A rather strange coincidence. Imagine this - I climb on a train to go on a journey and I run into a young lady that I used to work with. She asks me about my office personality types and how it is going... She said she would love to read a book with all the office archetypes and personalities. It was quite a profound moment because these archetypes inspired Richidiot.com - dating... So with this in mind - my news is that I am going to compile the book of office observation and release it in the coming months. I have to admit, it is a fun one to write because all I have to do is sit and watch the 'office zoo!' Happy days. Oh and the e-book for rich idiot is on for 98p until I release the second in the series here is the link:http://www.amazon.co.uk/Rich-Idiot-com-Dating-Idiot-ebook/dp/B00ATF8QF2

Rower's buttock and the bum massage ordeal!

The unfortunate incident of the bum massage. Have you ever had to ask anyone to massage your bum muscles? If you have I suggest that you do not admit it to anyone. Okay let me give you are ‘brief’ history. As many of you know, I take part in the fantastic sport of rowing. This means getting up early at the weekend, carrying heavy boats, bruising yourself and then competing against other teams of ladies in treacherous tsunami-like conditions. Sometimes the boats sink, other times mothers have to save their children from drowning and fellow team members fart when they shout ‘start’ at the beginning of the race (they said start not fart!). I am still disturbed that I actually inhaled someone else’s intestine at the beginning of a race. After training endlessly for hours, experiencing painful blisters and muscle burn - you endure it all for the rare occasion when you actually win… Yes win. The tingling feeling of winning and the elation that you have conquered the conditions to be number one is a motivator for many. I go for the cake. Please don’t tell my team that… There are loads of Victoria sponges and chocolate brownies – all homemade. I have the domestic capability of a squid with leprosy… So the delight of a light sponge is a dream. Sorry I deviated. There have been many times where we have come second but last week we ‘connected’ and gave it our all in conditions that would extract washing from the washing line and deposit it five miles down the road – usually on a cow’s head! So with all this in mind, for two races we gave it full power, so much so, my bow person, Sally, held back from vomiting on my back. We reached our limits, surpassed them and then pushed again… After, albeit elated, my left buttock was up in arms, it does not have any arms but if it did it would have been waving them! That miserable buttock felt like it was on fire… After a night of celebration, where one of my team nodded off on her pizza, the cox lost her voice and there were some random incidents of knicker borrowing and bra lending… I headed home for a night of grumbling buttock. I decided that I was suffering from a complaint called rower’s buttock. Since the muscles were tight, I thought I would be able to solve the buttock revolt by taking part in hot yoga. Surely a buttock would not feel hot if the surrounding temperature was higher than the buttock – that must be some law of physics… Unfortunately the bottom burn was not solved, so I called my local sports masseuse and requested a massage. I simply said I was a rower and needed a ‘rowing’ massage. That Tuesday I was all concerned at work. I mentioned the situation to the boys at work, they all suddenly experts in the art of bum massage. I suggested that they demonstrate on each other and suddenly their skills were not so refined or vocal. Boys! So that evening I ventured into the Sports massage shop and went up to the rather gorgeous and statuesque looking man and whispered. ‘Hi am here for the bum massage.’ He smiled politely. ‘I came for the personal trainining!’ Bugger! Could I pretend I was a personal trainer? The image of a tortoise retracting into its shell spun through my mind…Why does it always happen to me? I had just confessed that I was having a bum massage to a hot, male stranger. Yes it worked as an opening line but I don’t think such lines result in dates… Hmmm. Anyway, my Dutch masseuse emerged from the massage room. She was petite, blonde and looked quite fragile. I have noticed that this sort of person usually has the most vicious thumbs… ‘Are you the masseuse?’ She nodded. ‘You are the rower…’ I nodded. ‘Follow me…’ We went into the stark brown room that was decorated with wall charts of muscles. Pride of place, at the centre of the wall, was a pair of muscular buttocks. ‘That’s what I have…’ I said pointing. ‘Everyone has those,’ she responded with a straight face. I studied her and noticed she was smirking at her own joke. ‘So lie down then…’ I studied the massage table and removed my trousers. ‘I wore the largest knickers I own so that you do not have to see my bottom,’ I blurted. Admittedly they nearly reached my neck and resembled something that superman might wear over tights… I was being considerate. The expression of confusion washed over her face… ‘I am going to massage your Glutes not admire them…’ It was lucky that I hadn’t decorated them then! I was so embarrassed. I will not go into further details but the massage commenced. At this time I would like to cut to the image of a particularly vicious WWF wrestling match. Followed by Rocky being knocked down in one of his films and finally a milk jelly being hit by a large mallet. Anyway when I suffer from pain, I laugh. I don’t know why but the more painful it is the more I laugh. The woman was elbowing my left posterial cheek - I was laughing hysterically and it became contagious. The more I laughed the more she laughed. We had to call a time out to catch our breaths, that was before she attacked the second cheek. Admittedly the right side was not so painful but I would prefer you to imagine slapping a cheesecake with a table tennis bat, rolling a rolling pin of hard boiled eggs with shells on and finally popping giant bubble wrap with your bare feet… Pop! And then the massage was over. I had tears in my eyes, bruises on my bottom and a masseuse who was studying me whilst coughing through laughter…. We went out to reception to pay and I gave her a tip. ‘One pound for each butt cheek ,’ I said. If I had had a fat bottom, with the equivalent of double chins, I would have given her four pounds… She looked at me again and I noticed that the reception was quiet. ‘I was suffering from rower’s buttock and she has straightened my cheek out.’ I said with a gentle pat to my posterior. There was one of those arid silences. There was no room for a tumble-weed, more of a bit of dust attached to a clump of hair that could be found in the carpet…. Of course, those who were sitting in reception were the beautiful elite. One woman was the type to visit the gym wearing the smallest leopard skin outfits. No doubt shefound apt places to bend over to distract the men while they were grunting. The chap sitting by the door was rather fit and obviously an athlete. He was now staring at my straightened buttock…. Hmm how did I get him from there to my face? So with all this in mind… This is for the young ladies at the rowing club who asked me to write more about the random things that happen in my life… You know who you are… Clue - you speak with odd accents…. Moral of the story: Tight buttocks might sound like a good idea but are not terribly practical. Moral of the story two: when confessing to being in need of a bottom massage make sure you don’t tell the wrong person. Moral of the story three: Take six pairs of spare knickers to every rowing race because someone will at some point either lose, soil or end up with wet knickers….

