Possessive.

Lately I've been having such awful, miserable dreams. I know they've been brought from stress and psychological issues imbedded in my head, but finally the last two nights I dreamt easily, pleasant feelings and fuzziness when I awoke, dreams of cake and triangle cut sandwiches, and dreams of Him. Him being the stranger who I actually know, the one I always dream about when it's...'that' kind of dream. My mind sometimes becomes a time machine, and the images it gives me are so vivid, the experience so detailed I swear for a moment I was actually there. I can taste a drop of salt on my lower lip, I can still feel the heat that spread up my back and around my neck like his hands, I wake up with my heart still racing and a very physical reaction left from the aftermath of the dream. He's still taller than me but not by much, he fits my frame perfectly, freckles splattered beneath a pink flush of his Greek straight nose and cheeks. Wolfish hair covering his arms and chest. I can feel the scratch of stubble and the soft fur even once I'm awake and I'm breathless. I know him, but he doesn't know me yet, and I can play his ignorance to my advantage knowing there will be no consequences because when I dream like this I know full well it's a dream, I dream the dream for fun, I'm sure I could wake myself up if I wanted to. I'm no longer the clumsy, foolish reality of who I am when I'm awake, I can actually play a part like a seductive actress. These dreams are my favourites, travelling back in time and enjoying myself, it's waking up that drives me mad, I wake up in a hot flush and cant concentrate properly for the rest of the day, at least when I wake up I have a few gleeful moments of smiling to myself knowing he's mine in this time, that no matter how many times I go back in my dreams and he doesn't know me, I'll wake up in a world where he does and he is mine. Anyone can have the past where the dream version lives, but no one but me will have the here and now and the future.
I won't give him up now.
I'm actually quite possessive.

Cake

To appreciate cake, one must first eat cake...and then some more

You cannot eat your cake and have it too, so I suggest you bake another

To not eat cake is to betray the bakery code

Cake is good, so are friends, but you can't eat friends, so cake is better

Cake is like bread, so it's okay to eat for breakfast instead of toast

A good household always has cake for guests, and another for when they have gone

A woman must have, at all times, the basic ingredients to bake a cake in times of need when the shops have closed.

Cupcakes are like cake dwarfs, we must have seven of them for the story to be right.

Crumbs are just pieces of cake that are very, very small, and one must not be sizest, eat all the crumbs.

Friends offer you cake, great friends give you a huge slice, the best of friends bring in a whole cake and two forks.

the back of textbooks

I was about five when I knew all I ever wanted to do was write stories. I hated school, to the point where my mother couldn’t physically drag me, I’d be screaming and crying, choking: I hated it. I hated being stuck behind four walls being dictated to, when all I wanted to do was write my stories. I did learn however that exchanging one set of four walls for another wouldn’t do any good, education lay in one and education would lead to escape. I took every opportunity slim though they were, I worked hard, became determined, ambitious. The back of every text book I ever had in school was filled with pages of stories I would be sneakily writing in at every opportunity. It’s quite simply my natural instinct. I don’t have anything else.
 

Marilyn

Marilyn Monroe seems to me to be the ultimate bomb shell with unquestionable sex appeal. Whether or not you prefer a blonde, brunette, or redhead I think she hits the target with her general demeanor. It's mainly her movements I love rather than her makeup and style, it's every slight movement, every gentle caress and the seductive wiggle walk she seems to have mastered, I'd love to learn how to walk like that and I wonder if you were rich could you pay for lessons in sexy walking and movement, or is it just  an art one must learn over years. I've always envied girls that are really effortlessly sexy, it's infuriating. I watch Marilyn Monroe movies and sigh dramatically, I wish you were still alive so that I might hope to get an email response of advice from you, what a bloody waste it was when you died. 

The suitcase

 

Short Story in the Fantastic Genre

The Suitcase

Wordcount: 4503

 

The reading of a will is always somewhat awkward, particularly when one didn't really know the deceased and just happens to fall into that extended family that's been left an inheritance by default. Poor Aunt Martha looks positively rancid sitting over there, it won't be long before it's her turn in the dirt. Caroline Derville a young sort of pretty woman who I remember to be a designer in London is pouring tea. She had married into the family a few years ago. Her husband had since died but since she was here I supposed that meant she was still on friendly terms with the family. As for everyone else; I recognised the odd face and a rather peculiar smell of old perfume, but names evaded me. I had not in truth been the best nephew of the dead man, and since my own parents passing away five years ago, I had neglected to visit or even respond to invitations.

What was family anyway? A bunch of people who pretend to get on and care for each other when most the time they can't stand one another and are bonking off with each other's husbands and wives.  Well its true isn't it? There's never a well to do family party without one married person eyeing up another; an affair takes place, the gossip breaks, perhaps a maid saw a naked rear end in the middle of the night retreating quickly and quietly from one room to another, and then there's a scandal, some grandmother or such will be taken over by the vapours for the threat of such tabloid gossip, then it's all hushed up with money and family solidarity and then everything goes along as it did before. Indeed, such is the life of upper class families, they all muddle along, waiting for someone to die and leave them a chunk of estate, hoping secretly a few people will get murdered in the meantime to increase the size of their cut. I decided to remove myself from such a family atmosphere. I have plenty of friends in London, from University and from the museum where I work my week out as a historian. I've always been more interested in the past than the present, nothing exciting ever happens here, it's all happened before and I missed it!

The room has grown terribly smaller with the arrival of the family, they're munching on salmon sandwiches as if they don't know there is another platter awaiting in the lounge, but they do know. I just want to get this over with and get going, I feel strange enough that this Uncle Martin, the brother of my father, has bequeathed me something and I wasn't even around when he died: I was in Rome, studying for a Roman invasion expedition we're holding at the museum. Everyone here seems 'jolly glad' to see me, except Edward, that's the son of my dead uncle, so he'll be getting the lions share I presume. He's an unpleasant sort of fellow, not entirely bad looking but with a sour expression as if he smells something gone off, that may just be that he's standing over poor aunt Martha, the woman positively looks like a corpse! I actually think she may have dozed off. Edward's glared at me once or twice and greeted me with a 'didn't expect you here, glad to see you again' in such a tone as to suggest he couldn't care less if I'd been thrown under a train on my journey here.

Mr Dawson finally coughs a few times for attention and then a few more, Edward raises his voice

"Can everyone take a seat, let's get on with this reading"

Everyone hushes and sits, Aunt Martha is still asleep.

 "Right then, we are here for the reading of the will of Martin Cornilius Carter. As well as a small amount left to myself, Martin was a firm supporter of the local hospital and has donated the sum of a hundred pounds to their new wing while the rest-"

"Get on with it Dawson, we're not interested in the bloody hospital." Edward interrupted speaking through his cigarette pursed lips, "how much are we all going to get?"

Mr Dawson, who was not particularly an old man, but had I understand been a close companion to my uncle looked as if he wanted to smack Edward across the face for his ill manners, however his countenance recovered and he smiled rather strangely, like a cat toying with a mouse it knows it will eat.

