It’s nearly 12 pm. My hands are covered with paint as I prepare my home for viewing by the estate agents. I’m tired and emotional. Earlier in the day, I watched my youngest son, the no 1 seed in a tennis tournament (which is based on his past record) crash out in the second round to an opponent with not even half his talent. It’s tough watching your child be defeated but when only three years ago they won a national tennis title at Wimbledon it’s a lot harder. And I wonder why I wasted so much of my life with someone who has created so much havoc in our lives and who, even now,  refuses to rise above his narcissistic self-esteem issues to salvage anything for his children. There is such a burning anger in me. I know I should let it go or it may destroy me. But

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself earlier this morning as I’d made it through the April A to Z Challenge when, truthfully, at the outset I didn’t think I’d last the distance. So, as I am on the late shift today and have a 12.30pm start at work I thought I’d take a few cheeky minutes in bed before I tackled the housework. So I jumped into bed, leant over the side and picked up my iPad, popped on my glasses and set about spellchecking my last A to Z. Only, horror upon horrors, since writing my last A to Z in the middle of night, my eyesight had drastically deteriorated! The page was all fuzzy when normally my typos are jumping out at me and slapping me around the face like a wet mackerel to remind me of my gross grammar incompetencies. Immediately, I cursed the menopause, the

In previous years on the A to Z, I finished off with some spectacularly bad poems: Zachary the Inventor and Ziggy the Zoologist. This was mainly because I couldn’t think of any other word other than “zoo” which is not very impressive for someone who purports to be a writer. However, this year I have actually thought of a Z word which needs discussing! And that word is “zealot”. Be afraid, be very afraid! So a dictionary explanation of zealot is as follows: A person who is fanatical or uncompromising in their religious, political, or other ideals. Now as you probably know by now I am quite plain-speaking so my simplistic definition of a zealot is someone who is…a complete nutter fruitcake. Sadly, there seems to be a lot of nutt.. fruitcakes in the world at present. I think most ordinary folks were hoping that the kind of zealots we are

I just read my post from yesterday. And I’ve decided alcohol obviously enables me to get the creative juices flowing as when I started that post I had absolutely no idea what I was going to write. Sadly, I don’t think green tea with lemon has the same effect on me. *Looks forlornly at cup by side* So only Y and Z to go on the A to Z! I didn’t actually think I’d make it through the month so I guess somewhere I still must have a bit of stamina left. Hmm. I still have no idea to what to write about so I’ll just keep going until my brain fires up. Oh yes. I’ll write about an experience I had today at work. So I shall call this post Y for Yellow Belly which in the UK is a colloquial expression for cowardice. Yep, so today I met

Firstly, let’s get something out of the way. When I developed my hiatus hernia a couple of years ago I effectively gave up alcohol. However, in order to face a huge mound of ironing earlier this evening that seems to have the capability to reproduce, I have decided to indulge. Therefore, as I write this post I am verging on the tipsy. By the time I finish it, I could be pressing my keyboard from underneath my desk. Luckily, I have plenty of fat to absorb the alcohol but any minute now I expect my lips to do a Mick Jagger. Luckily, alcohol doesn’t appear to affect other parts of my body (except my brain) otherwise my arse might turn into some hideous monstrosity like the one which is attached to Kim Kardashian’s arse. You know whenever I see a picture of Kim Kardashian’s butt I imagine that scene from Alien

When my children were small “why” was a word which cropped all the time at the beginning of sentences. “Why” would often proceed moments of amusement and laughter when I was forced to explain all sorts of weird and wonderful topics. When I was a teenager, and I wondered how the world worked and was searching for those answers I often ask myself “why” questions. More often than not, I couldn’t come up with answers about religion or existence or even about algebra but, eventually, I developed my own thoughts on life and accepted this life for what it is. I learnt that when it comes to philosophy, you don’t always have to have the answer but sometimes contemplating issues give you a better perspective and appreciation of life. Now, as I move through middle-age towards inevitable death, I wonder “Why” my life is turning out as it is. I have some

