Okay I admit it...

Okay so I admit it, I have not blogged for quite a while, but I have a perfectly good excuse - summer! Summer is the time to lay on the beach, prance around in shorts too short and stuff your face with icecream right? Nope... Instead I have been soaked in sudden downpours, been splashed by a bus driving past a puddle and have discovered a dark underworld directly on the street below... Yes... An underworld...

In evidnce of the underworld... At four in the morning a number of rather enebriated people thought that they would ring all the door bells on the street and then proceed to swear at the people who actually got up and answered. Who gets up and answers? I have no idea... Asking for trouble! Strangely I never get really offended by this, instead I fantasise about the usage of a catapult, bangers and water bombs... In truth, I was trying to work out the best angle of tradjectory using a water bomb, the opposite building and a catapult to get the drunks in the back of the head without bursting the waterbomb before impact. I considered rebounding off the opposite wall but the pressure would make it burst. After creating a large diagram on a blueprint and plotting my tradjectories with a compass and ruler I came to the conclusion that if I was fast enough I could shoot multiple water-bombs high into the air enabling a pelting which might appear as though God himself was peeved with the drunks. They would not be able to react quikly either. There was something satisfying in that knowledge...

Anyway I am afraid I did not have a catapult to hand nor water-bombs so no action could be taken, however a couple of nights later we had a rendition of Buffalo soldier at five o'clock in the morning... The drunken chappy was singing his heart out for approximately three hours. It was as if a record was stuck on the same line - Buffalo soldier... In the heart of America... Stolen from Africa... Oh man... what are the other words?

"Shut the **ck up," said one of the neighbours.
"No those aren't the words," he replied thoughtfully...

Buffalo soldier... In the heart of...

"Would you please shut the **ck up!" shouted a neighbour.

"Man... I am just singing a song... We should all sing... And this is a good song... Buffalo soldier... with a dreadlocked rasta stolen from Africa to make an excellent pasta..."

"Those aren't even the F***ing words!" screamed the neighbour.
"Look man I am being creative. You are ruining the flow man."

A loud scream followed by a thud, left a great deal to th imagination. There was silence.

But of course the song was stuck in my mind...

Moral of the story - always have a decent catapult and a stash of waterbombs for drunks who ring door bells.

Moral of the story two. Work on the perfect tradjectory so someone else gets the blame.

Moral of the story three - when singing a song no one wants to hear - sing it in the bath and not the street. Do not entertain the idea of taking a bath into the street for singing!

Ego learning and the concept of remote control sea gulls!

Today has been a bit of a learning... I had never really understood how a person's ego could inflate to the size of a walrus... Yes it is possible for an ego to become that huge!

So after careful consideration I believe I should share my findings... So how many people are actually aware of how they come across? How many people are actually aware of why they do things? How many people are aware of how huge their ego is? Not me!

Yesterday I was in a rowing race and had a strange moment where I realised as much as we rowed as a team, during the race we all resided in our own personal reality. One girl was feeling not good enough and feared letting the team down. One had to lead and had the responsibility of setting the pace, another was angry because she was not reaching her full potential. I was enjoying the view - young hot men lugging boats around. What more could a woman in her thirties want?

During the race the girl who felt inadequate kept saying sorry... She seemed to be living her own personal hell until her arm ceased up... There it was - bang - an excuse... A way out.

All the while, I was enjoying the view. Obviously we did not win the race but it was interesting how the team dynamic developed once we stepped ashore. I thought the race was great - there was a nice view, I had raced and had been out on the water and survived. The lady who felt bad was justifying why it had not gone well, another sulked whilst another was angry... In the meantime, I trundled around wondering what goes on in people's minds and why it matters so much to win...

While I was thinking deeply I was asked to spend an hour on the rescue boat. "what do you want me to do?" I asked.
"Rescue people and stop them dying," was the reply.
So I set about stopping people from dying. In doing so I climbed into the rescue boat with a chap who, not being rude, seemed to have no clue how to drive it. A few moments later the engine cut out in the middle of the race. There we floated with six racing boats hammering at us at full speed. How does one react to that?

The boat driver frantically tried to start the engine... I noticed some paddles and watched the chap panic. In the end I just thought - the worst that can happen is a collision and I get to fish hot men out of the water. I also had an excuse to practice mouth to mouth under the excuse of 'I am trying to stop you dying - that is my job you know!'

The collision did not happen but our rescue boat was rescued and the boat driver's ego was bruised. He also kept apologising and told me how out of control he felt. Surely life is out of control and any form of control in chaos is an illusion... What I did notice was how the ego was hurt with failiure or perceived failiure... A bit later I climbed the pontoon and strolled back to the picturesque site of athletic bodies and burgers.

Later that day, after dwelling on egos, the egosaurus appeared on the scene. The person who told us how great they were, how everyone else was lesser than them and how they were at a higher level... In truth it was hideous - but if life is a reflection of ourselves I had to consider where my own ego sat in a boat and how egotistical rantings affected others... In truth, unless we are aware of ourselves we often do not catch our behaviour... I often behave as though I can save the world, am a gold medal winner in the olympics and am an internationally renown author... Unfortunately, after witnessing the egosaurus, something dawned on me - we only see these things because that is part of ourselves... So with great reluctance one needs to face the ego monster and face the reality - one can save the world one tree at a time. Winning an olympic gold medal in chatting about random things is probably not likely. Being an internationally renown author may happen one day but it has not happened yet. So I will re-focus my energies on what is and what is actually possible!
So I just invented something amazing: a remote control seagull that you can use to shit on those whose egos are huge - it could be a best seller. What do you think?

Here is a link to RETINA BLUE AND GOYLEGATE - You could help me become an internationally renown author so I do not have to have the remote control seagull put into production!!!!

TECHNIQUES TO AVOID PROMOTION!

How to ruin any chance of promotion.
Well it seems that in most offices there are people lined up to nut nuzzle, schmooze or woo the boss to be promoted. I find it interesting how the office back stabber and office nut nuzzler (brown nose) seem to be in allegiance until it comes down to a final show down. In the meantime, the office strumpet is practically shimmying about the office attempting to hypnotise the boss with booosoka shuffling. It can either entice the boss or result in motion sickness – it all depends on rate of motion and angle. Unfortunately, for the office strumpet, she usually misses the position because she is already lying on her back with some other high-ranking, married superior who offers power potential through association.
All the while the office victim is telling stories of how she has been overlooked for promotion ten years in a row and how nothing good ever happens to her. The office efficient is planning her secret efficient strategy. The office bore is telling a three-hour self-amused story of the day he once heard that someone might have been promoted – which was actually him. In that monologue he deviates numerous times and forgets what he was actually trying to tell you. To him it is incredibly amusing but to others they would rather have hair ripped from their private parts. At that point, the rest of the team are standing by the window trying to work out how they can escape through the bombproof glass without actually dying… Why does no one ever bring long ropes and glass cutters to the office for such necessary escape eventuality?
So of course while the majority of the team consider abseiling twenty floors to escape the office bore, the office backstabber and nut nuzzle are freed up to do their thing! When it comes to being under pressure to get promotion both will return to their natural behaviour: the back stabber prepares to backstab the nut nuzzler. However, all animals have survival techniques and the nut nuzzler has cleverly adopted his natural instinct to survive. He has already bent over and has adopted the brown nosing position behind the back stabber. Obviously, the back stabber receives pleasure from this action but the reward for promotion is greater than having your ego massaged internally using a nose. From the observers point of view the pair resemble the snake trying to eat its own tail and a no win situation ensues. The backstabber is unable to backstab the nut nuzzler because he is practically absorbed in her behind. The backstabber has essentially become a living hat. What’s more, you cannot backstab yourself and it is hard to backstab someone standing behind you unless you are a martial artist and can do a good back flip at the perfect time. While all this is taking place I realised that promotion simply means more work. It also means more responsibility, more stress and less time to write blogs about what takes place in the office. What at first seemed to be an unintentional technique to avoid promotion has revealed it is my natural tendency. How can the office observer observe if they are working flat out? So if you do want to be promoted do not do any of the below:
• Do not send pictures of dogs in wigs to your boss, especially if he has no hair or wears a wig himself. If the boss is a woman, she may also be offended because she may interpret that you are likening her to a dog. Admittedly, it was a great idea at the time but a dog in a wig does nothing to convince your boss of leadership skills, other than leadership of dogs in wigs. What’s more, do not sit hysterically laughing at the array of dogs you have found on the internet when you are supposed to be working towards a crucial presentation, which does not involve said dogs in wigs. It could actually suggest that you are evolving into the office I do diddlysquat.

• When disclosing psychological techniques for delivering bad news do not say anything actually offensive directly to you boss. The sandwich technique is a classic technique where you sandwich the bad news between two pieces of good news. Take for example the following delivery, which I gave my boss as an example. “So how you deliver the bad news is like this: that is a nice shirt, yep you’re ugly as sin, but you have nice shoes.”
“Hang on that’s a bit harsh…”
In that moment, I realised my choice of bad news was not terribly thought through. I had essentially told my boss that he was ugly. Oh God!!!!!!!!!!!!! (He isn’t at all. He is actually quite handsome. Oooops!”
And that was when the digging begins… The hole was already deep and was becoming a well.
‘No not you… You are actually good looking – but you know that. You must know that. No, you are definitely not ugly as sin. It was just an example of bad news… It just popped into my head… Oh God! Please do not be offended. Your wife must think you are good looking… She married you didn’t she? See that is more evidence of you not being ugly as sin. Admittedly, she might have really liked your personality. I did not just say that… Oh God… You are a good-looking man… You don’t need me to tell you that…’
Dig, dig, dig.
The hole wasn’t just deep - it was becoming a well.
Silence.
Intensive blushing.
Nervous laughter and time to involve the team and get them away from the window and the office bore.
“He’s good looking isn’t he? He’s not ugly as sin.”
The teammates gazed at me in horror as I continued to justify what I said. Promotion for miss dry… Pahhhh! No chance! Bus trip to work banishment – oh one ticket please! No return!
When you actively involve teammates to justify the horrifying thing you have just said by accident you know it has all gone wrong. In that moment of silence, I realised there was no saving the situation.
“Look over there,” I said pointing. They all looked over there and I hid under the desk. (Actually, I made that up, but thinking about it… That is what I will do in the future). Anyway, from now on I will bring in my own tumbleweed and roll it around the office!

• Alternatively, you can evolve into the role of office stinker and repel everyone on a daily basis. You will definitely not even be called into potential promotion interview through the boss’s fear of being stuck in a confined space with a hideous stench.