"Very well. The will reads thus:

      My family, I finally died then, I'm sure you're all happy about it, especially my son Edward, as unfeeling a son I could ever have been burdened with, he's been trying to poison me for years! 

(At this Edward spluttered and coughed into his drink)

But I never drink before bed, weak bladder.

To each of you I leave the small sum of eight hundred pounds as a token of my death and to not have you feel this was a wasted journey in train fare, although Martha may want to give hers up now if she's still kicking, the woman can't have long left...


There was a pause in which we all looked at poor aunt Martha still oblivious to the goings on around her.


I leave my Tiffany Lamp to Mrs Drover our cousin for you admired it greatly.

The oil painting in the third bedroom to Peter for your collection

And my suitcase, an object that was dear to me in my youth and which I have treasured with more than sentiment, to my nephew Henry, perhaps it will expand your historical knowledge beyond book learning.

My son Edward, I leave my membership at the club where I hope he shall drink himself to death, and my horse King Charles, he's of a violent temperament and may with luck throw him off and crack his neck.



Now for the main chunk of my estate, I leave my home 'Riverdown' and all its grounds to the only one of you I really liked and who will appreciate it, Mrs Derville, the wife of my late beloved second cousin, the estate income being in the region of around fifteen thousand pounds. My shares in the sugar business I have sold for the sum of eight thousand pounds I leave to my nephew Henry Carter, the son of my brother Richard and a finer fellow than my son, I hope to increase his career and knowledge in history which I myself was such a great scholar of.



And so concludes the will.



I was in rather a shock, I hadn't expected so much, but Edward, Edward was past shock. I had watched his face grow redder and redder and his fists clench and unclench, and finally now he blew up in outrage, but it did no good, the will was written in steel and had been written it seemed two years ago well before my uncle was in his sick bed, Caroline looked positively pale, I suppose her designer job paid well enough to keep her in that charming fox fur but the estate was a tidy income and a lot of responsibility, unless she chose to sell up, I wondered if she had any family of her own she would move into the house.



To settle the situation between Mr Dawson and Edward I remarked that someone should wake Aunt Martha! She after all had been left a little sum, everyone fell silent and looked at Aunt Martha, the only one still sitting, she was ever so still and pale, but then according to Mrs Drover she always was. We all stared at her a minute and I wasn't the only one to wonder 'has she died?' It was Caroline in the end who ventured out a hand to touch Martha's shoulder, "Aunt Martha, are you with us?" She said gently, no response, we all assumed the worse and I think Caroline was about to see if it was so, when Aunt Martha's eyes shot open and she jumped violently

"Did I get the suitcase?" She cried

And everyone jumped and sighed,

"No aunt, Henry got that. But you have eight hundred pounds to spend, isn't that lovely."

"No suitcase, oh, never mind."

She looked awfully down about it for a moment but soon her head bobbed up and the rather oddly coloured half wool half net hat she wore bobbed along with her.

"Look here if Aunt Martha wanted the suitcase I don't mind..."

"Oh no!" Cried Mr Dawson "There are to be no exchanges, Martin was very specific on that, the suitcase is yours Mr Carter, and I trust you will respect it with the same care your uncle had for it." He said it so seriously I felt a little like a scolded school boy for suggesting to give the damn thing up. "I actually have it here with me," mr Dawson removed a sheet from a box I hadn't noticed and revealed the suitcase to me. Considering uncle Martin had treasured it, the thing was rather tatty. Frayed at the corners and discoloured but it had a certain character, a crisp steel four digit combination lock was on it, and a letter had been tied to the handle. I tilted my head and saw it was addressed to me in what I assume to be uncles slanted hand writing.



Caroline addressed the room,

"If anyone wants to stay at Riverdown this evening please feel welcome, I have coffee and cake waiting , I've been put up there for a few weeks now while the funeral was settled, and now it's actually mine I feel I'm entitled to invite guests, it would really be nice to have company for a while."

Everyone seemed pleased with this, except Edward, who stormed out of the office slamming doors.

I folded my coat over one arm and took the suitcase in another,

"I'd be delighted to take you up on that, I was going to pitch up at the local pub but cake sounds too good to skip out on."

I lugged the bloody suitcase up two flights of stairs to a room in Riverdown, where I was to be put up for the night. Despite being a handheld case it still had rather a weightiness to it and by the time I reached my room I had knocked my knees with it twice and resented it wholly. Leaving the damn thing at the end of the bed for most of the night I decided to read the letter later.

When I came back up after dinner I was amazed to find a set of ladders poking above the windowsill of the open window, someone was climbing up. Mr Dawson, who it seemed has resided at Riverdown during my uncles illness, was to be put up for the next week until he travelled to Manchester. He had come up the stairs with me and I called into the hall after him, "I say! Dawson, someone's trying to break in here" the climber must have heard for they began to scramble back down, in the dark I couldn't make out a face, neither could Dawson who came up behind me and peered through the window with me, but the buggar ran off and left the ladders, "how peculiar" I remarked "Why this room I wonder, and why tonight when there are more people about the house than usual?" 

My gaze unconsciously darted to the suitcase, the handle was drooping down in a sort of sad grimace as if it felt neglected for my leaving it and my earlier resentment for the object turned momentarily into regret.

Mr Dawson gave me a peculiar look before he left my room, as if he thought I’d imagined the climber like a nervous boy with wild goings on in his head, but then his glance also turned to the suitcase on the floor, I thought for a moment that there was a hunger in his eyes but it quickly vanished and I ignored the sudden feeling of uncertainty inside my chest. I wondered if it had been Edward at the window, he was dreadfully put out by the contents of the will. What if he thought to take the suitcase out of spite? With this in mind I hauled the suitcase closer to the bed and locked the window.

I was dreadfully tired, and still I hadn't opened the letter, I'd do it in the morning, I had a train to catch back to London and bed was calling me. The suitcase sat on the table and I wondered briefly if it had anything in it, before I fell asleep. 

I was tormented by terrible dreams that night: of climbing into the suitcase and locking myself in despite that I know I couldn’t get in there. I felt suffocated and the suitcase wouldn’t let me go, as if it had a mind of its own! I could hear its heartbeat thudding and I was trapped inside it. I awoke several times in a sweat and sighed when morning finally came.

Waiting for my train, a man in work men's clothes approached me and offered to buy uncle martins suitcase, I was so taken aback I gripped the handle of the suitcase more tightly,

"I'm sorry but it has sentimental value."

The man was insistent

"I can offer you fifty pounds."

"It's not for sale, I'm sorry."

I frowned at the man who looked shifty and dismissively I strolled away to the other end of the platform, I stood for about five minutes when I heard

"That's him there!" I turned in time to see, the man who had pestered me followed by three other surly looking chaps, running towards me. Natural instinct was to run, but what had I to run from?

"Look here chaps, what's all this about?"

"Just hand over the suitcase and be on your merry way."

"I've told the fellow no, it's not for sale."