So I am running behind on the A to Z again. Unfortunately, due to the complicated life I lead at the moment, I simply having no energy most days to write. I know some writers seem to thrive on stress and trauma but that’s not me – my best work is when I’m relaxed and happy and when I can let my mind roam free. So V is for Vanity. I was really going to let rip on this subject as I find the increasing emphasis on looks and body image, particularly in the media, very unwholesome and perhaps very damaging to many young men and women who aspire to look like photoshopped celebs. But of course, vanity is not always just about looks and when it is wrapped up in narcissism it can have so many more destructive traits. So where I work at the moment, I see many women

You still unused large pot of cream You unwanted gift of Christmas 1988 A dusty reminder, who can express Why I haven’t cleaned my cupboards Full of bottle ring stains and cobwebs Of dead spiders and perfumes that stink In bathrooms or in the kitchen What crap in inside all of these bottles? What ancient spice? What congealed mascara? What putrid hand cream? What decomposed biscuit?  I’ve heard some bathrooms are sweet, but those unclean Are gross, I should know, I have one Not to the obvious inspection, but on a closer look There’s a huge pile of shit In cupboards, drawers and even in shoe boxes Because I stuff bottles, jars and tins everywhere Bold cleaning is definitely not for me I’d rather read a book, or take a run All you pots and tins, just sit there for a few years more Until I die and some other fucker gets

Tonight I am going to write about traditions or one British tradition in particular – the “stiff upper lip”. Now if you don’t know how the “stiff upper lip”tradition came about then let me explain: When we are babies English tradition has it that we are left in our prams on promenades, piers or in our back gardens for a dose of good old sea air. (Apparently, it’s good for the lungs and builds up a cast iron constitution.) Roughly, this tradition translates to 12 hours a day in the freezing cold with only a rubber teat for company and a flock of seagulls pooping on your pram. Indeed, I remember only too well those days spent looking forlornly out of my Silver Cross pram worrying if the seagulls were going to shit on me and yearning for my mother’s breast. (Okay, maybe a little dramatic licence there as I can’t actually remember anything

I am currently on my lunch break which I am having to interrupt to report on the obscene matter of middle-aged white British men wearing shorts in the vicinity of my workplace. It is 14 degrees here at present. The weather is mild and is partially cloudy. There is not a heatwave going on and yet I am seeing numerous men wearing shorts. If this isn’t bad enough, it is made worse by the fact the shorts are on average one size too small. I am sick to the stomach, Readers. Sick, sick, sick, sick, sick!  How is a woman meant to concentrate on her work when she is forced to watch this unwholesome parade of hairy white legs and bulbous paunches. So my advice is to British men who wear shorts is –  unless you have a physique like Rafael Nadal keep your legs covered up or don’t expect

I am a couple of posts behind with the A to Z so I’m going to do a couple of quick posts to play catch-up. So, I am in a melancholic mood tonight so finding my usual spark of creativity is not easy. If I were to write down how I feel it would be explosive. But probably not in a good way. And so I must bide my time and wait for the moment when I can draw upon my emotions and use them to better my creative writing. That’s what writers do and that’s what I did in the more poignant moments in The Changing Room.  At the moment, I am still in grief. Grief for my past and grief what might have been. My days and nights are full of responsibilities and worries for my children and for our future. My emotions flicker from sadness to incandescent rage and everything

There was a lonely hunchback called Quasimodo Who some thought was a homeless hobo But he lived in a church Where he observed life from a perch Until one day he slipped off and died But the ghost of Quasimodo did rise And from the bell tower he still spied On lovers and embraces And friends of all races And at night in the dark he cried I’ll always be ugly he wailed His face full of pain and paled But then a circle of light descended And Quasimodo ascended To a place where only the soul was graded To me you are beautiful said Jesus Your heart is full of passion and kindness So he took Quasimodo’s hand And led him to a land Where love was the only rule Now Quasimodo lives in peace And his tears have ceased Everyday he wakes with joy To the sound of a celestial choir