Like a liquorice Allsort, only Nellie's, and about blogging, so not anything like a liquorice Allsort at all. Oh well, never mind, I'm not changing it now.
Due to suffering from a severe condition called inherent laziness, I have fallen behind on all the blogs I was supposed to do. So this evening I decided to shove it all on one post.
Now to a meme I should have responded to before this.
I didn't pick my ten favourite Books, I picked the ten Books that have impacted on me the most.
Five Go to Demon Rocks - Enid Blyton. This was my first taste of losing myself utterly in a world beyond my bedroom.
Heidi - Johanna Spyri. I just loved this story as a kid.
Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett. Creating magic, where no magic exists.
Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry - Mildred D. Taylor. Gave me a great understanding of the power of fear, and it's use for oppression.
Pawn of Prophecy - David Eddings. As a teenager I lived in his world for about two years. Only the Belgariad series though, the rest of them were formulaic.
Putting Alice Back Together Again - Carol Marinelli. Alice is a whole bag of crazy that a lot of women can identify with.
An Inspector Calls - J.B. Priestly. Where do I start with this one? It's just amazing!
Boy in the Striped Pyjamas - John Boyne. Only to be read once, but will live with you forever.
Child of the Jago - Arthur Morrison. Based on The Old Nichol rookery, the Jago is a consummately bleak sinkhole world. Inspired me to write No honour among thieves.
The Three Golliwogs - Enid Blyton. Now this was a head f*ck. The first book I remember getting in my Christmas stocking (I was six) I loved this book and read it till it fell apart. When my mum mentioned buying another one to an associate, her friend said "I think I have one somewhere, I'll fish it out for her."
On opening the book I discovered that Wiggie, Waggie and Wollie from my book had been replaced with the names of Golly, Woggie and N****r...Whaaa!!! Blimey! Even at that young age I was aware that the 'N' Word was a big no, no. As I read this 1965 edition the veil of innocence was ripped from my eyes in an appalled awakening I've never really encountered since.
Many, many moons ago, before I was even a twinkle in my reprobate fathers lustful eye, my great aunt Monica saw Dusty Springfield, sitting in a cafe not far from the pier in Southend on Sea. 'Twas early in the morning, Aunt Mon was on her way to open up her hair salon, and the decade was the swinging sixties. Aunty Monica has passed, so I can't ask her for more details, but my mum remembers her account: Dusty was in last night’s make up, including panda eyes and a grubby tide mark around her neck.
Southend has always been referred to as London's playground, with a wide assortment of seedy activities available for the undiscerning. When I say Southend on Sea, technically I mean 'Southend, the mouth to the estuary where it meets the Sea'. That's a bit long to put on a sign though, and far less cosy than Southend on Sea, so we'll stick with that.
I’ve sat in that café, chain smoking cigarettes, drinking heavily sugared, milky coffee, wondering why Dusty had been there that morning. Did she have desperate desire to stand at the end of the pier, clad in a white beaded dress and fur coat, feel the choppy sea spray on her glamorous face, while a blustery wind teased that blonde, heavily lacquered bouffant? Highly Unlikely, but doesn't that sound so evocatively noir?
A myriad of reasons have sprang to life in my avid imaginings, but just like Occam's razor, the simplest answer is probably the right one. She no doubt performed at one of the many venues, which have been there as long as my mum can remember.
Why is any of this important? It’s not…my brain farted.
Other brain farts-
Wanted - one working mother.
Unfortunately only two days into the summer holidays my children have broken their current one. We are looking for a model with basic culinary expertise, anything more would be extraneous. This mother needs only to be able to construct simple sandwiches, and cut the tops of ice pops. An occasional ice cream milkshake may be desired, but is not an essential requirement. Earphones and iPod will be provided for when you are unable to stop them fighting.
Picasso melted my cat- I think I might have stolen that, but it still made me laugh.
This is probably too late to be truly topical but, as always, I believe my opinion has merit. In my need for narcissistic self gratification I was Googling myself, I do it often, and providing I wash me hands afterwards see no real harm in it.
So we were taking the beetroot to London. My palms were bruised, I'd destroyed two pairs of surgical gloves and broke whatcatydidnext's door frame, but it defied all attempts to allow access like a stubborn whore. This is not a euphemism, this is really a jar of Tesco's beetroot. We decided to let the large capable hands of Mr A open it at the stage door. It sat languishing on my work surface, gloriously waiting for its day of reckoning. Only for my husband to seize the jar in his clumsy man paws and, with disgusting ease, twisted off the top, leaving me in open mouthed despair. B*stard, you sullied my beet root!
Idea for a story
Bare Bones of Crossbones.
Woman obsessed with fictional book.
On researching the book, discovers it's been based on an old diary.
Decides to visit the areas in which the diary has been based.
At the Crossbones graveyard she meets the curator who shares equal excitement with her.
They talk about the book, he offers to take her to a warehouse also featured in the book.
At the warehouse she tells him about the basement. He tells her there is no basement, but she finds the opening in the floor.
A spectre tries to pull her in, the curator yanks her back.
The ghost then rushes the curator, slamming him into a wall, then disappears.
The girl checks him over and he's fine.
Hmmm, I think it needs more work.
I wanted to buy some pirate boots, so when I marauded the high seas they would lend a certain swagger to my quest for fame and fortune. What we bought was a Batman belt, a sparkly wand and some batteries for a noisy singing dog. The reason? I went shopping with my family.
Whether it's that packet of doughnuts slipped into the trolley without me looking, or standing in Game for half hour with my eyes glazed over. Shopping with the spouse and children never quite goes how one would imagine.
There are some of us so lacking in curiosity, that you know if civilisation had been left to them, we would still be freezing our tits off in some cave, gnawing on raw meat. Then, there are some you can't help but question, how did you discover that?
How hungry was Mr Liebig (inventor of Marmite) when he looked at that sticky brown gunk left over from beer production, and thought, 'I could go with having some of that on toast'.
Who discovered you could put Anusol under your eyes!!!! That must have been some epic bathroom cupboard fail.
True conversations at the noble family Harrod's country estate.
Beloved: TOM H********* IS A HUGE DICK?
Nellie: No love, you misheard me, Caty said Tom has a huge dick. Apparently when she saw Coriolanus, the stage light shone through his costume. Made her eyes quite tear up it did.
Beloved: Oh, it's not as big as mine though is it?
Nellie: No mon cher, it couldn't possibly be.
Beloved: Huh! What's for dinner tonight?
Nellie: Errr...bratwurst and chips?
Beloved: You're not funny!"
Beloved: I didn’t shout at you, I was eating a waffle so it doesn’t count!
Nellie: How does that work?
Beloved: The waffle obviously filters all belligerence from my tone.
Nellie: Oh, is that true, and if so, can I counteract such extravagant defence with a Japanese fighting spoon? (DONK!)
(While watching the end of Shrek 'Ever After')
Shrek: You know Fiona, I always thought it was me that rescued you from the dragon.
Fiona: You did.
Shrek: No, you rescued me.
Nellie: Did I rescue you from the dragon?
Beloved: Hahahahahahahaaaaa you were the dragon!
Nellie: If killing your mum is matricide, what is killing your wife?
Nellie: Thanks for that darling, just let me write that down, so when you’re dead I’ll have something to chuckle at.
Asterisks are to preserve the dignity of real famous people.
There's probably more but I'm bored now