One of the men tried to grab the case from my hand and I backed away gripping it tighter, "I say this is robbery, get away from me. Officer!" A train was about to pull away and I ran for the doors, jumping into the carriage almost losing my hat in the process I sighed in relief as the men scrambled away. No one either on the platform nor the train seemed perturbed by the commotion, finding this awfully curious I took a moment to gather my wits before taking a seat. Pulling the suitcase up onto my knees I found I was almost hugging it. What the devil was that about? Men climbing up windows, thieves in the station! It hadn’t rained in a while either, was England going positively barmy? Perhaps there is something of value in this suitcase, after all I hadn't opened it yet, and the letter was still dangling from its handle a little creased but still intact and sealed. But then how did these apparently random characters know anything about it, did my uncle make public his costly possessions? By the time I was seated comfortably in a train compartment bound for London, I had entertained several ideas, perhaps the suitcase contained a secret will, one to disinherit everyone and leave all to the hospital, perhaps there were precious jewels and uncle had been a notorious jewel thief none of us knew about! Perhaps there was a mummified hand of some scandalous maid uncle had murdered to keep quiet but had kept her arm as a memento.

I couldn’t take my hands or eyes from the suitcase. I noticed for the first time that two areas on its surface were substantially frayed and tarnished by time’s dust and grime, the marks struck me as looking somewhat like eyes. I felt a sudden sickly churning within my stomach, feeling as if the suitcase was watching me. The leather corners held deep scratch marks where perhaps it had been dragged along the floor…or clawed at by possessive hands? I shook myself, shuddering my shoulders as if that might disperse the sudden ominous atmosphere.

I was surprised to see that the combination lock was not active and on opening the case—good lord! The interior reeked of staleness and a hint of that familiar perfume I recognised from the will reading. Other than an overwhelming desire to slam to case shut again I was extremely disappointed to not find anything inside. It was lined with purple fabric and struck me rather grimly as resembling the inside of a coffin. I closed the lid again, waving my handkerchief in front of my face to expel the lingering odour and took the letter. It, like the case, was rather weighty written on good thick paper. 


Dear nephew,

     We have not by any means been close or even mingled together in any sort of society since you left for university, however your father Richard and I were very close, and he tells me you have had a flare for history since you were a young boy. My own son has disappointed me in many ways and has no interest in the past or indeed the future, he is a selfish boy only concerned with the here and now of his own little life. And yet this suitcase is dear to me, and it should be passed onto family. I came by this from my grandfather and it's given me great enjoyment and knowledge, but also with it comes a great burden. If you have not already you will soon learn there are people around you who will do anything to get their hands on this suitcase, some might kill you for it therefore you must guard it and keep it safe at all times as I have done before you.



This is no everyday item my boy, this is one of a rare few dying breeds. There aren’t many left as far as I know, I spent a good part of my life studying and looking for others with little luck. This is a portal.

Here are your instructions:

Take off your clothes, everything from socks to your hat and place them in the suitcase, also a wise addition would be some money and identification depending on how far you're going back. Shut it up and using the lock combination choose a year...when you re-open the suitcase your clothes will have transformed into the exact clothes worn in that year, they will be of the same quality of the clothes you put in and the money will have changed too. Once you're fully dressed, you will no longer be in 1959, you will have travelled back to the year you have chosen, to where your clothes suit, the suitcase too. You learn to be adaptive and a quick thinker, and to come back you need only reverse the process. You can't go forward, only back and you cannot and should not attempt to change major events, every death and birth is pre written it seems and will happen despite any attempt at change, but you can experience history, you can live it. There are people, time thieves that want the portals of the world to steal the time from them for immortality, you cannot let this happen. We are the keepers of time, it has fallen upon our family for this portal and it must be respected and treasured.

Mr Dawson is my trusted friend, he knows everything, and he will guide you when necessary.



You have my faith,

  Uncle Martin



I say, uncle Martin was off his trot. How long before he died did he write this? Its jolly good for a mental person, I wonder is Caroline knows. I mean he can't be serious, these strange men surely can't believe these nonsense. A time machine indeed, stealing time, immortality! What rot. And thinking Mr Dawson must have supported such fantasies, and he a man of education too, a man of the law, well it's absurd. I stuffed the letter into the pocket of my jacket and spent the rest of the journey mulling over whether or not to continue to lug this suitcase to my London apartment or just dump it in the stations lost property box, it seemed silly to keep hold of it after such a revelation. And still it also seemed callous to the last wishes of my uncle to just dispose of it, mad or not he clearly valued this and had left it in trusted hands. I would make use of it as a shoe box or something once I returned home.

 A few days later I had not used the suitcase for a shoe box, in fact I’d stowed it beneath my bed and found myself every night waking in a sort of panic checking to see that it was still there. The day I was to return to work at the museum I was inconceivably reluctant to leave the blasted thing alone in my room, I debated taking it into work with me but what cause did I have to lug such a thing around? I told myself I was being downright foolish and left for work. As I walked to work my footsteps echoed like the beating of a heart, I thought of the suitcase unguarded in my room. I half turned back twice and ended up being late.

Mr Gilam, my employer; a short overly podgy man with tiny shrunken eyes that squint behind his glasses, sought me out on my arrival. The man had always struck me to resemble a fat mole that’s sprouted as a carrot does from beneath the ground and squinted in the direct sunlight. His shiftiness put me on edge as he told me in haste that he was very concerned regarding some gossip he had heard from Lucy one of the cleaners in the museum, who happened to be the cousin or niece or something of my landlord. Mr Gilam had been told, in no uncertain terms, that they feared I was going around the bend after the death of my uncle. I had been heard muttering and shouting out in my sleep and hadn’t eaten properly for the last few days. I say what the devil are these people about? How dare they discuss my personal habits with my employer, how inappropriate! And to think I had left my precious suitcase in my room alone, under their safe keeping! I was thinking to excuse myself from work in order to retrieve the suitcase from home when Mr Gilam spoke up again and asked me what the business was about this strange suitcase. I almost recoiled back from him.

“What the devil! How do you…What’s this got to do with my suitcase?” I demanded

“Well the cleaning lady mentioned that you won’t let it from your sight, and have for three days carried it into the dining area, only to hardly eat a bite anyway. Look Henry, I’m concerned…”

The mole wasn’t able to finish voicing his concerns, I already had one arm in my jacket and the other on the door handle,

“I must go Mr Gilam, my landlord wants my suitcase, and he won’t get it I tell you, it’s mine! It was left to me, it’s mine! I must go!”

“Henry dear chap, what’s all this about?”

“He’s a time thief don’t you see! I must make haste.”