Dating and the random world of table football.

-
Okay, so I was not going to share this but by popular demand I apparently owe it to female kind to share one of my more random dates...

So I met this one on a fitness website - designed for people who are into exercise... I love rowing so I thought that a man who exercised would appeal to me. Imagine this - the moment I press click to join the website - the hottest bloke you could imagine instantly contacted me. I thought the heavens were smiling on me. He was beautiful, could type a sentence and was taller than me... Wow, wow and triple wow. At this point it is customary for me to look over my shoulder and wonder whether there is some kind of joke involved... Nope... Straight away we began to chat and he actually seemed nice. Again wooooooooooooooooooop! There had to be something.
I don't know about anyone else but I am searching for that chemical attraction and I thought - imagine - this could be it.

So after a heavy session of rowing which resulted in bleeding palms and blisters, I patched myself up with elastoplast and headed for the date. I know I am classy girl but if men can do the Italian shower with the Linx affect a woman can do the same with impulse - true love... Oh yes! So I there I am smelling of true love with a hint of perspiration and there he is... My goodness he was beautiful, tall, and... when he open his mouth well it was apparent that he had been granted the gift of beauty without the gift of intellect. He was such a nice chap but during the conversation he asked me to explain some of the words I was using...

Further into the date he showed me a picture of his newly decorated bedroom - it was decked out in Liverpool football posters, curtains and matching bedspread. To top it off there was a table football table beside his bed. He was so lovely but he did not get the 'so is that how you do foreplay joke?' I then had numerous visions of romantic moments with the Liverpool team gazind down from the wall. Then on top of that I became rather amused about being woken up in the night - 'shall we have a quickie - a game of table football.' Obviously my date was not so amused and the fact I was shaking with laughter probably did not appeal... Oh well t'is life. We all have our own special ways of doing things so I did not show him a picture of my bedroom with the taxidermied squirrels - only joking... But imagine if I had come back with a picture like that - all these stuffed squirrels... Right back to normal life.
Now with my previous blogs I always have a moral of the story and on my useless dates I have a summary. So the summary went like this - I feel that you and I have different tastes and I don't feel any chemistry. I don't think you feel it either. Good luck with finding the right one.
I was surprised to have a summary response from the beautiful man - 'I am glad you said that - I don't think I could go out with a girl with bigger biceps than me who is more intelligent. I liked meeting you though - but I feel stupid now. I always thought I was clever until I met you. Now I know I'm not...' Imagine how bad I felt then.

Moral of the story - dating sites for fit men do have fit men - however they may also have table football beside the bed.

When dating a fit man do not compare biceps especially if yours are bigger.
When dating any man do not make him feel stupid even if he is.



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Bottom kicking, reviews and a general update...

Okay, okay, I know... Yes I have been crap at keeping this updated but there are only so many plates a person can spin on a stick simultaneously!
The last months have looked like this - train for rowing competitions, work full time, date a dickhead - teach a creative writing course, edit a book, write a book and on top of all that go to work full time... Can you forgive me for not being able to blog too? As much as I wanted to share dickhead details, I have kept it to myself. I still cannot understand men and now my learning had taken a whole new tangent - it is the learning that a man can actually be an emotional black hole and a mental enigma... Fascinating or infuriating - I will leave that to you...



So the reason that I am back is to share my excitement - I have a review on the Resonance from a teen book reviewer who gave it 8/10 - bear in mind I am up against the big boys and girls of publishing... So that has made me very very very happy... I am doing a little dance now - dad dancing with a bit of break dancing with a hint of typing...

The link is as follows: http://www.flamingnet.com/​bookreviews/newreviews/​newbookreview.cfm?title=The Resonance (eBook)

So the teaching has been one of the best things I could do - it made me re-teach myself all the things I had not been doing. Yes - it also coincided with the Resonance edit. I realised that the art of description is paramount. It is something that I had never considered so important. Then there I am guiding a lesson on description and I think - oh shouldn't I be doing this... Oops - shhh don't tell anyone... So with that in mind I am now re-editing Goylegate to the heady heights of my own approval with descriptions that will enable visions of both horror and inspiration. I love it!

CHAPTER 1 The Resonance

The Resonance
by
Michelle Dry

Published by Michelle Dry
Copyright Michelle Dry 2011
This book is shall not be lent, resold or hired out by way of trade or otherwise without the author’s consent. All rights remain with the author: 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 one another - that is our curse, our burden and our secret.’