• If you really do not want to avoid promotion just make a massive mistake with your name on. When I worked as a temp, I once made a payment of eight hundred dollars to the wrong account. I was beside myself and instantly ran over to my previous boss and apologised profusely. She turned to me and smiled. ‘That is cannon fodder Michelle, I once paid the wrong account eight one million. Strangely, she was a boss… Hmm… Thinking about it – maybe my theory is not perfect! In fact, maybe my antics will keep me in the mind of the boss and get me a promotion that I do not really want. Actually too late – office power-hungry has convinced everyone of her true potential and as always, she has taken no prisoners. The backstabber can never backstab her because she knows that power hungry will lift her by the throat and stare into her eyes like Darth Vader! There will be deep breathing and there will be power surges through the office that no one can actually explain.

So moral of the story: bring long ropes and glasscutters to work. The action of considering escape from the office bores three-hour monologue will endear you to the team and create the perfect teambuilding escape strategy.

Moral of the story two – when laughing hysterically at images of dogs in wigs and fancy dress – go to the bathroom and laugh. Do not share the images with boss or anyone with hair depreciation.

Moral of the story three – when offending a person of a higher title than you – make sure you sandwich it, have and escape route or offer them the office strumpet as a distraction for offense – that is if she is not already being taken by anyone else.

SATURDAY NIGHT BOTTOM MESMERISATION AND DAD DANCING!

Saturday night, hypnotic buttock motion and the role of dad dancing to impress women.
Saturday night, as with all Saturday nights, is the opportunity to venture into the human alcohol imbued jungle. It is the prime time to watch the mating techniques of numerous inebriated human animals. Large gestures, exaggerated hip motions and puffed out chests are just a few of the techniques used to attract attention. One of the major techniques in Bournemouth is ridiculous fancy dress outfits. When I say fancy dress I do not mean a ‘fancy’ dress as in a nice evening dress. Instead large groups of men (the stag night) can be witness dressed as babies, large items of fruit or super heroes. These are directly proportionate to hen parties who are dressed as policewomen, nurses or pirates. There are obviously variations on these themes but the women wear items that are revealing, a bit rude and are suggestive. In the opposite faction the men dress as fruit. I have not determined the ultimate psychology behind this, but essentially the men go for phallic / heroes. And the women go for ‘have some of this big boy!”
With all the above in mind, Saturday night is the prime opportunity to take part in a human safari. It is dangerous, there are conflicts and there are passing outs in the street. Survival of the fittest is demonstrated by the winning Alpha male escorting the most attractive female in the direction of a taxi. Of course there are those who are unsuccessful in the mating escapades. The women are often found collapsed in piles outside bars with opportunist men attempting to prize them off the pavement. Alternatively you find those who resort to stuffing chips and kebabs in their faces with far too much Chilly sauce as a consolidation prize.

So this brings me to the dance floor. The dance floor is the prime place for demonstration of sexual prowess. With low lights, alcohol and loud music this is the prime place to appear attractive without actually being attractive. The constant flashing of lights and intoxication evolves beyond beer goggles into cocktail glasses! No one has to talk; they just need to demonstrate their sexual prowess by dancing.
In terms of dance, or that which is defined as dance, - the pointing at of genitalia, waving at genitalia or simulating certain motions with your best friend or any passer-by who is not offended by the randy-dog leg grabbing technique appears in abundance. On this particular evening a group of stags, wearing baby attire, were in full testicular swing. Dad dancing extraordinaire was being demonstrated in all directions and genitalia thrusting filled the dance floor. As the evening hotted up, the men attempted to out thrust each other until two blondes arrived on the dance floor. That was when things became interesting and best friends stopped being best friends and survival of the fittest/alpha-malism competition was on!
The two blondes, wearing their best animal patterned dresses, rotated their hips and hypnotised. The men did not stand a chance. In that moment I understood that the word hypnotism may have originated from such hip motion because it was actually hypnotic (Hip – notic)
My fellow safari observer, who was male, was transfixed by the motion too.
“Does that mesmerize?” I asked turning to him.
The answer was obvious; his eyes were fixed on the ‘said’ bottom. He could barely speak and his head motioned in exactly way as the hypnotic bottom. Her motion reminded me of a cobra and how it subtly motioned until its prey was completely dazed and then it would attack. Strangely my fellow safari observer could hardly string a sentence together either. In the meantime, I considered how the application of the sound of jungle drums to would work well accompany the blonde bottom undulation.
“It is really interesting… “ he finally said choking on his words. “I never realised a bottom actually hypnotised,” he said. It is really nice to watch…” he said dreamily.
It was then that the competition increased. A group of hens arrived in the arena dressed as police women. They carried truncheons and handcuffs. The invasion changed the dynamic of the room and the men scattered and were confused. Rather than just focus on the blondes they thought they could go for all of them and work by numbers. That never works and men never really seem to learn that.
As soon as the competition arrived, the animal pattern wearing blondes increased their rate of bottom mesmerisation. The men increased their thrusting but the hens were accosting the thrusting men. It was like the Serengeti crossing. All manner of species were diving into the water and some of them were going to be picked off by the alligators. The men were scattered, there was no group dynamic or strategy. It was carnage. The men were confused which did they go for? Did they accept the easy pickings in terms of hen party versus the prize of the hypnotic bottom owners? The competition was rife. Hen’s versus the cobras. The men could not think because the blood had been dispersed between the two brains and all they could do is thrust their parts. It was genitila testicular war!
Of course, the blondes had a strategy. As soon as the men were distracted, they pulled out the ultimate male-attention attracting card. They danced closely with each other and kissed each other on the cheek. It was at that moment a ‘matrix’-like moment took place. All the men froze, the hens features distorted, they had been out-alpha-femaled… The male attention had shifted and the hens were now desperate. And what happened? It was a fraught moment and the hens had to get the attention back. The hens glanced at each other and to their leader. Someone had to do something and do it quickly. They could not repeat what the blondes were doing so there was one thing for it. The leader of the hens lifted her top and showed off a pair of massive bazookas. Bang! The men did not know where to look. Two brains not enough blood. Two eyes not enough vision. Mental overload took place and the men folded. They reverted to what they knew and all adopted their worst dad dancing. No one was impressed and the blondes left the dance floor.
Later that evening my fellow safari observer and I walked past a number of kebab shops. The stag night were in there stuffing consolidation. The blondes were being escorted to taxis by two very masculine opportunist and the hen night were in a pile outside the bar laughing hysterically. Men were attempting to help them up and legs were flaying.
Moral of the story: if you are a man focus on one woman and go for it. Scattering your mind will scatter your options which will result in your evening ending in chips and kebab.
Moral of the story two – hypnotising the room with the bottom can only be achieved successfully if there is not hen-like competition. Too much bottom mesmerisation results in dad dancing. It is the default for the drunken male.
Moral of the story three – do not dad dance even if your instinct drives you to. Do not thrust your pelvis at your friends to gain attention. I suggest you spot potential bottom mesmerisers early on and make your move before the rest of them room are transfixed by an undulating bottom.

NOTE: My fellow safari observer mentioned something very profound which may well provided insight. When a person is drunk and talks to someone sober, the sober person never understands. Yet when two drunken people talk to each other – they always understand! The language of inebriation seems to be exclusive to those who are wasted.

FRIDAY BRILLIANCE AND THE ART OF NAKED PROMOTION

If we all live for Friday then surely if we named all days Friday then we could live every day and not just live for the weekend… Sometimes I even astound myself with my own brilliance – how do I share that modestly? Actually there seems to be something wrong with that plan… We would not have a weekend and would just work seven days a week. Okay so I take it back – not quite so brilliant but the thought was there… So what about the endless Saturday? Hmmm… but then how would we afford the weekend if we did not have week days? My goodness I am actually glad for the week days because the weekend is a celebration of not working… Okay I feel better now. Although there should be a bit of daily celebration somewhere within the day… I will think about that…
You know what? I have just decided that celebration should be a necessary part of the day. At a certain point each day it would be lovely to do a little dance to celebrate being alive and the wonders of ‘the self’. Obviously I am not suggesting do the hokey cokey or the Macarena (how does one spell that word?) but a minimalist celebratory dance to remember that we exist and that life is good… Seventies staying alive dancing at the desk is a pure celebratory move. Body popping would be for the office show off and pole dancing for the office strumpet. The office bore would probably do dad dancing and the office little and cute would just do a cute little dance and everyone’s heart would warm. Those pigeons would probably start mating again… (if you are wondering what I am talking about this is in office little and cute posting.)
So today, it is Friday and I am excited… I am always quite excited but this time next week I am off on me holidays… In the meantime, I have team mates making suggestions on how to promote my books. So the general consensus of opinion, from the male contingency, comes down to nudity… Why does it always come down to being naked? They kindly came up with the Demi Moore cross legged pose with my books cleverly positioned. Why do they keep suggesting that I should be naked… Maybe we should have a nudist office… Oh how awful would that be? I suggest looking around the room and imagining that… Of course there would be issues. We would probably get pubes on the photo-copier and then we would have to bring little hankies so as not to make a mess or dirty the office furniture.
Anyway the boys are off on one… “Michelle the fact of the matter is nakedness sells!”
“So how will that sell a children’s book?” I asked.
The men grinned at me and told me that the dad’s would buy it and read it to their children…. They have an answer for everything. Me being me decided to throw a blow-up cat amongst the male pigeons… “So which of you would be willing to do that? You know pose naked with my books? Since we live in a world of equal opportunity....”
The men looked at each other with horror. “No… We were meaning you…”
“Oh really, well as we are all grown-ups and as you told me that nakedness sells – then your nakedness should equally sell.”
I watched three men go pale and almost retch when they glanced at each other and the thought of their hairy bodies being put on a billboard- suddenly it was not so appealing! The men being men then began to nominate the potential totty who would make a good naked poster… Bless them. Fantasy is a major part of their day… So around the office the general question was ‘would you pose naked to promote Michelle’s book?' Interestingly both the office strumpet and the office desperate (for hide the sausage) were very up for it – plus a few older randoms offered their lacking clothes services. So in the world of fantasy we now have a line of office workers posing naked with books arranged over naughty body parts. Since I used to work as a professional photographer I have been nominated to create the ‘imaginary’ image. Now, just to take this a little bit further I set a diary meeting… Title – naked picture for Michelle’s book promotion… At this point fear appeared in the numerous ‘oh I am up for it’ bunch and strangely none of them actually wanted to be photographed. It was all just naked book bravado…
So today it is a case of back to the book promotion drawing board… Oh and of course the men have come up with another naked idea – let’s get me riding a horse with my hair over said naked parts with my books as a bra… Lady book Godiva… What is it with men?