I ran from Mr Gilam, cursing myself for speaking so brazenly to him. After all I could trust no one, the squinty old scoundrel might be one too! I ran like a mad man the three streets from the museum to the house, flying into my room and to the suitcase. One coincidence too many had me stripping off my clothes. They all wanted my suitcase, I must get it out of here. I had to follow Uncle’s instructions. Tripping over my trouser legs as I fumbled out of everything I crammed each item into the suitcase along with a wad of money from a savings tin under the bed, I closed the lid standing in my bedroom stark naked and chilly. Turning my shivering attention to the four digit combination, I chose 1840 in a hurry and holding my breath re opened the suitcase. If I were a man of lesser stuff I may well have fainted, my clothes had transformed into the perfect outfit I'd need for Victorian London, a calf length frock coat, waist coat, breeches, shirt, cravat and my trilby was now a fine top hat. I quickly gathered a few more outfits and threw them inside intending to stay a while if this actually worked and put on the original outfit. As I pulled on the leather knee high boots I jerked back as if falling off my feet from a terrific blow and then straightened up breathing slowly, had anything happened I wasn't sure then I looked about myself and I felt slightly sick. My room was no longer my room, I could hear unfamiliar noises out of the window, I peered down and laughed in amazement, my suitcase and I were in Victorian England. There was a commotion below where a horse and carriage had halted in the road for the gentleman aboard to converse with a well-dressed lady upon a grey mare, across the road was an ale house tossing out a drunken chimney sweep with a sooty face. I heard a knock on the door behind me and jumped immediately hauling up the suitcase into my arms protectively.

 

Meanwhile still in 1959, a young maid entered Mr Carter’s room to carry out the weekly housekeeping, she noticed immediately that the wardrobe doors were thrown open and a selection of clothes were missing. She stepped on a half crumpled piece of paper, which had fallen it seemed from a jacket pocket tossed over a chair, an envelope cast nearby. Picking up the apparent letter she frowned noticing it was blank never the less she smoothed it out and put it atop of a tatty old suitcase sat on the bed. The suitcase struck her as being extremely odd but for reasons she couldn’t put her finger on. It seemed to stand out and glare at her as she went about her cleaning. Finally the maid grew so agitated by the object that she turned to leave without changing the bed sheets, not wanting to touch the suitcase. As she left she turned back and fancied she had heard a voice, for a moment she had a horrifying thought of someone being trapped inside the case. She longed almost desperately to open it up but it simply wasn’t done for maids to open a gentleman’s suitcase. So she hurried away telling herself that she must stop reading the thrillers Betsy lent her. 

 

 

1st day of Spring

I don't feel too wonderful right now. I'm fresh out of the bath, in fluffy P.J's with wet hair air drying and I should really feel as relaxed as I can be but I'm a little on edge. Might just be that I'm here. It was the official first day of spring today, according to google; that usually means I will get an idea for a new story/book, I usually do in the spring.

I never much liked change. Not even when I was very little and shouldn't really care about such things. Everything's about to change dramatically, when that day comes it's going to spiral at a rapid pace, I know I is! When that day comes nothing is going to be the same as it was the day before, I hope to god I'll be ready by then, but I know that I'm not and worse than that I see these eyes following me with judgement and the same expression as if waiting to see me fail.

I keep telling myself that I know my book now, Grace has come back to me, she will see me through this. I'll make something of you one day I swear I will, and in return you will make something of me. God knows I have nothing else.

The Kitchen

The Kitchen is foul. To someone's standards it may well be an acceptable example of 'lived in' disarray, but not to me. To me it's dirty, and untidy, unorganised and disgusting. There's no structure to the mess, nothing seems to have its own place, even the rubbish has escaped the confines of a makeshift bin as if they too detest their abode.

Remains of un-wiped food debris litter edges and crevices while stains of brown and yellow stare unashamed at each other as they spread and grow. Casting a reluctant glance around I wonder "Who has two washing up bowls?" and both full too, sitting half hidden beneath an open sink surface, on a tiled floor dull and dusty, no not dusty, carpeted with animal hair. The tiles seem to have grown a coating of sparse hair that collects and gathers in unpleasant clumps, a broom is no where to be seen; hardly surprising.

There's no workable surface, and what little space there is I fear for the growth of bacteria that must thrive there unseen to the human eye. Left over grease, some sort of sauce residue, unwashed pots and pans, unwashed everything! Is there anything clean? Do I dare take that festering sponge and clean something? Would it really be clean afterwards? Should I boil that kettle with the brown stain down the side and hope the water is hot enough to sterilise something. I reach into the grotesque pile of kitchen ware that has been contained to the sink, rather than bend down to those two washing bowls, I roll up a sleeve and dip two finger tips beneath a plate, the end of a what I hope is a fork sticking out, I pinch it and pull and with a cringe and stomach churn I drop it back suddenly, snatching back my hand from the germs and grease. I cannot stand it. How long must it have been there to have hardened and crusted to such a state! I retreat and hastily wipe dry hands with an anti bacterial wipe, I'll go out for something to eat. I cannot and will not put myself through such an ordeal that is that kitchen.

Underwear Practice

So I've mentioned that I 'practice' in my underwear...this is something that I don't understand why every other girl that cares about her sex life doesn't do too. When I get new underwear, this isn't for the bras and knickers I wear daily and know the ins and outs of..this is for more interesting pieces: new corsets, dresses, nighties, suspenders etc. I open up my new underwear at least an hour prior to actually heading out in it, and I make sure its all adjusted properly to my body, and I 'practice'. The wiggle, the bend over, the squat, the 'on top squat'- which is different from the other squat because this one is on the bed and on knees.

Then there's the getting it on and off if you intend to lose the underwear at some point...I'd do this even if you intend to keep it on, because who knows what he's in the mood for. You need to make sure before hand that you know the easiest, quickest way of getting this thing off, from experience, you do not want to try pulling something over your head to discover there's a clip that needs to come undone and your earring gets stuck and your elbow hits the table and.....yeah so we practice the on and off. We practice movements both normal and erratic and a few sex positions to make sure whatever it is you have on isn't going to be an obstacle or god forbid: rip a massive big hole and show your unflattering backside unexpectedly!

I'm also looking to see that everything looks okay, no nothing bursting out where it's not supposed to! No strange indentation made by a faulty clip, no discomfort anywhere, no tightness leaving red marks, no sag, no anything we don't want! This sounds clinical, but you can't just hope for the best! You need to make sure everything is tip top. Well I do, otherwise more things are likely to go wrong, I'm clumsy and I care about these things. I care about making the special effort. I also like to get used to what I'm wearing so I'm not fidgeting around, it's only after all this that I make the decision whether this had passed the first test...if so I allow it place in my underwear wardrobe and will wear it for the man in the bedroom...then if he likes it, a lot, I upgrade it to first shelf where only the best go and I rarely wear it so that its a treat! sort of. If he likes it but not so much that its first shelf, its second shelf, and if he doesn't like it at all, it's likely to be a PMS week outfit or it goes in the charity bag. Underwear is a serious business. I take it very seriously.

See-through underwear.

So, we've established I'm an underwear fan, and you know me and my big mouth have said "I'll wear anything!" ...well my friend recently reminded me of this at an Ann Summers, while I was lingering on a page wanting something but hesitating. It's not even that bad really, but I took some persuading and now it's come in the post and I'm looking at it as if to say "I'm never getting into that"...actually I did get into it, without any hassle so lets do a quick 'woo', ok now woo is over lets talk about this piece....

