;">More to the point, I need to read more. I’ve neglected Steven Fry and for that matter a host of literary acquisitions these last ten days. This is naughty bad and wrong but I won’t beat myself up over it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There. That’s a good five rules. There are other things to contemplate too. I’ve had suggestions of doing a different blog which I’m considering seriously. I am a man of many ideas you know! I also need to crack on with the bike. It’s about time and back injury banished I’m out of excuses. That and I fully intend to cook more having made cookies for the first time last week – so have to adjust the balance somewhat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So, there it is! I know, it’s a bland blog this time around but it’s a statement of intent! If I tweeted I’d let you all know how things are going but my propensity for procrastination is severe enough without the excuse of another distraction to pervert my obeyance (not a word I know) of the above. Maybe once the screenplay is done! </span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-41999678147146039272011-03-15T04:02:00.000-07:002011-03-21T07:44:32.834-07:00Dear God<script type="text/javascript">
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<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Dear God,</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In light of the recent events - earthquakes, floods, tsunami, potential nuclear meltdown, financial crises, a wave of wars, increasing deviant criminality and the unfathomable success of “The Wanted” I</span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"> feel now would be a good opportunity to apologise for the last, well, numerous years of making light of both you and your believers. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">In fact I apologise for questioning your very existence too. I question not whether my friend has a Gran called Margaret just because I haven't born witness to any of her work. He assures me she knits a mean sweater and I believe him. Just because I have never seen her I do not assume that she is a figment of his and the family’s imagination. As such it was amiss to treat you differently. </span><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Despite the multitude of jokes made and/or forwarded by me I was in fact very sorry to hear about the (relative to the billions of years of Earth's creation, by you, of course) recent crucifixion of your son Jesus. It must be a very difficult thing to watch as a parent and though the temptation must have been there to intervene I understand that sometimes we have to let our children make their own mistakes. If you are ever feeling particularly low my door is always open and there will be a brew on. Surely even a deity such as yourself can be perked by a party ring and jammy dodger. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">When I joked that my old housemate Ian and I were to create our own 'religion' of Chris-Ianity I trust that you took this in the tongue in cheek manner it was intended. Imitation IS the best form of flattery after all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Thankfully I understand that you are an all forgiving being. It is with this in mind that I hope you will find it in yourself to forgive my trespasses. In return I with equally forgive those who’ve, well, you know. This includes the black eye Lee Torrington gave me in school, the person who ran into my car all those years back and, ok. I’m holding my forgiveness for the chap(s) who broke into my car. I’m opting for some Old Testament wrath when it comes to that, I hope that’s ok? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I digress. Thank you in advance for your all encompassing forgiveness. I will no doubt be in touch in the future as I have a feeling that I have some extra sin to get out of the system still but, once that’s all out of the way hopefully we can meet up for a Starbucks and muffin to discuss the finer points of that book of yours.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Many thanks,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Chris</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: "Verdana", "sans-serif"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">PS: Is this what it’s like to be Catholic?</span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-86904959138598800512011-03-01T04:30:00.000-08:002011-03-03T00:20:22.800-08:00Hypochondria Woes<script type="text/javascript">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I’m dying. It’s official. I’ve checked and if Google can tell me where the nearest Morrisons is and what time True Grit starts on Thursday evening then it can’t be wrong now it’s telling me that I am not long for this world! I’ll laugh at those people who mocked me on Facebook when I said I was ill. I’ll be truly vindicated when I peg it at…..let me just Ask Jeeves…….3.15pm next Wednesday! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I have all the symptoms. Fever, well, I had that last week. Check. Headaches, yup. Chills, brrrrryup. Back pain – I have some of that too. Loss of appetite, well, yes, some. Which in my case must be the sign of an impending doom. Nausea, yup. That’s it. Yellow Fever – I’m certain. I now await the violent end with assured acceptance of my fate and a chance to, retrospectively, rub the noses of the head shakers and doubting Thomas’s in my phlegmy departure from this world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">In actual fact according to Google I’ll die at the age of 75 in 2056 and I have the health of a 32 year old man! What! I’ve lost two years somewhere, Jesus Christ no! I had so many plans, so much to do. Now so little time to do it. But I don’t know who to believe. It also told me I’m most like the Swedish Chef in the Muppets. Not Kermit, Gonzo, nope, I’m the hurdy gurdy chef! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I ought to consider a career change too? Why didn’t the careers advisor tell me this fifteen years ago? I wasted so much time. Where did it all go wrong?!?!</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">I think in fact I may have contracted hypochondria. You can catch that right? I’m not sure if I’ve kissed any hypochondriacs of late. Perhaps it was in the air!! I’ve been breathing hypochondriacal air? The thought alone brings back the nausea and I fear I must have a moment. I need a cure, there must be a cure! Ah, I have it. I need a slap! That must be it. Ok I’ve spent the last week coughing up parts of organs I was planning on keeping and innards that were never meant to be outtards, I had a weekend destroyed by a fever but come one now Chris. It’s time, as I’m reminded most days, to “man up”. </span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;">The problem I think is that perhaps I’ve not contracted hypochondria so much as it’s been infused into my very soul. A constant workplace chorus of “oh that doesn’t sound very good”, “you don’t look too well” and “should you really be at work” has me doubting myself! I’ve never really been a feeling-sorry-for-myself type before (well not this bad) so why should I be now? That’s it - I hereby give permission to anyone, everyone, to verbally abuse me, slap me (though not the face) and do whatever you feel necessary next time you see me feeling pitifully sorry for myself and wallowing. Tell me to eat more fruit. Suggest perhaps if I made more use of my bike and less of the Xbox that I’d be fitter or that perhaps playing hockey isn’t the best cure. But please don’t offer sympathy, I’ve wallowed in it for too long now! </span></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sHdyE7bf_yCBce2wbnQESMF9p3C9us_Avuq1QR6I3bLYfIm9Ltggvyxz6qWWJ-mVEB9dN21_YnE9i1cVXJ9cdke8eDbaqYmjrdpzzb0fvvhvVkzzS6vwI6s9tJLyCqnaP5QPFtZJ21Q/s1600/Hypochondriac.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" l6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-sHdyE7bf_yCBce2wbnQESMF9p3C9us_Avuq1QR6I3bLYfIm9Ltggvyxz6qWWJ-mVEB9dN21_YnE9i1cVXJ9cdke8eDbaqYmjrdpzzb0fvvhvVkzzS6vwI6s9tJLyCqnaP5QPFtZJ21Q/s1600/Hypochondriac.bmp" /></a></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-79373328478492335482011-02-14T08:54:00.000-08:002011-03-03T00:21:26.832-08:00C-Bombs, Rants and Car Interferers<script type="text/javascript">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">I was going to write a blog about the C-word. You know, Cee yoU Next Tuesday? The C-Bomb? The MacBeth of cursing? About how it can, for some reason, cause the utmost offence to some and how those people who automatically proclaim how much they “hate that word” cause an equal, proportionate amount of annoyance to those to whom they proclaim it. I, for one, am a fan. Whilst I agree with my mum, and most mothers no doubt, that you don’t have to swear to be funny I must add this caveat – it does help! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">A well timed c-bomb, my new preferred suggestion of the unmentionable, can add such weight to one of my favourite things. A good old rant. It was this situation that I found myself in this morning but before I tell you about that I will paraphrase the would-be blog. The c-word has been demonised thanks to two opposing groups of utter idiots. One group, the Danny Dyer would be gangsters of this world (they pronounce it “caaaant”) who were no doubt bullied at school and have severe inadequacy issues and therefore must act the ‘ard man to anyone half their body weight or size but would really relieve their bladder at the first sign of trouble and end up working in Accounts. The second group a generation of banner waving protest-at-mis-matched-sock-for-the-sake-of-having-something-to-do-with-their-lives types who need to find a reason for living because they think no-one will ever love them for being themselves and therefore they need to have a cause. Like hoodies, Ug-boots, iPhones and Audis, perfectly usable in their one rights and well designed for their given purpose but soiled by misuse by mindless thugs, wannabe “it” girls, pretentious faux yuppies and men with small genitalia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I personally believe that everything in moderation is the best approach. This particular word should be used sparingly as part of a calorie controlled verbal diet of delightfully verbose passages punctuated by the occasional monosyllabic four letter word infused tirade. It’s the wordy equivalent of feel good food. A Ginsters for the irate, a Big Mac for the put upon and at times it deliciously hits the spot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt;">The reason that I curtail by musings over the c-word is because of this. Last night some low-life broke into my cursed car. Nothing was taken, they had a good look around, tossed things this way and that. Papers and content as opposed to.......anyway. Despite the fact that I never intended to use my blog as a ranting post I need to vent. So. </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">To whatever scumbag that broke into my cursed car last night I have 3 things to say:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"><br />
1 - What's wrong with Ben Folds Five and Adele? I ought to fill up on N-Dubz tat and Cheryl Cole so you’ve something for the Mrs next time you musically illiterate vermin. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"><br />
2 – Speaking of which, next time look behind the passenger seat where my bag with anything valuable was aside from the £300+ of cricket kit in the boot. <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Moron</place></city>. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;"><br />