Hanging out for holidays and advancement in the knicker continuum

Hanging out for holidays.
So do you ever get to the point where you have not had any time off for a while and you are desperate for a holiday? I guess that would be most people… I was just thinking about it… As you can imagine I am having the palm tree daydream and I have just realised that it is close to five months since I took a holiday. I know… What am I playing at? The thing is I have been pretty sly and utilised all the coming bank holidays to use the most limited amount of holiday days and maximise the most time off possible… So as of the 22nd I have 17 days in a row using a whole seven days holiday – bliss!
So it is Wednesday and that means Wednesday call of doom! It is the most boring call in the world and the other team members are comfort eating chocolate digestives. Rather than add on the poundage I have wondered off into Michelle land of Laaaaaa and today the land of Laaaaaaa is full of holidays. Amongst the holiday scene a giant pair of knickers has doubled as a hammock! It seems the ’knickers on wheels’ post has raised a few eyebrows in the office and it seems knickers attached to wheels could become the next big thing… Dragging your knickers around the office on the bottom of your chair could be a signal for availability and single-dom. It could be a special mating signal - like those birds waving their giant red warbles about. Although I wouldn’t advise knicker waving from your chin.
Of course the post stimulated numerous knicker-loss horror stories… Of the numerous knickerless adventures, my friend’s knicker elastic evaporation was the worst. It is amazing how knicker elastic can select the most awkward of places to evaporate. While my friend was walking through the main central area within the place she worked that was precisely when the knicker escape began. Numerous business men sat at tables and her knickers slid down to her knees. To combat the issue she walked with a slightly wider stride but that did not help and the said knickers slid to her ankles. In that moment she had a choice – pull them back up or let them go… What would you choose? Whilst looking straight ahead she simply stepped out of the defiant undercarriage protectors and continued walking. What I find amazing is that no one pointed it out. It was as if it was a normal occurrence and a lone pair of knickers made their escape into the central meeting area. For the rest of that afternoon a pair of red, lace knickers remained on a white marble floor. People would not be able to miss them! Of course for the rest of the day she had to be aware that it was windy outside, she was wearing a skirt and could not allow anything to drop on the floor.
This then lead me to my ultimate horror story of loss of the knicker kind. This one also happened to me… In public, with a crowd and a school party!
I went to Cabo St. Lucas- Mexico , to swim the dolphin. My particular dolphin swimming partner was called Osiris. Now as part of the fun you get to hold onto the dolphin and swim. Unfortunately with a dolphin noise she blasted off and so did my bikini bottoms. Unfortunately we were in a pool, with large windows and a school party had just arrived. It was a while before I realised. I was just about to climb out after the rapid ride and I looked down in horror. The penny dropped and suddenly I understood that the dark material floating on the other side of the pool was in fact my nik naks! So after feeling somewhat humiliated by the dolphin, I had to swim back and collect them. The only possible good that could have come from that is that the school party would have had a lesson in female biology and the virtues of investing in pressure-resistant bikini bottoms.
I feel at this point it would be well worth having a moral of the story.
Moral of the story – invest in knickers that stick to you like glue… Actually no invest in anti-falling down knickers. Or alternatively wear two pairs of knickers then if you lose one pair you have a back up. For those who need an extreme contingency - wear three pairs. The should be a really small pair. The second a slightly larger pair and the third – a giant pair of granny knickers…!
Second Moral of the story - time your bikini bottom loss to be at night and away from a pool with windows.
Third moral of the story only go on holiday to nudist beaches and places where loss of knickers is not frowned upon.
From darkness came light and whether you realise it or not there are solutions for all knickery eventualities!

Gossiptorial locations around the office.

Gossiptorial locations about the office and gossip spotting.
Today is another international conference call of doom. This is my prime opportunity to glance about the room and consider the intricacies of office life…
Today I have the feeling that gossip seems to be my focus. Thinking about it… There is always at least one gossip, two supporters and numerous others who are interested in other people’s lives and stories. It is like watching planets come into alignment and gravity pulls the gossiptorial group together. Such activity is what gives the office gossip her status and value. She alleviates the tedium and the dull repetition of the office grind.
In terms of gossip, there has to be specific locations for gossip other than instant messaging… These are the communal hubs where people have the opportunity to congregate and appear to be working. It seems that the various locations provide different levels of gossip potential depending on location and privacy… It is kind of like a gossip gathering… In my personal study and investigation I have come up with the following:
The photocopier…
The photocopier is the prime area to catch up on the general happenings. There is not too much actual gossip on the surface but people do have a tendency to reveal how they feel about others and tell you what is going on in their lives. Although, when the paper gets jammed it seems that while people perform the gynaecological operation on the machine, something stimulates them to share actual gossip. I believe that something must happen when the person is bent over and rummaging about the copier’s innards. My assumption is that there is a rush of blood to the head which results in the gossip release… In terms of photocopier disclosure – the collation of actual paper or paper shuffling will disclose the potential for a full confession. The speed and action of the paper shuffle is directly proportionate to what is about to be released. If you notice an increased rate of paper shuffle I suggest you find something to photocopy and get to that machine pretty quickly.
By sitting close to the copier I have learned about bunion removals… Births and birthing techniques. At other times I have been provided with numerous strategies for pulling… The photocopier is not the prime area for full reveals unless there is a massive paper shuffle, but the photocopier provides an entertaining place to catch up and gain insight into other people’s lives.
The lift.
As soon as those lift door shut – that is it! It is as if someone has shot the starters’ gun on the Olympic 100m race. For those who work on the higher floors there is potential for at least three floors of comprehensive gossip off-load. The lift is the prime area for power talking. This is stimulated by the fear that someone will join the lift mid-flow. Have you noticed that other people always enter the lift at the most juicy part of the conversation and it has to be continued in the loo?



The water cooler and /or coffee machine.
The locations of the water coolers vary but those that are in remote places are a hub for office chat. The bigger the bottle you take with you the longer you can chat. Although bringing a ten litre container to the work may indeed reveal a very obvious intention. The answer is to bring ten one bottles and confess that you get very very thirsty. The only problem is that the more water you drink the more time you spend in the loo – which again is another prime location for chat.
Lavatorial gossip.
This is the prime place. I have watched people check every cubicle to make sure that there are not ears a wiggin'. Once clear that is where the gossip off-load takes place. Did you hear… My God so and so… It is amazing. Sometimes people are not so careful in the cubicle check and I have been witness to the beginnings of an office mutiny. After one girl had been crying in the loo her colleague stamped her foot and made a plan for a mass resignation of the whole team. Within the month nine people left a team of ten… I am not saying spend your day on the loo if you are nosy but every so often lurking in the loo can give you an insight into the realities of what is taking place on the bank of desks near by….
The kitchen or communal area…
A little bit too obvious but often people talk in code in this location. I have noticed the office gossip checks this area on a regular basis and follows certain people into the area to see what juicy bits she can catch up on to plan her extraction strategy by mentioning that she already knows something from someone else.
The canteen.
Anywhere that people can form queues and fold their arms will produce gossip. The longer the queue, the more potential for gossip. Obviously sitting down at the table provides the potential for social interaction. Sitting down at a table beside a pair that are already gossiping provides potential for gossip absorption…
The cakes desk of disclosure.
When cakes are brought in or any type of share food – they seem to stimulate conversation. If someone is leaving it seems that people who have never actually talked to them before circle the area take some food and then feel it is perfect to delve into the intricacies of that person’s life. What’s more, when a person leaves everyone always seems stunned, curious and asks why.
When a temp leaves, even if they have not been talked to by the majority of the permanent staff, they still eat their cakes, ask them about their personal history and act like they are their best friend. This is all in order to get a cake. Of course the temp is going to go to London and become an international star, live an extra ordinary life and become a millionaire! In conclusion cake seems to be a gossip catalyst. By eating cake there is a whole load of disclosure… Maybe in comfort food we make our confessions…

Smoker’s hut.
This is the area where those who inhale bonfire disclose most information. I have never been privy to this; however, one of my friends began smoking so she could find out various information… It seemed that the smokers had a specialist knowledge and a network that involved inhalation, fire and disclosure.
The bus
Travelling to and from work is the prime area to catch up. I have noticed an array of office gossips who sit on the bus absorbing everything they can from those in the vicinity. For some reason people do not think they can be heard talking on a bus. The truth is everyone can hear. It is just that they appear to be listening to music but that is just a decoy… They are listening, absorbing and forming an opinion about everything that is being said!
The thing is all of the above is actually fascinating; however, being privy to gossip observation – I have noticed the Chinese whisper phenomenon. It amazes me how stories get exaggerated over time and gossip becomes malicious. I have even known someone who was gossiping over the e-mail to be picked up on her gossip. Her mails were used as evidence of bullying and she was actually fired… As much as gossip can be humorous – it is also someone’s life.

Alternatives make up gossip about an imaginary person / or imaginary friend. Or gossip about yourself in third person… Brilliant!
Okay I have to be involved in the call now – but a little mental wander gave me the escape I needed from mundanity!

MONDAY MORNING TYPING & GOSSIP

Monday morning, loud typing and the truth about gossip.
Arrival in the office on a Monday morning reveals an air of silence, intense concentration and everyone has a look on their face which suggests that someone has dropped a stink bomb. They focus on their screens and appear to be hard at work. To the untrained eye everything appears innocent because on each screen there is something important that they are ‘supposed to ’ work on. What’s more, there is frantic typing echoing in all directions. Do not be fooled by this scene. The truth is everyone is gossiping. YES… What happened at the weekend and who snogged who or got rejected by who.
With the support of a cup of black coffee, gossip is spreading. Instant messenger, e-mail and all other forms of electronic communication were simply developed for the pure purpose to gossip without people hearing you. Yes it is true. The sound of typing suggests work and the more frantic the typing the more hard working you appear to be. Of course what they don’t know is how comments about the size of people’s bottoms in certain clothing… Who did what to who are flying through the digital airways under the guise of hard work!
What’s more, the men are commenting on the office strumpet’s gravity-defying boosaka bra or the office hotty failed wooooing endeavours. There are reports of numerous young bucks attempting to wow the office hotty with drunken smooth moves resembling dad dancing combined with a bucking bull. Of course there was the struggle for alpha-malism with the standard puffed out chests, bonky moves and bottom caressing - all fuelled by ten pints of beer.
Monday morning is prime time for the vulturous office gossip to circle the room. Those who type most frantically reveal their potential. Watch the gossip hone in, arrange her arms under her breasts and go and sit on the desk. ‘So did you get up to anything good over the weekend?’ May be her opening line… In the meantime, warning goes out amongst the others who have sussed out her antics and each swear to keep what they have learned to themselves. The office gossip has techniques… Something in her aura sucks gossip from your very being and no matter how much you purposely resist you will admit that you accidentally snogged the office stinker and were found with your head down the loo 3o minutes later through complete anebriation. That is just how it is and within twenty minutes the whole room will know…

Monday mornings – a social gossip phenomenon!