It's called an Amira Lace dress, and its made up entirely of black flower print lace and ribbon, it snugly hugs the body and goes all the way down to the knee, it's completely see through! I was tempted to shove a bra on but curse this thing it's gotten the better of us shy women and has a low back making a bra unacceptable...the front isn't really all that, its snug and its see through but its the back I'm wide eyed at. As if being transparent wasn't enough, the back is basically torn open from top to bottom and laced accurately and (unalterable) with criss cross ribbon, open criss cross ribbon, like a corset, but at the back, and open! Your naked rear end is framed and caged by a tempting revealing ribbon criss cross that's screaming, "I'm ready to be bent over onto my hands and knees."

I'm a breast person, through and through, I love my boobage, but my backside....not so much. You know boobs get bigger it's all fun and games, ass gets a little chubby and you're trying DIY lypo with Henry Hoover (I have not done that, I do not recommend it, it doesn't work...just going on others ;-) )

So anyway, I get this damn thing on, I make sure its all where it's supposed to be...oh yeah, don't think it's a tricky one to hitch up, oh no, they thought of that, the ribbon at the bottom unties so you can loosen and hitch up to your lovers content! So I'm in it, I put on some smooth music "The Look of Love" -Dusty Springfield...you know the one! Totally a bedroom song, and I'm thinking a piece like this needs practice in...confession: I practice in my underwear (I'll do a different post for that)...
I need to get my confidence up in this thing, I'm doing the Roger Rabbits Wife dance in front of the mirror, analysing that everything looks alright without any support, the rear end is doing rather well, and when I wiggle nothing busts out so it's a win. I'm still a little shifty eyed about this rear end attention but we'll see. Into the cupboard it goes, ready for when I've worked up enough nerve for the weekend. Now I just need to pick a dress to go over this thing.

 

 

Fireman Fantasy.

I have a thing for a man in a uniform...would I object to a little kinky policeman and prisoner role play? Hell no, so long as I get to be the prisoner. An army officer, a navy captain for gods sake! But what really gets my pulse thrumming along is the idea of a fireman. I don't know why, I don't know where it came from, maybe its because in year six they had a fireman come in and do a safety day and he was big and strong and hmmmm.

Anyway, for whatever psychological reason a fireman is my thing, it's my top fantasy...ok I've said it, plenty of people fantasise about threesomes or public places whatever...but my big one is a fireman. I dream about it when I'm asleep and I must admit they're my favourite dreams... You know its not even the idea of a genuine fireman, its the more the role play fireman, the corny lines and the excitement and fun of play acting. Sex shouldn't always be so intense, I want to have fun.

So my dream, the most recent, I mean scenarios change but this is my favourite and its been cropping up a lot lately is some hunk in a fireman's yellow and red, hat and all bursting in unexpectedly, with a white top you can cling onto, maybe a few corny lines that I've giggled myself senseless to in a pub once or twice..."is there a fire in here or is it just how hot you are" ...come on! Cringe or not it's got me laughing! It's fun! "Wanna slide down my pole and I'll show you how the hose works" ...am I convincing you yet? ..well it does it for me okay!

I picture having a cold glass of water thrown down my front in a comical putting out of the fire (I mean can you imagine some git bursting in on you and soaking you in cold water, all down your bra, top comes off, you're wet and a little annoyed, which leads to more sexual tension.) then before you can react you're pushed back, thrown up a wall or a washing machine or something. and basically that's it really....the rest is what it is, but you feel like you're fucking a god damn fireman. and that's hot!! I know what you're thinking...I'm one of those weirdo's that actually keep Uniform dating.com afloat. I'm not, really, but if I was single...would I...probably. I don't see what's wrong with a little fun on a hot summers day, when you're doing the dishes and suddenly a fireman comes slamming through the door to ermmm...put out your fire. ;-)

Cant say anything nice, dont say anything at all.

I just feel like saying, a lot of people do things (boringly average &/or extreme) for attention, and I don't agree with this but you let them get on with it because at the end of the day its not a big deal to you. But you know I would 100% do crazy/extreme/fun/challenging things in the name of charity...I did do a skydive, I will do the three peak challenge next, I would do a nude calendar or a bikini carwash with other women. It's about shock and wow-factor and fun when it comes to raising spirits. Putting things down no matter how small or insignificant makes you seem small, and I ask, what have you done to show support? Because it's never enough, but I wouldn't put it down. By belittling peoples contributions you become as vile and awful as the disease that is taking down our human race. We should support each other. My mother taught me: If you cant say anything nice, don't say anything at all...and I think you could do with learning the same lesson.

The seduction dress.

I always hate being poor, it's never good to be poor unless you can get a best seller out of it, but I really, really can't stand not having money when it's to do with a dress.
Heels, bags, even dare I say it...hats, and underwear, just don't grip me the way that the right dress does. Underwear comes close, don't be mistaken, underwear has my passion but 'that' dress comes along so rarely, and when it does it hurts, it's in the air, on the scent of perfume lingering beside the mirror...I want it.

It's usually red, the last one was red. This one was like a dark, dirty tease. It flaunted itself in front of me when I shouldn't have even dared stray over there. Crisp, bold, seductive...a strapless, sleeveless Basque of plunging heart neckline dipping lower and looser than I've gone before, wrapping tightly into a breathless waist and then hitched high enough for a pair of 5.9 legs with little heels added on, to slip out all the way down. Then comes the magic, not for the untrained eye of design: a beautiful ornate cascade of transparent lace tumbling down the back, the illusion of length contrasted against the leg demonstration, what a show, what a con, what complete distraction! All that leg, bare shoulders, half a back and cleavage to crash a jumbo jet. Statement black (not usually my colour) black isn't a colour, it's the absence of light, this treasure is not for light of day, it's for dimly lit chambers and not for a shivering virgin but a seductress of temptation. Gold lingers underneath, the merest hint, like a few bronze coins in a bottomless purse. This dress is a 12 but a 10 would really scream, it must be a 10! I must be a 10 to be worthy of such a dress. Nothing could be left to chance, a golden-bronze bag, black heeled shoes (not such a statement as to draw attention away from that neckline) and perhaps some sort of prettiness in the hair, hair that must be curled and must be swept up with a regency air of demure defiance against such a dark piece.

I've thought about it at least every day for a flicker of a moment since that first viewing. It's been a while, the red dress seems more of an embarrassed blush, ashamed at the immodesty of this new piece, the red dress has no leg, it has no back or shoulders, it is in a word: uncertain. Uncertain of its own potential...but this black and golden cascade is far more confident than I am, sometimes the dress can make the woman if she is willing to act a part...I need this dress. I wont be at peace until I own it. This dress has seduced me! It must have the power to seduce a pair of brown eyes somewhere in a crowd.