3 - I hope you die of internal rupturing from a showery encounter<span class="textexposedhide2"> with a large anything-but-gentleman in the next remand institution that you happen to find yourself in. You are a waste of skin, no matter how much you claim to love your mother, and no doubt in fact fall in to one of the two categories listed above. In fact no only do I wish a pox upon you but I hope your entire family wake up tomorrow and find that the Sky dish doesn’t work, Jeremy Kyle has been cancelled, all of their sports clothing based wardrobes have vanished and been turned into things from Marks and Spencers smart-casual knitware range AND that they can pronounce the letter “T” making them outcasts and an embarrassment to you. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span class="textexposedhide2"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Verdana; font-size: 10pt; mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: Tahoma;">I do feel a little better now. Just a little mind. Try it yourself sometime and let me know how you get on. Oh and if any none regular reader want to buy a, ahem, pristine Peugeot 206, very little wrong with it.......</span></span></div>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1144891561191277345.post-19435321784755582222011-02-11T02:57:00.000-08:002011-03-03T00:21:42.075-08:00Why the Chinese Eat Dog.<script type="text/javascript">
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now obviously it’s a sweeping generalisation that the Chinese, as a nation, eat dogs. In fact of the Chinese people that I’ve met and known several may have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> dogs (as pets!) but I know of none vanishing in a black-beany haze. However, whilst I am truly a dog lover, and not in a gastronomic sense, I am coming around to perhaps some motive at least as to why one may indulge in a pup pasty or a Lassie stew.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Just a quick note for any vegetarians reading - I understand that you may have experienced the following nor in principal agree. For your sake if you substitute the following; turkey for a brussel sprout, pork for cauliflower, beef for broccoli, chicken for a leek, duck for a nice fresh carrot, fish for mangetu and lamb for a sweet honey roast parsnip then you may just get the gist.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, the theory that I have goes thus. The cuter the animal, the better the taste. At the very bottom of the scale, I can assure you, I once tried alligator. Beastly fiend, the epitomy of leathery evil and a taste of fish with a porky texture. Quite unsettling compared to actual pork. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> P</span>igs, occasionally cute but generally boarish and certainly seldom a childs preferred object of affection at a farm visit is turned to pork chops, a filling but average meat rarely cooked to jaw dropping standards. The occasional piggy cuties are simply explained. Bacon. Mmmmm. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So onward the cute vs flavour scale continues. <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Turkey</place></country-region>, an ugly bird and thankfully retained for one feast a year, steeped in gravy, cranberry and all manner of accompaniments to make it bearable. Contrastingly chicken, cute, fluffy little things that grow into amusingly jerky adults, are really rather tasty! The Colonel has made a fortune from it. Would his turkey have been finger lickin’ good? I doubt it. As we all know Nemo, the cute little fella and his fishy, adventurous, underdog nature go fantastically with chips on a Friday night or perhaps cream cheese on a breakfast bagel. Mmmm. Moving onward and upward is steak. Her big brown eyes and fluttering eyelashes, that look of love and a slap from a big dark tongue as you pass the pen. Deeeeeeelicious. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Finally the top of the English tree at least, just pipping Bambi, it's lamb. Fluffy, bouncy, mint-saucey heaven. Whether drop off the bone, flavour sensation Morrocan undertoned beauty or pink, simple, tasty joy. Top of the cute AND taste tree you see! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Surely, continuing on this scale we all know what’s next. Are nations are just ahead of their<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>time? A puppy fondue perhaps? Kitten casserole? I have no burning desire to find out personally for two reasons. Firstly I am, as stated above, a dog lover. Loyal, fun, the most interactive of pets and the one that loves back. Secondly, if dog is a wondrous ambrosia, send from the gods to nourish us then what is next? After having this discussion with someone last night I couldn’t help but drool a little and my tummy let out a slight whimper as the latest Huggies advert flitted across the TV screen. I'd best stop at lamb! </span></div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZeihzFvhJHjiDl3Gqw9JynCNF6yubrZl35BYdRCm6IBUDtNh7wfFUzD1BnGbN_ifh7yh3QdR4ru3FA602_x7JaqCsWH0ZUsF2Zy6-B5IgFadJuCRdu5KSKcXJOTMjfzzALdm8DVkC5j4/s1600/Flavour+vs+Cuteness.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" h5="true" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZeihzFvhJHjiDl3Gqw9JynCNF6yubrZl35BYdRCm6IBUDtNh7wfFUzD1BnGbN_ifh7yh3QdR4ru3FA602_x7JaqCsWH0ZUsF2Zy6-B5IgFadJuCRdu5KSKcXJOTMjfzzALdm8DVkC5j4/s400/Flavour+vs+Cuteness.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Statistically proven?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Chrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14562789341863521410noreply@blogger.com1