IN THE JAWS OF A FRIENDLY PITBULL!

Evening escapades…
Well as we know I am currently working on the Resonance but thanks to the world of technology and my net book I can take a stroll down to the pier, edit, people watch and eat a sausage. There is a diner on Boscombe pier, which sells rather tasty long sausages… I just walked up to the counter and the chap smiled at me… ‘I remember you – you’re the solitary sausage eater.’
What does that mean? That I am solitary or that I ate a lonely sausage… If so… I apologise now – I did not realise the sausage had emotions… Gosh – guilt trip! The thing is I have not had one of those solitary sausages for dinner for eight months so why have my sausage eating habits made such an impression on the man? I certainly hadn’t eaten one of his products near him, so there was no witnessing of the masticatory act.
‘Baps,’ he said.
What did he mean baps?
‘You don’t eat them with baps. You eat the sausage by itself. That is why I remember you. Dogs usually do that.’
Is it me, or was that not so complimentary? Therefore, not only had he remembered my sausage eating habits but also he now had likened them to a dog…. Can it get any better?
‘When I say dogs – the dog owners buy the solitary sausage for their dogs.’
I wonder if that makes them sausage dogs…
I just had one of ‘those’ thoughts – I just saw a French poodle and wondered if dogs have accents or bark in different languages… I wonder how a Chinese dog sounds in comparison to a Peruvian.
Well after such stimulating insight into dog owner’s habits, I have taken a seat on the pier deck. The beach has numerous sunshine loving opportunists who have made the dash down here after work too. To my right the world of chav is manifesting and multiplying as they do. Each carries a beer can, wears a tracksuit and is already spawning a child without even trying. To my left families wipe sand from children, attempt to control their children or simply shout at them… That is what happens when the sun shines in Beautiful Boscombe!
Boscombe pier is a place that is a hub of human zoological display. We have numerous runners, posers, drinkers, randomers and dog walkers all amalgamated into one specific area – next to the surf reef which is the kings new clothes of surfing. Oooh hang on I think I have just spotted boy totty with tight botty… oh typical – girlfriend trailing along behind pretending that she loves doing the 10k run when in actual fact she could better focus her energies on power shopping…
Oh I do love it here. Boscombe pier is just a walk down the hill from my flat and is a place that inspires… I do love Boscombe even though it is considered the grittiest part of Bournemouth… Where else can you people spot, be remembered for your sausage eating habits and where else can people shout the word relax in an aggressive tone? Where else can weirdo scream expletives at their non-existent dogs named Scampi? I am a lucky woman to live here…. There is so much to inspire my writing including the plastic orange sprayed women and the men with stupid haircuts…There are people on tandem bikes, drunken teenagers chasing each other and a dog owner trying to stop his pit-bull terrier from eating a King Charles Spaniel. He was trying to justify it by saying ’she is just very friendly,’ whilst prizing the small dog’s head from its mouth… Maybe he should have bought his dog a solitary sausage…. Maybe that sausage could actually save the world from all its ills.
The reality of this place is simply brilliant!
Right I have just been kicked off the pier… Apparently it is closing time.
Unfortunately my sausage reflection has had the chop and the chap next me is using glasses to drum the most annoying tune. It isn’t even a tune, more of an aggravating ensemble of noise… See… Where else can you get that? Actually, I think I am going to go back to editing… The resonance is in progress and I want to finish it so that I can read it in book form…
Woops… Maybe not, I have just seen one of my male friends in his van – I think the reality is more likely to be - visit the pub, discuss life, watch more people and just be ‘normal’. Ha! Then I will do some more editing… Just a little bit…

Cake and the art a cake resistance....!

CAKE ABSORBTION AND THE ART OF BACK CHATTING A CAKE.
Put the cake in the mouth… Go to the gym and burn it off…
That seems to be the common belief within the office. However I am in a period of anti-cakism… I am resisting that cake urge because summer is coming and when it comes to the local beach, I am not going to be the one who has save the whale campaigners dowsing me with water…
What is it with offices and the need to bring cake in at every opportunity? We have had charity cake, birthday cake, cakey cake and hoorah someone has run a long way – let’s celebrate with a cake! Actually there is even a look we have a cake let’s celebrate a cake with a cake hoorah!!!
Admittedly cake and chocolate is my kryptonite. What makes it increasingly difficult is that my desk is located in eyeshot of the cake launch-pad desk… It is not fair! So the cake battle is quite paramount. I have been found in the chocolate isle of the local supermarket wrestling myself over a box of chocolate lint… Yes it was like a toddler having a tantrum where the angel voice in my head said virtue and the naughty voice said do it who cares? Well the angel and the demon had a bit of a wrestle themselves and left me with chocolate scarring! Advice to all – do not talk to the chocolates in the chocolate isle and do not shout, mutter of grab your self in anyway in plain view of the security camera!
Yesterday was a particularly difficult cake struggle. The cakes were in direct view. With little voices screaming eat me… I realised why some cakes are known as fairy cakes because the little voice calling sounds like a fairy!
Anyway the majority of people in the office know that I am on a pound shifting mission. So in honour of this they have arranged the cake along my desk divider. Now they are all clearly eating cake in plane view and wafting in front of my face. Oh let’s make the cakes dance in front of my face… Obviously jamming cake up my nose is going to tempt me…
I did not give in…. So finally my boss came over and advised me that by sitting at the desk in close proximity to the cake meant that I was absorbing the particles of cake through my skin therefore I had succumbed… Unfair? So my response was the following by mail:
Obviously not wanting to disagree with my manager, I would like to apply this theory to other things… To test it if you like. If your theory is correct then the office comedian and office reliable (to omit names) are sitting relatively close, plus we have chairs and desk furniture… If we apply that particular theory to them that would suggest that I was technically absorbing all this through my skin which would therefore suggest I was a living black hole.
Apparently my boss has generated his own alternative universe of cake absorption… The rules are only known to him and his imaginary followers…
Moral of the story: do not tell anyone you are not eating cake because it will create office uproar!
Second moral of the story: do not talk to the cakes in front of your work colleagues, ask whether they can hear the fairies or write about your cake issues.
Third moral of the story do not unintentionally absorb cake through your skin! Or allow anyone to convince you that it is possible!

CAKE ABSORBTION AND THE ART OF BACK CHATTING A

I MISSED A FEW OFFICE TYPES

Okay… So it seems I missed a few:

The office gossip.
She is usually buxom and has a tendency to cross her arms as she leans into hear everything and every one. She is a phenomenon because she can extract the intimate details of everyone’s personal life. She is there when someone breaks down and cries, she senses when something is brewing. She notices the subtle gestures between those who are hiding the sausage but trying to keep it quiet. She is an antennae for all goings on and when she gets the chance she sets herself up to be confided in. She is a gossip genius. When she feels she is ready to share she will subtly drop some of the most surprising antics into conversation. ‘So do you hear about…. Such a shame…’ ‘You would never believe… but so and so….’ ‘Guess who is ….’ Everyone wants to know her because people’s lives are brightened by this creature. It is natural to want to know about others but be aware that everyone probably knows about you too!

The office get away with doing absolutely nothing!
The diddly squatter of work. He spends all day on the internet reading the news, looking for cars to buy and bidding on e-bay. He looks like he is busy because he has developed ‘the I am really busy expression,’ but in truth he has done bugger all. Then when it comes to the end of the day his work is dished out to everyone else because it has not been done… He is the object of intense dislike. He rides the wave of ‘getting away with it’ for usually about six months, then he will either move department or get another job. Oh and when it comes down to bonus / pay rise time he is deeply wronged because he has not received anything. He does not get the equation of work in = pay out.

The office vanity.
On the desk there are lipsticks, nail varnishes, spare scarves, perfume etc. She is immaculate. Her hair always looks like the adverts and bounces perfectly. Her clothing is perfectly co-ordinated and her skin is clear like porcelain. She looks amazing, nothing is out of place and she always has a glossy magazine to reference. She takes pride in how she looks but disaster falls when a nail is broken. Catastrophy and drama ensue until super-glue is applied. The world then returns to stability.

The office mum.
She is there in times of need. She usually has available tea and biscuits. If anyone cries at the desk she is there batting off the office gossip and backstabber. Her atmosphere is pure mother, she nurtures, loves and supports. She is a wonderful woman and should receive more appreciation because she constantly gives with out the expectation of a return. We should have a national office mum day! Oh and never under-estimate the power of nurture!
The office power hungry.
This one is simple – they will do what they have to do to get where think they want to be. They will stamp on anyone and everyone to achieve their goal. What they do not consider is that to have power a person needs to feel powerful inside. The power hungry at some point has felt powerless and the chip on their shoulder drives them. They believe that in the future that having power will make them happy. A little insight here – power does not make people happy. Being happy is a state of being… Thought you might like to know that!

The office idiot.
He is rather silly, spends his life just getting by. He just does not get it, he never will because his mind resides in a land of complete idiocy. In a state of ignorant bliss he gets on with mundane and easy tasks that no one wants to do. He usually gets it wrong so it has to be done again. It is fine, he will not be upset, he will simply do something else equally badly. The others in the office have no clue how he got employed but the office idiot does serve his purpose in that he makes the rest of the office feel superior!

The office powerhouse of efficiency.
Done it. Yep done. Have you… Yep done, complete, done! This person is super efficient. They work like a machine. With big gestures they tick yet another thing off their list. They are super efficient and like to let everyone know it. Yes they do make others feel inadequate but we do need this person within the office dynamic to support the office idiot and the ‘I have done diddly squat!’
The thing is this person will end up with burnout at some point or build massive resentment for the people who cannot keep up. She will ask something to be done and will learn that only she will do it… It is a harsh realisation for the Office powerhouse of efficiency that other people do not get satisfaction from being the most efficient.



Okay… So it seems I missed a few:

OBSERVATIONS FROM THE DESK!

Retina Blue (Volume 1)



Observations from the desk!

The world of work, office characters and the benefits of spending your life sitting at a desk.

It is amazing what thoughts come from boredom!

Today I attended the conference call of dread!

Every week I have a conference call which is intensely dull and causes emotional pain. I often spend the majority of conference calls watching the office dynamic. It is kind of like bird watching but the human version. Obviously I listen to the call but I wonder what other people in the office are actually doing or thinking at their little desk. I sit back in the chair and imagine all the thoughts they are having in their own self-created realities. In truth our little desk areas make us like chickens in our little office battery farms. If we were an experiment, the below would be the verdict of the types of human experimentation and social interaction found in the breeding ground known as the office:

Office interactions and characters…

The office tart!