A mothers poem

Hello little one, get used to my voice
it will sing you lullaby's for the rest of your sweet life
As you move inside me, I'll keep you safe from harm
and carry you inside my fortress, and later in my arms
I haven't met you yet, but you're my favourite person
nothing will ever change my mind, and that's absolutely certain.
I promise with all I have, that it's all for you now
and I'll never remember, how I ever did without.
I'll catch every fall, wipe all your tears
I'll be the champion who destroys your fears.
the one that sweeps away the monster, hidden under the bed
I'd starve myself and freeze, to see you clothed and fed
Your years will drag on, but for me they're flying by
and one day you won't understand why your leaving makes me cry
but I've feared forever, the day you say goodbye.
I hold you inside me now, remember my voice
I'm going to cherish you little one, for the rest of your life.


     (Note to my readers...No I am not pregnant so don't start having a panic attack ringing me, I was inspired by a few others)

your side of the bed poem.

It's a long, long way across that middle space
It's a great journey these days
and she wonders if she should leave instead
but she says "are you ok, over on your side of the bed?"

Tom

I had a best friend midway through primary school who was raised a notch above the rest in my estimation. Simply, I suppose because this friend was a boy. The first boy that told me he loved me and we agreed we might get married one day after I'd travelled the world and on the condition that he got a motorbike when he was older, his dad had a bike he said so it was not too much of a request. (We were 8 and 9) He wrote me a love letter which I still keep in my jewellery box. Then we decided a day later, we shouldn't be 'boyfriend/girlfriend' because I had so many books to write and I didn't have the time, so we were friends instead. I used to call him Bugs, because we both liked bugs bunny at the time.

We used to get our red school jumpers mixed up all the time and exchange back and forth after school. He taught me how to climb up onto my shed roof, which we did many times sharing childhood conversations I cant remember. He was asthmatic and allergic to my cats, he wasn't supposed to come in my house because his eyes would go red and itchy, but he did anyway.

When we got to high school he was the first to know who I had a crush on that week, and I would weigh up the good and bad points with him of his various girlfriends. When I met the Keyholder aged 13, 'Bug's' who was starting to grow out of the nickname, was the first to know and we stayed such good friends to start with. He went out with a girl I made my new best friend, did I have ulterior motives for being friends with this girl, perhaps, but we all bundled along well enough

We got to college, and friendship groups changed and turned over, relationships ended and re-started, but I'd still go and watch him play video games sometimes, and he came to mine to watch movies.

We got old enough to sit in the pub and every time I ventured 'up town' into the club street of Birmingham centre, with the 'goosepack' of friends I was in, I remember the security of staying by his side, and he'd hold my hand while moving around to make sure I didn't get lost in a crowd. By now the nickname of Bugs had died and I called him Tommy.

So yeah, time went by, and somewhere along the lines he changed from my childhood mate to one of the lads, and in that transition he became more interested in being the Keyholder's friend than mine, which I guess is perfectly reasonable, no lad wants a girl as his wingman, that just doesn't work. When the Keyholder and I broke apart, my Tommy turned up first, he did the swearing and the 'I cant believe this!' and he hugged me and gave me a little of that early support I needed, he was the one that came to tell me the news of 'the new one' which broke me up more than anything had so far but I held it together in the car, held on tight and didn't shed a single tear. Then I suppose it was one way or another, I needed to stand on my own feet and I had a group of friends separate from the goosepack, and they gathered around me like a fortress. I could admit I should have tried a little more to hold onto that one friend I'd had for so long, the others disappeared like steam from a kettle, and to be honest I didn't mind as the months went on and I turned into a different person, but I should have forced it more with Tom.

I'm surprised I haven't written about this before because I do miss Tom, and I suppose I'm only thinking about it now because it was his birthday and I always remember that one date, but in my current situation I refuse to let it happen again, I won't lose another best friend. I've said this statement before "when a friend goes down a different path you can either leave them and march on or turn around, grab them and say wrong way bitch, dragging them back onto your road"...well in this case I will be holding on like a cobra, I'll ram my friendship down my current best male friends throat and force him to accept it. I'm not going anywhere. I don't want to miss another dude who's no longer a part of my life. I will learn from my past and try harder this time around.

friend. poem

Not sure why I like you,
but I like you too much I'd say
its not love, or even lust
it's ownership rights
like man, and mans best friend.
You're a favourite toy of mine
and I don't want to share
Why should I?
I want to be your only best friend
because you're the favourite one of mine.
You're an arse,
but I need you in my life.
you're more than a phase,
more than an old photo,
and I've never been very good at letting go

My Book

For those well acquainted with me or my blog you'll know that Grace is my character, my inspiration and over the years she has developed into a sort of alter-ego. My book, as I refer to it, is always the same one, despite that I am in the middle of composing half a dozen novels, when I mention 'my book' it is only ever Grace I refer to, because she is what I regard as my masterpiece.

Anyway the point of this post is to share with those who know or care or follow the on going trial that is my writers block that I have figured it out. This morning while my knees were hurting in bed and my Mr Jones sat up reading I took to book-thinking and I've figured it out mostly. Now comes the tragic element...After sitting for 2 hours thinking and note jotting, I figure it's going to take me longer than the summer to re-write my book to the extent I have changed the style and storyline. You know nothing stays the same but Grace, every time I've edited this book she's the only consistent part, I don't really have a brilliant book, I have a character, and I need this story to grow to be worthy of my character.

So, I have university to pass and graduate, a job to get and an income to earn and save, and somewhere along the lines over the next summer and winter I need to re-write this book to perfection.

Sex Bomb

I hate that I'm so clumsy.
 I hate that I feel clumsy during sex, I'm most definitely a Sub. Christian Grey and me would get on like a house on fire, I'm suited to the role. The funny thing is I can talk the talk and I wiggle in the walk, and I can pick and choose and wear the sexiest underwear/outfit/costume that you throw at me, I could even win an Oscar for a role play performance if someone sent me a script and instructions, but put me in the drivers seat, hand over the controls and watch me buckle under pressure. A self conscious bundle of clumsiness and no matter how much research and reading I do to try and remedy this and enhance my sexual technique, or more accurately, lack of, I still feel the same.

It's been a god damn year! I expected progress. Maybe when I'm 30 I will have nailed this seduction thing and then I'll be a cougar, but to be honest the thought isn't particularly pleasing. I'm 20 years old, I am in the prime of my life! I'll never look this young, thin and firm again! I have 5 years tops before it starts going downhill with sag. I want to be a sex bomb now! I want to be worthy of Marilyn Monroe. Sex appeal...it's a strong concept, and I want it!

Talking to Pidgin.

Sometimes all you need is a friend. Someone you can vent everything out to and know they're on your side and will nod and sympathise. Make the odd joke and laugh to disperse tension, someone who you're comfortable enough with to tell everything to. When a dozen things are getting on top of your shoulders it's nice to slip a few things off. I never thought we'd be this close when we first met,  but this bond is one of the best things I have in my life. Nights like this make up for any failures or low points. Female friends are easy to make and keep when you're single and dislike men, its easy to bond, but real girl friendships take effort to last when men come into the equation. I really appreciate talking so much stuff out. There's not many people I'm this honest with. Love you Pidgin.

Lingering poem

You drift in like a bad smell
always present though unseen
The kitchen floor
how I hate you,
how you ruined my life
always the sword is raised
always I'm ready to fight.