CHAPTER 0
The Resonation
1834
A bizarre humming filled the air and swirled about the remote Scottish village of Gardenstown - she was searching. The villagers purposely avoided discussion, glanced at each other knowingly and scurried to the safety of their grey, stone cottages. 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 peeled elegantly towards the shore. Rainbows danced amongst the salty spray. The undulating motion of the scarlet-tinged ocean drowned out her subtle call. Her new love was unaware he had chosen her and that she had accepted.
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. The smell of damp grass and seaweed wafted on the same breeze ruffling his dark, wavy hair. With a quick flick, he swept a few wispy strands behind his ear and continued to dither. Should he go in? The thought of climbing into a damp wetsuit at that time of the morning was enough to turn anyone off! Rubbing his tired eyes, he was consumed in his usual shall I or shan’t I routine. After picking fluff off the arm of his hoody, he shuffled towards Bertha, his camper van, turned back and paused. Was that a woman swimming?
Out to sea an enormous set of waves rose on the horizon. The unsuspecting swimmer maintained her rhythmic crawl. Surely, she would notice. The rolling waves gathered momentum as they pursued her and prepared their weighty descent.
“Bollocks!” he muttered under his breath. With a jolt, he tore down the rickety staircase, navigated the slippery cockle-crunching shoreline and broke into a sprint on the compacted sand.
The first wave towered above the girl.
“You need to come in,” shouted Marty waving frantically from the beach.
With the repetitive crawling rhythm, the swimmer did not break her routine. Instead, she continued oblivious to the rising ocean walls. With a sense of helplessness, Marty watched the wave peak, tumble and crash down. She was gone.
He waited for some indication of her location. Nothing. With a glare at the water, he gritted his teeth. Why did it always happen to him? In aggravation, he kicked off his flip-flops and waded into the shallows. The froth of the first wave roared towards him. He dived and surfaced. Sucking in a lung full of air, he submerged intending to swim beyond the break. As he swam, he urgently searched for even a hint of her presence. There was nothing. Surfacing for another breath, a huge wave rose above him. Marty gazed up at the glistening, fluid wall and ducked back to the churn beneath. Could he see hair or seaweed? The circling ocean motion spun his athletic physique into an area of calm where a peaceful figure was suspended. With a mass of golden hair drifting in all directions and mischievous glint in her eye, she smiled. It was her!
His heart pounded as the air slowly evacuated his lungs. As he sunk, he gazed at the beautiful creature knowing he had to surface. With a strong kick, his survival instincts overrode his desire to stay. Full of curiosity, she followed him, circled and silently peered into his soul. She emitted a gentle hum, which tingled through his veins. What was it and why could he hear her through the water? He had to surface! With an amused expression, she radiated the feeling of love. He experienced her emotional warmth through the icy ocean.
With the expression of confusion, he touched his heart.
She smiled and radiated again.
Butterflies tingled in his gut. He was mesmerised. He desired to stay.

The sound of an elephant laying an egg...

Have you ever considered what the sound of an elephant laying an egg might be like? I just wanted to put an example of a hook as an opener here... Oh yes hooks are wonderful instruments in the art of writing... Why do I mention this? Well this last ten weeks has been wonderful. I have been teaching a creative writing class and I loved it...

For those who know me, as shy as I can be, when it comes to being really passionate about something and having a captive audience, in a confined space with a closed door - something happens. A mental explosion of information all constructed to meet the student's needs.... I didn't just love it... I really loved it!

The thing with teaching for ten weeks is that I had to prepare lessons. At some point I will post them on here... All the time I was doing that made it difficult to go to work, race in my rowing team / train in the rowing team and edit The Resonance... I know ... Excuses... Mine is being human!

I have to admit I am quite excited about being back, previously the blog became a pressure. At times I would walk out of the toilet at work (rather than fall in) and people would point at me.... Not because I had made a smell, but rather because I was the girl who wrote the books and the blog. Again for those of you who really know me - I am a private person - especially in a lavatory. In fact, sometimes I suffer stage fright and am transported back to those years on ships where people would pursue you to ask you about ports. The worst moment was when two passengers actually shoved their head under a cubicle door, whilst I was in midst monster creation and asked me how many steps there were in the Hermitage museum... Imagine. I think I might have actually answered too... Oh God the years on ships and the memories...

Right before I deviate again... I just want to let you know the good news...
The Resonance is already out in digital and the solid form book will be available in the new year.

At the moment I am finishing the draft of my very secret book and then straight into 'Beneath the surface."
Okay just to let you know there has been a vote on what 'Beneath the surface' should be called. Apparently this sounds like a submarine. The other offerings have been Portholes and Poop Deck. Please bear in mind this is a real life diary of a cruise ship... Any opinions will be greatly appreciated... In the meantime, I will keep writing posts... I have quite a lot to catch up on... Especially in terms of escaping mundanity...

Talk soon

MichelleXXX

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!