I have noticed there is generally an office tart. One who waves her wares in front of all the men. She either wears the shortest skirt or bends over a lot. Alternatively she will wear that really low-cut leopard skin top which reveals a bit of lacy bra. When there is a works social even she turns up in either leather trousers and high heels or tight lycra. The men circle like sharks. The women in the vicinity glance at each other and roll their eyes. In my previous department there was a woman who purposely wore her breastage defying gravity. She knows exactly what she is doing. She will flick her hair and laugh at men’s jokes even if they are not funny. This is all part of her corporate plan and it is her way of being promoted. Strangely none of the women liked her and they called her the pro… not meaning professional. Quite often she will be bonking anyone with a title!

Thinking about it – I think there are quite often certain roles within the office.

So we have begun with the office tart. She is so busy waving her wares to get attention.

The office stinker!

There is quite often an office stinker. An example of this was a chap who is rather flatulent. He threatened other employees with his bottom. One time he demanded a biscuit from his colleague by threatening him with a fart. It is not fair but there is usually one. If there are two stinkers in the same office you are most definitely unlucky… There seems to be two factions in office stink. There are those who do not wash properly or at all. They have a tendency to violate nostrils on a continual basis and over a period of time. Those poor blighters who sit in close proximity become accustomed to such smell. That is not fair or right!

Then we have the office blow off. It is usually a man who aggressively passes wind at people. He can threaten, bully or hold hostage. This person is cruel, they know the power of the stink and use this as a power. Personally I really have an issue with this kind of person.

Then we have the office angry.

This person finds every excuse to explode. They remind me of human volcanoes… I have noticed them kicking the printer or slamming drawers. When they hit their heads on the desk you know they have really lost it. My advice is to keep away because you may well end up on the receiving end of their emotional vomit. I promise you they will not get better because everything becomes a trigger until they deal with themselves! Will they do that? No… They are too busy blaming everyone and everything.

The office victim / hypochondriac

This is the person who always has a problem, an ache or is simply a victim of everything… you will notice them limp, look sad or huff loudly… I have noticed lots of them. They pull faces when they walk. When they come over to talk to you they make sucking noises through their teeth. They just want to talk about an ailment or an issue. No one can save them so do not try.

The office dieter. This is the person who is permanently on a diet but does not lose any weight. As they discuss how little they eat, they quite often stuff the second bar of chocolate in their face which they wash down with a diet coke.

The office pessimist.

Nothing is going to work. No matter what happens, no matter how many people help – it will just never work… This is like working next to a grey cloud…

The office comedian.

In our office we have the chap who you look at and laugh. It is not because he looks funny, he is just naturally funny. I have found him sleeping at the desk or doing all manner of thing to distract from the days he is late (like wearing a tie). “When I wear a tie no one asks why I am late. They ask me why I am wearing a tie instead!” Being completely unaware of how funny he is, he lives in a special world which enables the rest of the office to laugh and stress relief. The office victim will love him but will never understand him. Whether you like to admit it or not he is half man / half amazing!

The office oblivious.

This character wafts about, they gaze into space and they are never really there. They are like a ghost and their eyes often trave in different directions simultaneously. They may be looking at you but you can never quite tell.

The office nut nuzzler

This is the classic brown nose. They do everything they can to please all the managers. What is interesting about them is how they seem to invade other people’s space… One particular nut nuzzler was quite often pushing their groin forwards when talking to people. Weird. The truth is they feel rubbish about themselves and want people to like them…

The office back stabber.

The back-stabber be-friends every new employee. They gain their trust through providing them with stationary. For the first month they are their best friend but when there is a mistake they grass them up to make themselves look better. It is an unfortunate reality but it happens. The back-stabber can often be the nut nuzzler as well. The truth is they want to be liked but no one trusts them. That is why they befriend all the newbys… They are the innocents to be corporately slaughtered!

The office gagging for it /perv.

The bloke who is practically sweating because he is gagging for it. Everyone knows it. He is generally shifting around. On his phone there will be all manner of dirty picture. When taking part in an office night out he won’t be able to avoid discussion about porn. He will show girls dirty pictures and not understand why they look horrified and step away. He tends to invade space and always caught staring at the office tart’s breasts… He is not of a high enough ilk to liaise with the office strumpet because she is too busy pursuing the married managing director… Or is already doing him. Of course no one knows when actually everyone knows!

There is the second type of the above, I have just been reminded by a colleague. It is the older man who lurks around young women’s desks. He has been married for thirty years, has children older than the new office totty and offers his vast knowledge in exchange for perving…

The new girl / office totty is polite because she does not want to offend, but is very aware that every move she makes is tracked… She is fresh game and the old office perv is fantasising about her.

The office totty.

Again there are two types of office totty: those who are aware and those who are unaware. They purpose in life is to provide the other workers with visual stimulation and fantasy. We might be jealous of their natural beauty but we are glad they exist. If they did not the world would be a very sad place. What’s more, they provide focus for the office pervs. That keeps them away from us!

The office boring bloke.

You do not want to get stuck with this one. He takes ages to tell the story that you really do not want to hear. His technique is to capture you in a corner, or in a place that you cannot escape. If there was a cliff he would tell you the story while you were on the edge. The choice would be listen to the boring story or...

The office obsessive fitty.

They are fit; they eat protein with a spoon. They go on about how they are running this, training for that and have endless goals. They can run faster, further than anyone who has won gold in the Olympics. When you talk to them their posture is erect and their shoulders are back. They glow with health and everyone wishes they were fit like them but the truth is they are busy shoving cake in their face!

The office wide boy.

This is the chap who reckons he knows everything and just lies and lies and embellishes. They will link loads of acronyms and talk really fast. In truth he is talking absolute rubbish but he is convinced of it. he is also convinced you are convinced - even if you are not!

The office temp.

Usually a singer, an actor, a musician, a photographer or something a little bit alternative. They bring a little bit of sparkle and individuality to the office. Generally they don't were office attire, there will be something a little bit individual in how they present themselves. It could be the beads, the hair or the cardigan. Of course they believe they are going to make their millions when they go to London. Or alternatively they are saving to go on a really big world travel. They spend their six month contract dreaming and talking about what they are going to do. Then strangely they become permenant because they have been corporately moulded. Some make the break and go to another office and temp some more. They will make it big next time…

The office actual worker.

This person is usually a middle-aged woman who simply gets on with it. They are a rare breed but they support the rest of the working environment in that they actually do some work. They are not on office communicator. They work methodically and save the bottoms of everyone. The thing is the boss knows this and whenever there is work to be done it lands on their desk. They never get promoted; they are never told how good they are… They simply get on and do it. They are
reliable!

So one of my least favourite things is hierarchy and how we all have to fall into labels. So we apparently have to respect someone because they have a label. What’s more, how some people think they can treat others badly because they have a label… This leads me to the following:

The office control freak.

Often in a managerial position. Everyone is not good enough. They tell people things like they are not allowed to use the word okay in their sentences. In all everything has to be done their way and no other… Everyone slags them off, but no-one dares tell them. In the end the control freak will lose control and break down – so it is just a matter of waiting!

Now that I have watched the room I have just remembered my favourite conference call. I was eating a carrot and had not set the phone to mute. All the way through the international and really important call there was some really annoying crunching. Because of the time delay I did not realise it was actually me… No one mentioned anything, but towards the end of the call it dawned on me that the annoying crunching was actually me. I turned the mute on and laughed so hard it hurt. Obviously I believe in Absolute professionalism!

So work… I have to admit I like going to work. I like the fact there is a routine and we are all basically thrown into a room of people we would never usually meet. Everyone has a story and everyone is there to make money because in truth - if we had loads of money would we still be here tolerating corporate bull crap? I have to admit that the world of work has provided me with great characters and stories to base my literary adventures on… So I am happy that I work and I believe we all need purpose. I do wonder whether all offices contain the same characters. I wrote this up after walking home... If there are more characters that I have not touched on... I would love to know!

So… With all the above in mind, which one are you?

I personally like to believe I am the office hotty but then the word deluded may well applied to my selection!

Two morals of the story!!!

Retina Blue (Volume 1)



Okay this is the last past blog re-visit...
It seems that it isn’t just me that has many an interesting thing happen to them, my lovely friend endures such incidents. For the new year she decided she wanted to get fit, gyms are dull, running can be long and arduous, so she thought she would do something fun: roller-blading. Roller blading looks smooth, quite feminine and involves wheels. That is where I would put a stop to it… Yep right there. I learned very early on that when you are escorted across the road by an eighty year old with a limp because he fears for you, you know your skating style is probably a little naff. Also when you go over a wall and land in someone’s rose bush- that is a good sign you don’t have talent- listen to your intuition. Finally when the only way you can stop is to hit a lamp-post it is time to say no and move on. So I learned my lesson early and have since stopped balancing on a line of wheels, in public, at speed. To me it the same as tight-rope walking in a gale- who in their right mind would do that?

Anyway the tangent bi-sected me. So my lovely friend, in hope of achieving fitness, ventured down her road to a local park on the ‘said’ skates. Fair enough. Her best friend followed her, he can already skate. Please note this.

Anyway at the park a rugby team are in full scrum, roaring, grappling and being too close to each other’s behinds for my liking. Now as a girl, it is common to be aware of a bunch of jostling, sweaty men on a field, each man handling an odd shaped sack, which ironically they call a ball. My friend was aware of such mass interaction and thought she would glide past like a princess, purposefully ignoring the testosterone fest. This is where it usually goes wrong and it did. She glided, tripped and landed on her behind in the middle of the road. It was a park- there is no traffic right? No. Of course there was traffic: one solitary car and a narrow road. Luckily the car had seen the full arm waving, skidding foot decent to the ground. The car stopped and patiently waited for her to get up. The rugby team stopped scrumming and noticed a girl flat on her back in the middle of the road with a car waiting. Her friend laughed. Did anyone help her? No. Why is it at any such point people stand and stare and laugh? Well her best friend found the situation side-splittingly funny and held onto a lamp-post because he was laughing so hard. In the mean time she tried to co-ordinate her feet or should I say wheels. But under pressure nothing was going to work. Every time she tried she fell. She flayed about in the road legs everywhere, everyone laughing. The driver turned off his engine and still didn’t help, instead he just waited. The rugby team made comments, the friend laughed, but finally she gathered herself. There was one thing for it: enact the motion of a dog with worms- that would save the day. It did, the poor girl dragged herself across the ground looking like a worm-infested hound on wheels. And as if by magic the moment was over. Grass was there, no more slipperly surface and a post available to lever herself up. Not one gentleman or saviour amongst the onlookers. Instead a number of lessons learned: take off the boots if in trouble.
Don’t rely on laughing friends.
If all else fails adopt the worm-infested hound position and drag yourself to safety. This may be worth knowing for many other life situations.

Moral of the story: if we were meant to have wheels we would have evolved with them.
2nd Moral of the story, dogs probably learned the worming maneouver from girls in difficult situations on roller blades and thought that was a great idea in dog language. I figure that because it happened in a park and dogs get to walk, mark territory and leave messages.