Nightmare again

I had another awful dream last night. What's my head trying to remind me of? Do you think I don't remember, of course I do, I do not need you reminding me in my sleep. Why do you keep putting me in this scenario? I hate dreams that torment me, it's like your mind is your own enemy.

blown to bits poem

Go on, shoot. Blow me to bits
I wont feel a thing.
You think I didn't see you aiming for the heart
you think I will desert, go on take the shot.
send your grenade flying through the air
I'll catch it with both hands
I wont be the first to fall on no mans land.
come on, fire away, I'm ready to take the hit
I dare you, put the bullet through my head
Come and blow me to bits.

Poem from Grace

Stop crying.
You're going to make it rain,
rain isn't good for either of us,
Stop crying, I'm here
I'm still exactly the same
you know me better than anyone
can't you remember the day we met?
It's you my girl that has changed.
You can't find me because I'm trapped in a mirror
when I used to be written on the page
a lost and miserable girl wrote me to escape
remember how much you cried back then
together we were going to run away
I promised, we'd leave together one day
I still promise it now, stop crying
I'm waiting for you, outside
pick up your pen, come join me,
 we agreed we'd learn not to cry.
               -Grace

I'm Lost.

I do believe I'm about to face the worst 3 months of my life. I really should be prepared but frankly I'm not. I don't want uni to end yet, I don't want to face up to a potential failure and I can't think straight for worrying about it all day and losing sleep at night. The additional fact that my retarded immune system is screwing up my joints to the point where I could happily go into a coma unt...il the pain stops is just making me miserable. That's right I'm miserable right now. I can't sleep well and when I do I have stressed out awful, awful dreams. Any other students freaking out? Because everyone seems really laid back except for me, and I could really do with some reassurance. If I could finish this god forsaken book I'd feel ok but I cant. Because I just don't know what happens!!!

 

You know I've been in such absolute explosive pain the last few weeks that I really feel like I'm breaking. My period has arrived and with it the cramps of that and I just cant handle it right now. My knees are burning. I cant get enough tablets down my throat and now the woman's curse is upon me. I feel fat, stressed, upset and angry at everything. I could crawl into a ball. I just want to eat chocolate and cake and good things but I cant bring myself to do so because I feel fat. God my joints hurt so much, I cannot express how hard it is just to lie down and try to relax.

 

I've always been the sort to stress over end results, but this is so much worst. what if its been for nothing, what if I end up poor, I'm frightened to hell of being poor, of a cold house and empty cupboards and biting nails over lack of money. I'm so wound up. I think it might be best if I cocoon myself away for several weeks and ignore knocks. I'm just a little person, there's not a lot to me. Grace was all I had for years, the dream that gave me wings and its deteriorating before my eyes. If I had Grace nothing else would phase me. 

 

I'm in pain, I'm stressed, I'm uncertain about everything, and I'm lost. Lost in my own story when I need to finish Grace's.  

Blown to Bits.

I can't call anyone up on this, but I'm sure I once said that I wouldn't give my next relationship 12 months. In the residue of heartbreak and low confidence I said a lot of things. Things I meant and followed up and things I regret and wish I'd held back. At one point, not for very long I was sure I wasn't worth being someone's girlfriend, then I felt the opposite I only deserved the best, then I felt angry at all men and thought I might make someone love me and then trash their heart (this thought lasted but a few minutes, I'm not that sort of person even if I wanted to be), I thought about becoming a slut but my virgin status made this somewhat of a shady area, I thought I might start a relationship with anybody but I'd certainly end it, and end it soon. There was no way I was going to be left crying in the middle of the morning wandering what was wrong with me again, I certainly wasn't going to let anyone get the better of me and I wasn't going to let anyone close enough to see the cracks. I still can't fathom how devastated I was you know. So completely and utterly crushed. And now it's the only comparison I have. I never expected the turn of events that happened. I never expected, nor asked nor wanted to fall in love. This was supposed to be a in and out job, feel flattered, let myself be wooed in an old fashioned courtship, seduced in a fifty shades of grey way, and then I was going to get up, brush myself off of the experience and move on feeling worldly and like a woman ready to face the world. I was such a bloody teenage idiot.

I really thought I could walk away you know, I really felt and intended for the experience to be in my hands, in my control and dance to my tune. Instead the memory of me in some black nightie completely out of my character and falling asleep snuggled and warm in a strange bed in an unfamiliar room with a man's arm around me and me thinking, not saying, I Love You. I remember that feeling like I remember the rushes of adrenaline on the back of dad's motorbike, free falling in my skydive...I remember biting my lip and feeling a fog of unease settle on that warmth, I remember thinking I was crazy, and caught in the moment, but on top of that I felt like it was true with everything inside me.

I have thought, and don't think I haven't, that perhaps I should have stopped it that next morning. I should have gone home and never gone back and then I could have passed it off as a romantic thought in a dreamlike state, I could have saved myself.

I think in a psychological analysis of myself I crave certain things like I'm sure most women do. I crave affection and a feeling of worth in someone's life other than my own, I crave stability, protection, reassurance. Reassurance that I'm ok, that life is ok. Respect, for myself, my things, my nearest and dearest, my dreams and hobbies. I crave a certain leadership and mainly I crave a feeling of being cherished and looked after, I want to feel loved, really loved. When this package of requirements was offered up so effortlessly I must have been a moth to a flame, and that was my downfall. I was caught in a jam jar, an ant to sugar, a bee to honey. Out of my control and nothing dances to my tune, I feel conned, conned into falling in love and into a hopeless state.

12 months I said, it will be 12 months at the end of this one, if it gets past there I'll have lost all confidence in my own promises. I don't know why I'm still waiting for something to go wrong, I guess when you believe you're safe that's when the walls crumble. I don't want this to end, more I just want solid reassurance that it wont, before it goes any further than the limit I gave myself. Once we hit that mark I have no excuse. I'll have lost a bet with myself and will need to accept that this is real, but then I'll be more at risk of serious damage if it does then crash and burn.

Ever feel an unnatural intense force to push someone away just to see how long they will stand strong? How many blows can a solid brick wall take before it crumbles? You push and push daring them to walk away and prove you right, and when they don't it feels worse because if they had you'd say "Ha, see told you! Wasn't I prepared the whole time? and I'm fine for being so ready for it!" instead you sit there contemplating if it does happen if you will actually be prepared, because every time they don't move you step a little closer, and eventually there will be nowhere to run and hide, and a heart will be fully in the line of fire, god help us both if it gets blown to bits.

Closest thing to freedom

This house is freezing and dirty, I can't stand the rooms, the damp mould, the bare splinter infested floorboards that prick at your feet and try to embed wooden shards into your toes through your socks. The windows are thin dreary panes of dull glass, the same paint has lurked on the walls for over a decade, and there's nothing here. Nothing worth seeing or experiencing. It's as cold in here as it is outside, with breath clouding in the air on the stairs before it too fades away escaping as quickly as steam from a kettle. Everything's not clean enough, not clean enough for my use. I wash everything I touch even if its proclaimed to be clean anyway, because I never really believe it. The place is stale, stale and gone off, and lingering is the memory of a bad smell that can't quite be cleaned away.

The Wall I've mentioned before, well even that, although sturdy and everlasting out there, that too has crumbled in my affections. I have no use for it.  A garden so lovely once, that I myself have worked on is ruined by other influences and frankly I want my own. I want my own little patch of grass and my own kitchen to keep clean, when I know it will stay that way, it's not long now.

Until a year ago there was nowhere else to go, no escape for a long period of time, but now, down there, Coniston House has become a sanctuary, just for the quiet. The quiet and the undisturbed peace and the comfort. It's a warm room, with a comfortable bed with a carpeted soft floor and modern facilities that work consistently. There is little essence of myself there, unlike the damp four walls of my bedroom that carry my collected life, in the corners, on the walls, in books and on shelves, (not a lot really for a quarter of a life past) And Connie is certainly not by a long shot what you'd call 'Home' and but it's the closest thing to freedom I've had so far in my life, and I cherish every second there.

2 in one week! Score!

I've recently discovered that two guys, I sort of know but I'm not friends with, fancy me. Woo! Yeah I know TWO in one week! Pretty awesome. Of course I'm sharing this with the world, hey I'm human and this sort of thing doesn't happen all that often! Especially since I went off the market. But it feels pretty damn good, you know in a "I've still got it" kinda way haha! no actually I never had it, never mind still have it, I am not equipped with the art of flirtation, and I certainly don't have that sex appeal allure, but hell I'm flattered!

Of course that's where that ends, right there. I know plenty of people who live by the statement "There's no harm in flirting"...well of course there is! You slut! It's rude and disrespectful to your partner, and completely inappropriate to lead someone else on when you're not available. I am very much against cheating of any sort. Yes I love gossip, yes I'd adore to hear of one of my nearest and dearest embarking on an affair with the man at the Sainsbury's check out but I have double standards, I'd never want to be the subject of such gossip myself, provided it were true. So a polite "Thank you very much but I'm officially taken," and a "here, check out my single friends!" puts that correspondence back on an equal footing of understanding.

Considering I've felt pretty rubbish lately, with arthritis flare up and the remains of a cold, and the fact that I've put on winter weight and stressing out over uni, well this little boost was a nice spoon of sugar in my tea. It felt very good to feel unexpectedly attractive and my confidence took a little skip in the air, just a little. I have a long way to go before summer. I intend to work hard and seriously. This was a nice tiny boost of encouragement. Men can be such darlings when they want a shag, it's such a waste of their darlingness when its never going to happen in a million years but I appreciate the effort. Thanks guys.

Bad recurring dream

I had bad dreams again last night, the same dream I've had lately but this time it progressed. I want to talk about this to someone because dreams are a big deal to me, I know not everyone has them, and some people don't read into them, but my dreams are so real, so vibrant and they effect my morning, the way I feel. This dream is unsettling and it makes me feel awful, and the repetition is driving me mad, this was the third time. You know I actually don't want to write about it on here, for once something feels a little too raw and I don't want people who are close to me to read into it. I might just go and tell my sister in law about it to get it off my shoulders.

Something I do want to put out there is:
 I've never been so happy as I have this last year, and I can't believe I put up with such a rubbish life before, that I let myself think I could be treated any differently to the way I'm treated now. Mr Jones has really changed my life and my perspective on life.

in bed with Jerome

It's almost 10 O'clock and I'm in bed with Jerome watching CSI Miami and trying to ignore the pain in my joints. I can't believe how much I'm hurting this week. I've looked up natural remedies and lifestyle changes because now I'm getting older I feel like I should take a very active role of helping myself and my arthritis, I should try and hold back the progression as much as possible and frankly I can't let pain like this week get the better of me in the future when I have serious every day commitments. 

I wonder when I write posts like this if the reader is disappointed that it's not one of my, seemingly becoming famous, sex posts. I know I write a lot of those, and I hear from the viewers I know that they're quite entertaining. But this blog has all of me not just the juicy bits, and the great thing about blog posts in comparison to a book is that you can pick and choose what you read. But I like to think somewhere in the world one day some young woman who also has arthritis and has suffered with it from childhood might read these odd moaning posts and understand. However, for my naughty readers I'll fifty shades of grey you soon :-P since earlier I felt a hell of lot better than I do now and I got it on with my Mr Jones. Who I think I might give a new name of Mr Smith, since both are equally common, but Sian Jones has a great ring to it! 

Woman crying

It's a very sad and pathetic sort of sight: a woman with wet eye makeup trailing down her face. When the tears are the sort that seem to flood the entire eye into every crease, upon every lash and then streaming down cheeks in semi black dotted colourful rivers. Red tipped nose, puffy face and this look, this look of incompleteness. Lost, unsure, a look of pain and uncertainty. Every woman knows this look, they know what it means and where it comes from. Men just see a woman crying, they don't see anything past that no matter what, but women know, they know there's so much buried under those tears. They don't make mascara waterproof for nothing.

Pidgin

Pidgin is my friend. My very best friend really. It took quite a while in the general scheme of things for us to even say more than hello and goodbye to each other but now I couldn't imagine going more than a week without some form of communication. Unlike other's that I know, Pidgin doesn't treat me like a fashion trend, sometimes in, sometimes out of date. She's consistently a good friend. Nothing that's happened has turned her away from me and she's always ready to give back the same effort that I put in. I lost friends when I went to Uni, I lost friends when the Keyholder broke my heart, I lost friends when Mr Jones turned up and fixed it, Pidgin has always stayed, never criticising or belittling my choices, never forcing things that aren't for me down my neck.

We certainly don't do each others hair, which is a blessing because I hate that sort of thing!!
We most definitely don't see eye to eye all the time, and our opinions and tastes can clash like rain and sun but it doesn't make a difference, we're the rainbow that comes in between the two.
We don't do the whole "omg show me your boobs!" thing, we don't feel the need to get drunk to feel comfortable with each other and we don't flirt with each others love interests because our taste there is completely different too!! haha I never cried in front of Pidgin about the Keyholder and I was glad she never pressured me to break down about it. We don't do the whole tears and hug thing. I cried to her about my uni results once, but I pulled myself together pretty damn fast! She's the one person I know I can get upset in front of if necessary. It doesn't matter if my eyes are puffy or I have no makeup on or I'm in paint covered jeans. She's the only person other than Jones who I'm comfortable sharing a bed with! I have no other friend I can sleep soundly next to. She's hilariously funny too, funny in a way and at times when I think: really? did you really just say that! and I feel like that funniness isn't always on display for the world, and I'm privileged to witness it so often.

I don't think I appreciate her enough, or show my dedication to our friendship, but it important to me that we stay friends out of everyone. She's the only girl (non family) who I really really like, all the time even if we have a quiet patch or even maybe cross words or conflicting issues, I still really like her. She's awesome.

Awful nights sleep

Such an awful nights sleep :-( Tossing and turning, knee pain, back pain...Now I feel groggy, and achy and not in the mood!