3rd Moral of the story: If a girl is floundering about on the road in front of a car- maybe we could possibly put the odd shaped ball down and help her?

I hope it makes you smile.

MY MOST READ BLOG EVER!!!!

Retina Blue (Volume 1)



I have been reading previous blogs to see what appeals to the world... This was on redbubble and has been read thousands of times... It still makes me laugh and gives an insight into my life!

Well this weekend was spent like many others knee deep in mud with excitable flatulant horses. I was somewhere known as the Quantock hills. It is a place in England where the people are known to talk with additional RRRRRRRRRR’s in everything they say. When they answer yes they often say ARRRRh, a bit like a pirate. I think the word referee would be a good illustration. RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRReferrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrree.

Anyway deep in a forest area a horse event was taking place where the riders draw their own map and navigate the forest. An orienteering with horse adventure if you like. And I luckily was able to photograph most of them before they got lost. And you may think that I am joking but numerous disappeared into the forestry green yonder. Admittedly I met a man who lived there and he did say that when he walked his dogs around here he spent a great deal of time being lost. So thank God I didn’t venture too far, especially with my track record. So each entrant had to draw their map, I think one couple forgot which way up they were suppossed to be. So, not being able to tell the competitiors they were going in the wrong direction, I continued taking the pre-lost picture as best I could.

Later that afternoon I was asked to photograph an event that was suppossed to take place at one o’clock but was delayed because the competitors were lost. So to make the best of the time, the other photographer (Carol) and myself had a buttercup photographing competition. Yes that is what you do while you wait for a horse to appear. So since buttercups are bright yellow I thought I would create the anti-thesis of buttercup and photographed in black and white…. I never like to be the same…. Always original…

After a couple of hours of buttercup embued photographic frenzie, we learned that the entries for the competition had declined from 60 down to 14. There were talks of alien abduction, actually that talk came from me, but there was still talk. Then a number of questions arose: if a horse was abducted would an alien know how to ride it? If the horse was abducted would they take the saddle and all the gear? If you were an alien why would you abduct a horse? Where in a space ship would you ride the horse? So many questions that will never be fully answered, that is unless I meet an alien. Although if you meet an alien I doubt that would be the first thing on your mind. I think more likely would be what do you eat and please don’t let it be humans. Also what happens if the space ship runs out of fuel? Do you have an alien AA? Still I did learn there were people who would be abducted by aliens in a second.

The competition commenced but some of the horses were not complying. When it came to jumping a few tried to throw their riders. When it came to crossing a brook the image of a woman standing behind a horse and pushing with her shoulder made it apparent that you could lead a horse to a brook but you could not make it cross . I tell you it was so funny. She tried everything, pushing pulling, leading, waving food at it. The horse was having none of it. When she walked away and had completely given up the horse snuck across the brook and acted as though nothing had happened. It was brilliant.

Later that evening I invited Steve Spraggon (another photographer) to the hog roast. I met Steve through flickr and red bubble. Since he lived in the area I thought he might like to join the Carol and myself for an interesting evening. That way he would experience the reality and know the stories were true. Steve miraculously found the field in the middle of nowhere and was lucky enough to be persuaded to go on a chocolate mission to a near by village. It was apparent in the first few minutes of meeting carol and myself that he had wondered into extreme eccentricity and that he had just met two women who laughed hysterically at their own jokes…. Poor guy.
After a slighlty slurred conversation about one of my books: Goyle, about Gargoyles. I informed Steve that Gargoyles eat walls and poop pebbles. I am convinced that Steve thought I was completely fruit loop. I also told him the Goblin story, you can find that on one of the other Journal entries or in writing. And yes that was it, he realised there was no escape!

Anyway after the chocolate mission Steve was enlisted in helping me put up my tent. Now most people would put the tent on the flat. Seems obvious. But the way I saw it: horses could jump fences and go for a rampage during the night. Also when I was in Namibia I always camped on a slope close to rocks just in case the desert elephants wanted to play twister using tents. So my logic seemed perfectly okay to me. Although since then I have been informed that the word logic was nowhere near the mark. Never mind. So I pitched the tent under trees, up a bit of a hill and where there weren’t too many ditches. Also in terms of thinking: if I was a horse and I was going to escape from a field where would I run? I would run down hill because up hill would be too much of an effort. So do you see the logic now? I know I am convincing you.

Once the tent was pitched there were a few comments amongst the horse fraternity. Who’s camping on the hill? Er me? So there were a few amused looks and a couple of ex-service men who said. ‘I did that once, never again.’ Well that was it, stubborness kicked in. I would camp there no matter what! Then one of the lady riders kindly offered for me to stay in the comfort of a nice warm cottage. Most people would have jumped at the chance; however i still had work to do, a buttercup photography competition to have judged and had to save Steve who was being bullied by salivating dogs. So imagine you have a choice of sleep in a cosy cottage or sleep in angular tent construction. My question is: what enables the most adventure? So of course I politely declined their kind offer and returned to the photo van where Steve was being licked to death by two dogs whose breath smelt like tripe. He seemed okay with it all. In fact I was astounded by how calm Steve was considering he had worn nice shoes and had been forced to trample through mud. He was very chilled out: I put that down to shock.

So for the buttercup judging. Bearing in mind that Steve had not met either Carol, who owns the company, or myself before. We felt it fair to force him to jude the buttercup photography competition. Of course it was highly competitive and could turn nasty. I had images of WWF wrestling, but I did keep that to myself. I didn’t think it was fair to put your boss in a double nelson in the middle of a field.

For someone now in the throng of two competive female photographers Steve was potentially at risk. He took his role seriously, showed dedication and was very fair in the judging, albeit completely wrong in his choice. I lost, but came highly commended. I think the black and white photograph of a buttercup defied the idea of buttercups! Anyway I was not sore, but I was going to be…

After the hog roast and my vegetarian version:quiche. Yes I know that a quiche rotating on a stick over a fire does not conjure the same romantic imagery. That is why I said Hog roast, you can imagine fires, men beating their chests and women dressed as wenches weilding jugs of beer saying arrrr and Robin hood turning up. Try that same image with a quiche on a stick! Yes I know it doesn’t sound so great… But it was nice. Anyway after saying goodbye to Steve, whose eyes were slightly glazed and he may well have developed a twitch, it was time for bed. On the hill I arranged my sleeping bag and blankets. The slope, I would guess, was about 20 degrees. So I worked out my plan. Sleep on my back with my legs out pressing against the canopy. I could dig in with my heels and stop myself sliding. Well I laid down and got myself comfortable and it worked quite well. Then a horse let out a loud ney and made me jump. So I rolled onto my side. This is where it got difficult. I slid to the wall of the tent. I then scrambled back up and re-arranged my sleeping back and slept on my back. I don’t know whether anyone else ever has it that when they are camping their hearing goes into over-drive. Well I laid silently and all I could hear was grass being ripped up and chewed- all night. Had the horse got out of the pen? I undid the zip of my tent expecting to meet a horse face to face. No. There was no horse, it was down the hill. Hmmm? I went back in and fell asleep until two o’clock in the morning where another horse did a rather loud bottom sound. I thought the phantom rasperberry blower was in the field. He was not. Horses pass wind a lot, you thought cows were bad… This one sounded like it was playing a bugle through its bottom. So I woke up and not only had I slipped but I had rotated. It had rained and my face had made contact with the side of the tent. I had managed to unintentionally wash my face. Ironically I had been dreaming about waterfalls. So back to laying on my back until five in the morning when there was a rain storm. I wondered about the comfort of a pretty the cottage and considered I may well have made a mistake. Although the thought of the morning conversation about the virtues of erecting a tent on a hill made me feel I had made the right choice.

The last three hours of sleep were the best. I wedged my bottom in a pot hole, it stopped me sliding and I made it through to eight oclock where yet another horse made a loud neighing sound. That was it, I was awake. So I took a stroll down to an area where they are making some very tasty fried egg sandwhiches. Also there was home made Victoria sponge. It was lovely. I did notice there was were a number of smiles in my direction, numerous people asked if I had slept well. Now for me the word ‘well’ is not definite. It is like nice. So since well had no specific parameters, I went for well in comparitive to an insomniac. So my answer was yes, surprisingly well considering. All through the day numerous people came up to me. ‘Ah you’re the girl who slept in the angular tent pitch. ‘Yes I am.’ ‘The girl who slept on the hill, giggle.’ Yep all of the above… But with such mini-adventures you learn the following.

So in terms of pitching tents: do not pitch on a hill, even if you think that freaked out horses or elephants may well crush you. If you do make that decision- make sure you do it where no-one can see if and make jokes about it. Always deny the fact to the masses that you have been a completely stubborn idiot. Always justify why such an idiotic attempt has been made and convince them you are completely right! And finally invest in a camper van and do not park it on a hill!


Moral of the story, when pitching a tent do not imagine angry horses playing twister on your tent!

It seems....

Retina Blue (Volume 1)



The more I try to be anonymous in the writing, the more people want to meet me to learn where the inspiration comes from... Of course the answers are in the books... It will tell you... Ha!

THE RESONANCE - Preview

I am still editing this but here is a taste!

THE RESONANCE
by
Michelle Dry
Copyright Michelle Dry


Copyright Michelle Dry.

Insight:
‘They’re us and we’re them. There will never be a time when the two tribes will not be drawn to each other - that is our curse, our burden and our secret.’

CHAPTER 0
The Resonation
1834

A bizarre humming filled the air; it swirled about the remote Scottish village of Gardenstown - she was searching. The villagers purposely avoided discussion and glanced at each other knowingly. Quickly they scurried to their grey, stone cottages and closed down their shutters. Trouble was brewing, she would have her wrath and the culprit would die - it was inevitable.

CHAPTER 1
The fluid motion.
June last year.
The waves, that crisp morning, were perfectly formed. Each peeled elegantly towards the shore; rainbows danced amongst the offshore spray. The sun rose with a dark reddish glow, and in the distance, a cluster of tails pranced through glistening sets of surf. There was a subtle resonation; the final tail broke the surface and dived.
Calm.
Marty, wearing dark jeans and a green hoody, stood at the edge of the cliff top gazing down at the sea with his arms folded. His wavy hair was ruffled by the breeze. He swept a few whispy strands behind his ear and sighed. Should he go in? Shifting his weight, he knew the answer - it was just the thought of climbing into a damp wetsuit at that time of the morning. Scratching his wonky nose, he made his decision and turned towards his camper van. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a number of tails break the surface. Beyond them, a woman surfaced then submerged.
A large set of waves formed on the horizon. The swimmer splashed playfully. Had she noticed what was coming?
'Shit!' he muttered under his breath. The chemicals in Marty's stomach folded; instinctively he dashed down the rickety staircase. He navigated the shoreline, which was slippery with seaweed and littered with cockles. As soon as he reached the compact sand he broke into a sprint.
The first wave rose behind the swimmer and towered above her. Waving from the shoreline Marty attempted to warn her.
No response.
The wave created a huge wall, peaked and crashed down. She was gone.
Marty kicked off his shoes and dived in. The froth of the first wave roared towards him. He dived and surfaced to meet yet another powerful wave head on. He fought against it but it was too forceful. Rather than struggle, he took a deep breath, dived and surfaced beyond the break. Urgently he searched the water for the girl. He forced his eyes to stay open as he drove his face beneath the surface. Where was she?
Repeatedly he searched in different directions and paused. Could he see hair or seaweed? Another wave rose to create a wall. Marty glanced at it; the girl had not surfaced. He took another deep breath and dived. Beneath the waves, the circling mass of water spun him. In that moment, he glimpsed a shape and hair drifting in all directions. It was her.
Gradually the air evacuated his lungs and he sunk. Amongst the silent depths, he noticed a pair of sparkling, mischievous eyes watching. What was she doing? Unconsciously Marty shook his head; she was perfectly calm and appeared amused by his expression.
The pair made eye contact.
She smiled.
Silence.
Butterflies stampeded through his body. He was mesmerised. He desired to stay.
CHAPTER 2
Connection.
An ache of desperation shot through him. Survival instinct took over and he frantically swam to the surface. Glancing back, she became a blur - she was gone. After a few strong, arm pulls he broke the surface and gasped for air. Within a second, a wave crashed down and he was caught by the froth of white water. Urgently he inhaled and dived. Clearing the churn beneath the wave, he came to calm water and searched. Nothing.
Emerging from the depths, he swam beyond the breaking zone. What should he do? His mind was blank and his body was frozen. The sun was dark red and reflected on the green of the water. He was absorbed by the beauty of the moment. Life was fickle. He was only nineteen and ‘It’ had happened to his father only six months previously. ‘It’ could happen to anyone. Had ‘it’ just happened to her?
Marty wiped his nose and made a decision. A set formed on the horizon and travelled elegantly towards him. He swam, reached into the wave and body surfed towards the shore. He needed help.
Behind the wall of water, Marty caught a glimpse of a shadow travelling at the same rate as the wave. Rotating onto his back, he attempted to gain a better look. It was gone. As he drew close to the shore, the image of the girl under the water bothered him. Something was out of sorts. Why wasn’t she frightened?
Consumed in thought Marty waded through white water. At first he didn’t notice the subtle resonation, but it intensified and begged attention. He came to a halt and stood scanning the area. Nothing. The sound penetrated his mind and pulsated in his heart. The more he searched, the more the sound circled and spiralled. Splash! A shape broke the surface in the distance and was gone.
The water became motionless but the resonation remained. To Marty’s left, the girl rose from the ocean but only revealed her shoulders. She ventured tentatively closer, remained silent and watched him.
Marty was transfixed. The redness of the sun shone on her rusty, wet hair. Her pale, clear skin and glowing green eyes were stunning. She looked like a pre-Raphaelite painting. Marty blushed, she didn’t seem to be clothed but her hair conveniently covered all that was bare.
The girl smiled in amusement at his expression.
The resonation pulsated like a heartbeat.
He stepped forwards. She jerked away.
“I won’t hurt you,” he said softly.
She remained silent but blinked; her eyelids moved sideways.
Marty fought a frown but was curious.
She ventured closer and gazed into his eyes. Tentatively she reached out and touched his hand. A spark of blue light travelled across the surface of his skin and sent a tingle of warmth through his whole body.
The moment expanded. The resonation increased. They were connected.
CHAPTER 3
Ripples
“Marty!” called a strong Scottish accent.
Marty glanced over his shoulder.
Danny, Marty’s seventeen year old housemate, was waving.
Marty glanced behind him; the girl was gone. All that remained was a ripple on the surface. Shit!
With a flurry of sun-streaked, strawberry-blonde hair and a smattering of freckles underlining his pale grey eyes, Danny strapped his surfboard leash to his leg. He glanced at Marty and frowned. “What yer doing swimming in yer clothes?” he questioned.
Danny, was born and bred in Banff. He was shy until you knew him, then he was the cheekiest blighter around. He was famed for his random thoughts, “if yer did ney chew spaghetti them how would it come out the other end?” Was one comment that would haunt him for most of his teenage years.
“So why yer wearing yer clothes in the sea then?” asked Danny again.
“I thought someone was drowning,” Marty replied searching the horizon.
“I bet it was a seal,” said Danny. “It’s always a seal.”
Marty frowned, “no it wasn’t a seal.”
“So what was it then?” said Danny in a playful tone.
Marty turned to Danny and shrugged, “don’t worry about it.”
“Go get yer wetsuit on and we can go for a surf. That’s unless yer want to surf in yer clothes,” said Danny with a grin.
Marty looked down at his sodden clothes, “I reckon a wetsuit would be better. I’ll be back in a sec,” he said turning towards the harbour wall.
Danny studied his friend, “what’s bothering yer Marty?”
“Nothing.”
“Is it yer dad again?”
Marty shook his head.
“Have the nightmares calmed?”
Marty waded up the beach. “I’ll be back in a bit...”
“You know one day you will feel better…” said Danny launching onto his board. “I’ll see yer out there...”

Once Marty was in his wetsuit, he launched himself onto his board and paddled out back. For a while, he sat silently watching the waves. “Danny… This place… It’s got a lot of legends hasn’t it?”
“Aye, loads,” he replied.
“Anything about people and the sea?” he asked.
“A few… Actually most of them are about sea witches or women who used to swim out to save pirates from shipwrecks. Actually… There are loads about pirates. Why?” asked Danny studying his friend curiously.
“Just interested. We’ve only been here a few weeks and I don’t really know much about the place. Plus legends are interesting,” he said trailing his hand through the water.
“Oh there’s plenty to learn. We need to see me gran at some point and she will tell yer story after story,” said Danny. “Oh and she’ll feed you homemade shortbread.”
“Set coming,” said Marty, nodding towards the rising walls of water.
“Race yer,” said Danny paddling full speed.
Marty shook his head and followed – he was such a grub!
Marty quickly caught up and once the wave lifted, flicked himself to standing. The pair glided up and down the wall of water, absorbed by their favourite element.
“Look Shana and Johnny are on their way out,” said Marty riding off the back of the wave.
“Marty!” Shana called excitedly, with her thick Irish accent.
Shana was tomboyish and wore her raven hair, high and tied back. Her sharp, blue eyes showed a distinctly astute demeanour. Her eagle-like observation scrutinised people’s behaviour. She never missed a thing or commenting on it. Marty liked her brutal honesty. He always knew where he stood with her – even if it wasn’t favourable. He had never had that with any other girls especially ones that were eighteen.
“Marty you were out early this morning,” she said, being drowned out by a wave.
“Just after some quiet time,” he replied.
“Well now yer got the whole gang. It won’t be quiet now will it Marty? Shame about that eh?” she said flicking some water at him.
Johnny Boy, at twenty one, was the oldest of the group. A Celtic tattoo scribed over the right side of his face drew attention away from his freckles or maybe even joined them. He was solid, brash and for his own entertainment wore red lifeguarding Speedos with long socks. No one else ever got it but that was Johnny all over. He was his own person in his self-amused world.
“Shana get your arse on a wave!” he said. “That is unless you’re going to flounder about like a wee girl.”
“Ach shut it Johnny! I am a girl,” she said rolling her eyes.
“Come on Shana you know it’s about physique. I’m a hunter and you’re a gatherer,” he said flexing his biceps.
Shana shook her head. “Ah? Gatherer eh? I t’ink youse should be careful what yer say kilt boy!”
“Hardy, Ha, Haaa!” he responded laughing flatly.
Shana glanced towards the horizon; the next set was on its way. Johnny seized Shana’s board and stopped her paddling.
“Johnny!”
He held her there grinning mischievously.
“Will you let me go? Next ones mine. Ladies first and all that!” said Shana prizing herself from Johnny’s grip. As she paddled, she glanced over her shoulder and gave Johnny a filthy look. Johnny trailed behind like a pet dog.
Marty raised an eyebrow. “He so fancies her.”
Danny was quiet as he watched her catch the wave.
Johnny Boy paddled swiftly for the next one, bounced up onto his board and raced along pulling as many manouvres as he could.
Shana finished her ride and was in the midst of paddling back when Johnny pulled a floater, landed it and ended his ride with a showy, backward dive.
“He’s such a tart!” said Danny shaking his head. “Shana can do so much better than him!”
The pair turned their boards slowly. A fresh set of waves were approaching.
“Erm… Danny I had bit of a strange thing happen this morning.”
“Aye… And?”
“Look I thought I saw a girl drown today. She was under for ages... Then after about ten minutes she just turned up... It was so weird. And you know what? I think she was naked... What do you think?”
“Naked? She must have been cold,” he said glancing at the horizon.
“Danny before the word naked there were a number of other sentences. Could you tell me what you reckon to those as well?”
“A naked women under the water for ten minutes? That’s ney possible- is it?” said Danny stroking his chin.
“That’s what I thought,” said Marty.
“They normally wear something,” said Danny turning to paddle with a grin.
Marty huffed, his friend was still smirking as he cut into the wave.
Marty followed, caught the wave and returned out back.
Danny was sitting facing the horizon.
“Joking aside Marty. Did yer really think she was drowning?” Danny asked.
“Yeh. She was under for ages. It doesn’t make sense and there was this weird… Sound,” he said quietly.
Danny shifted on his board and studied his friend thoughtfully. “Did she fart?”
“No!”
“Well then she probably had a diving canister and that made the noise. Marty there is always an explanation. Don’t start getting involved in the legends… The legends around here will drive yer mad!” he said honestly.
“Danny I really don’t know how to say this but she… Well she was different. It wasn’t right Danny. Her eyelids did weird things too,” said Marty.
“Marty mate, listen to yerself... Anyway girl’s eyes always do weird things when they fancy you. Now I think we need to catch something an’ get back to shore. We can talk then,” said Danny with a look of concern. He gestured to the next wave, paddled and rode it all the way in.
For a moment, Marty sat in contemplation. He glanced at the next set and paddled; a second later, it closed out on him. He ended the pummelling by pushing from the seabed and forcing himself to the surface. For a few seconds he grappled for air before the next wave landed on him. Carnage! Amongst the underwater turmoil, a female hand reached out and guided him to the shallows. That same magnetic sensation pulsated through his arm.
Once Danny reached shore, he waded up the beach to join Johnny Boy and Shana. The pair stood waiting impatiently on the beach. They had watched Marty suffer yet another pounding but no one said a word. They had all been through the same process at one time or another. Shana was once washed up on the beach in front of a group of old women sitting on a bench, wearing white hats, stuffing ice creams into their wrinkled, old faces. “Look it is a girl I told you Morag,” they had said in fits of laughter.
Humiliation!
Marty and the girl remained in silence catching their breath.
“Iris,” she said pointing at herself.
Marty nodded, “Marty.”
She held his hand tighter and blinked. Her eyes made the same sideways motion, “tomorrow,” she said.
A resonation filled the air.
“Tomorrow?” asked Marty.
Iris searched the horizon; she appeared guilty.
She blinked a couple of times, her eyelids moved sideways once more.
“Go now,” she said reaching out to touch Marty’s hair.
A second later, she submerged.
On the beach, Johnny shifted whilst drumming on his board. Shana shot him a look; it made him smile and drum louder.
For a moment the water calmed and the group witnessed the woman submerge.
“Is Marty with a girl,” asked Shana curiously.
“Aye the little bugger..” said Danny with a jolt of realisation.
“Come on yer rat, spill the beans,” demanded Johnny.
“Erm… I do ney know exactly. Just a girl,” said Danny.
“What exactly do you mean by that then?” asked Shana curiously.
“Was she... Naked?” asked Johnny brightly.
“Yep. Bare as baby’s back side. She could be even barer!” said Shana.
“How do you get barer than a backside?” wondered Danny.
No one answered.
“Let’s go and get changed. We’ll be late for work and I canny say it was a naked lady that made me late!” said Johnny, preparing to walk up the beach.
Marty emerged from the ocean and jogged up the beach towards the group.
Johnny glanced over his shoulder and frowned. “Marty I think yer friend has gone under and ney come up. She’s been under a while. That’s no’ physically possible,” he said shaking his head.
“Don’t worry about her, she’s some sort of free-diver- I think,” he said glancing at the water.
“Marty I’m a Life Guard. Yer not going to get one past me. Now I know about these things. The fact is: she’s been under a long while so yer need to keep an eye out.”
In the distance, a shape broke the surface and disappeared. “Was that her?” asked Johnny glancing at Marty.
“Johnny she’s fine. Now let’s get changed,” he said walking to the rickety old staircase.
Out to sea Iris broke the surface and dived.
“Look at the distance she’s covered, that’s ney physically possible,” said Johnny. “She must have an identical twin. The average person canny survive three minutes without air. She was a couple of times that,” he said scratching his cheek.
“What’s going on Marty?” asked Shana.
Marty shrugged.
“Let’s get dressed,” said Danny. “Now I canny pee in this suit any more, I’m getting cold,” said Danny, stomping through some mermaid’s purses.
“Nice, very nice, glad to know that there Danny,” said Shana sighing.
“We all pee in wet suits Shana, even girls. They just have the added advantage of getting both sides at once. Nothing worse than having one leg warmer than the other- I say,” said Danny climbing the stairs.
“Ach Danny!” said Shana shaking her head. Why were boys so crass?




Chapter 4
Crooked cottages and bent straight lanes.
The group stood on the cliff top overlooking Gardenstown.
“I like it here,” said Shana pulling on her crimson, fleecy sweater.
“There’s something mystical about it,” said Danny.
Johnny raised an eyebrow as he loaded the boards on the back of his hulky red Land Rover. “Come on yer wee girl,” he said to Danny.
Danny folded his arms and glanced at Shana who smiled seductively back.
“Move yer skinny wee arse Danny! We’ll be late for work,” said Johnny noticing how he looked at her. “Get in then,” he said. He slammed the door and nodded at Marty and Shana as he drove off.
“Are you coming with me then Shana?” asked Marty.
“If that’s okay now. It’s not like we have a choice anyway. Bertha is more comfortable than that hulky Landrover,” she said. “You know… I think Danny must have run here again,” said Shana.
“Danny is always running somewhere,” Marty said opening the camper door and gesturing for her to climb in.
Shana paused and gazed down at the small village. “You know I like the little houses next to the harbour,” she said. “It really is quaint here Marty.”
Marty nodded but glanced back at the cove. The girl was bothering him.

The pair were silent as Marty drove Bertha down the hill.
“That girl,” said Shana breaking the silence.
“What about her?”
“You like her don’t you?” said Shana studying Marty’s reaction.
Marty shrugged, “Shana I only just met her and she seemed nice enough.”
“You’re glad to be here in Gardenstown aren’t you?” said Shana quite out of the blue.
Marty nodded, “I never thought I would leave London and live in such a quaint village. If anyone had told me I would live close to a lighthouse, I would have said they were mad. A year ago dad was trying to get me to work in the city and then... Well then... We know what happened. Suddenly it all seems so ridiculous. I was going to follow in his footsteps and become a trader…”
“Marty me gran says that a crisis will bring a person to change. You’ve had the crisis so yer life has changed. When yer look back it will be for the best,” she said glancing at Marty and giving him an affectionate pat.
Marty sighed, “I wish that was the case. I would rather have my dad around Shana. I was finally going to get to spend some time with him - even if it was working.”
He glanced sadly at the empty road ahead, as they navigated the desolate streets leading towards the harbour.
“My goodness Marty - quiet isn’t it?” said Shana purposely changing the subject. “The morning rush is as much as an old man on a bike and someone walking their dog!”
“Don’t you reckon the houses in the village look as though they’ve been piled on top of each other by a giant hand?” said Marty gesturing towards the village.
“If that’s what yer see Marty then that’s what yer see,” said Shana quite obviously not seeing it.
“I am an artist…” said Marty.
“Ach Marty yer are what yer are…You see a giant hand and I see a bunch of tiny cottages. If we were all the same now…” she said.
Bertha came to a halt by a circular bay near the harbour. Marty attempted to gauge the size of a parking space next to the harbour edge. He paused and glanced up Straight Lane.
“Crooked Cottage on straight lane…” said Shana following his gaze. “You picked well there Marty. Who would have thought we would live in a cottage with such a nuts name now. It really is brilliant and it is an individual amongst the other cottages,” she said with a smile.
“I like the fact that Straight Lane suggests it is straight. How wrong could they be?” said Marty.
“Now I reckon it must have been named by someone was wasted trying to walk in a straight line. A circle would have been straighter,” said Shana smirk.
Marty glanced at her. Not only did Shana laugh at her own jokes, but she had a certain way of saying things that made absolutely no sense. She was stupidly brilliant!
“Now let me out before you get onto that damned harbour. I hate that bloody sheer edge!” she said. Quickly she launched herself out of the door and scrambled up the hill. Marty carefully parked. The ten foot drop to his right left no room for error.
When Bertha was secure, he climbed out of the passenger side and walked the hill to Crooked Cottage. The curtains either side of the lane twitched. Why didn’t people think they could be seen through backlit, transparent curtains He stopped and waved at one particular old woman peering through the curtain at him. She looked behind and made a desperate run for it (an old people’s run). Marty chuckled and paused outside crooked cottage. He felt so at peace there. It felt so secret.
He turned the key in the lock, took a deep breath and walked into utter mayhem.
“Get out me way, I’m a girl I need to wash!” screamed Shana thundering down the stairs wearing a towel.
“I’m going to be late Marty. I mean it Danny, get out of me way!” shouted Shana. She scrabbled for the bathroom and slammed the door in Danny’s face.
In the meantime, Johnny Boy stood in a daze on the stairs wearing his speedo’s and long white socks.
A flurry of bodies jostled about Marty, each hurried about the house trying to grab whatever they could. Marty watched them collide with each other in the corridors while they grew increasingly frustrated at each other’s time spent in the bathroom. Danny didn’t really need to rush because he worked at the local surf shop; a laid back joint where he basically hung out all day talking about surf. Johnny worked at the Life Guard hut on the main beach between Gardenstown and Banff. Shana was taking part in her apprenticeship at the local garage. She was causing quite a stir. Marty, on the other hand, simply had one floor to climb. He would spend the day painting in his studio.
The physical tornados calmed when Johnny, Danny and Shana departed the cottage in an indiscernible bundle. All fought playfully to get down the lane first. Marty breathed a sigh of relief, space. He wondered back up to the middle floor and paced about his digital dark room and studio. He fiddled about for a while in procrastination and finally sat on a chair he had designed especially for his art.
After making himself comfortable, he sketched enthusiastically. Every image he completed he stuck to the wall. On completion of the third sketch, he stood up and admired what he had created: a series of images of Iris under water. It seemed she had caught his imagination and appeared in a pose that resembled Venus de Milo. Chewing his lip, he adjusted her legs. He hadn’t seen her legs had he? No matter what he did, he just could not get them right. Were they long, short, slender or defined?
With the urge to fidget, he wandered across to an old bookcase in the corner. He traced his finger across the outer covers. Candide by Voltaire, Nautical Tales and Olde World myths of Mermaids. Marty picked up the third book and flicked through. A section called Mermaids and muses - a compilation of stories caught his attention. The Little Mermaid by Hans Christian Anderson 1836, Ondine by La Motte Fouque 1811, and Mermaids, Sirens and other lures 1835. At the back of the book was a handwritten scrap of paper. Marty carefully unfolded it:

13/6/1836
‘Never was I so shocked as the day that the little lady came singing at us from the water. She sang so well she mesmerised. The innocent wee creature seemed a wee bit nervous and hid behind a rock. I thought she a little strange as she swam, almost bare, with breast like that of a woman. The girl, fair and pale, showed no worries of growing cold either.
Doris my fellow seaweed gatherer made her way for a closer glimpse. We thought it strange the wee girl not say a thing and just sing - if that is what yer call it. The eerie hum bore through my very being and swam through me mind. Something about the girl did ney feel right and fear stopped me making a step forward. There were stories of the women of the sea and their curses.
Doris was more adventurous and ventured forward for a closer look. When she saw through the water she reacted violently. The whites of her eyes and no blood in her skin ended in her collapse. The we girl did ney like the reaction and disappeared under the water. As she departed, we, all of us, saw something strange: her legs moulded together and deformed. She swam gracefully at speed and then disappeared. I... no... I canny say... but the Devil mutates his spawn. There have been stories from the circus when they pass. They say this area provides many a spectacle.


15/6/1836
Today a body of a deformed woman arrived on the beach. She was caught in a net by Cameron, me husband. He was distraught, like he’d killed a human and ney a mutation. It was said by Gilbert that we were to keep this finding quiet. It was too late, for the three of us had confessed to the priest the night before. We asked to be released from the Devil. A remembering appeared in the chronicle who published the findings. I canny say who released the information of THE INCIDENT. But on that day, in those empty eyes I saw my future and it ripped through my soul…