Tired.

‘God, I’m so tired.’

My new husband – listen to that word, husband – my new husband pushed the car seat back from the wheel he’d been holding for the past three hours and rubbed both eyes with the heels of his hands. I purred slightly in the back of my throat.

            ‘I know. Right?’

The phrase ‘the cat who got the cream’ had been bandied about at the reception. My mother had been the first to say it in my hearing.

            ‘Darling, you just look so…so…satisfied’ she’d chirped.

            ‘Not yet, Mum!’ I didn’t say that out loud but that was definitely what fuelled my day-long, ear-to-ear grin. The Aunties pinched my cheeks and sighed for the passions of their youth while the Uncles resisted the urge to pinch anything and just sighed.

I pushed open the door of the car and stepped into the cool blue of the fading day. My dress, hitched up for comfort on the motorway, slithered sensually down my plucked and tanned, well-moistured thighs. The sparkles on my diamond (well, diamante) encrusted slippers peeped out below the hem. My elaborate, sprayed rigid coiffure ached for a damned good scratch and toss about. We were so close. So close.

Fifteen minutes later we sat on the edge of the bed, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls. The quick transition from desk to room was courtesy of our lateness. The clinks and murmurs from the dining room told of earlier arrivals. We’d eaten our fill at the buffet before we left in a hail of confetti, saucy suggestions and good wishes hours before. I was definitely hungry now but not for dinner. We would order from room service later. Hopefully much later.

            ‘Shall I get ready first?’

            ‘Mmmmmm’ my husband (husband!) toed off his shoes. ‘Don’t be too long. I’m really looking forward to getting into bed.’ He patted the mattress suggestively and winked.

I looked into the mirror, leaning on the marble counter to examine my face closely. First job – remove the make-up painstakingly applied so early this morning. It had lasted well but, close-up, showed traces of each proffered cheek, each kiss, each tear and innumerable glasses of sparkling wine. Second job – reapply enough to make me look fresh and appealing. He’d never seen me yet without my make-up and although the theme for tonight was naked, there were limits. Plenty of time for jaded and haggard in the years to come. 

Next job – remove all pins from nest of curls and give it a damned good shake. I bent forward from the waist and let my head hang down, fingers tousling through my hair. A flick back of the head as I stood up and there! Come-to-bed hair. So finally, and finally,  the lingerie. I’d spent so long on this. Online, in catalogues, at parties. Black, white, hint of red, lacy, racy, pants, no pants, short and tantalising or long and promising? I slithered the whisper of a thing over my head and felt it float around my skin; my skin which tingled in the slight chill of the evening and at the thought of the effect of my imminent grand entrance. 

One last look in the mirror. One last look at this girl who I’d never see again. This girl who chose to wait and paid the price. The boys who’d called her names and dropped her when they realised she meant what she said, but told their friends she did. The girls who’d laughed at her and called her frigid or a liar. It had been a long, long year of self-denial, self-discipline, yearning and whispered promises to one another and finally, finally they would do what she had wanted for so long. Her hand slipped slightly on the knob. She took a deep breath, girded her loins and opened the door. 

And there he was. Her husband. Her dream. Her hope for the future. Deeply, soundly, unrousably and snoringly asleep.

I'm not racist, but...

I writ a pome! Thank you, Louise.



'I'm not racist, but....'
Four words, five syllables
Camouflage a charade.
There is no 'but' in 'I'm not racist'
The 'but' commits you to a stance
One side or the other of a line
That segregates the 'us' from 'them'.
The policy that states
'Immigrants go home' has a strange appeal.
Apply it strictly and let's watch
Australia and the USA revert
To the original inhabitants
As all the immigrants return
From whence they came.
(I know! The grammar!)
There'll be space for them back home
As all the Vikings and non-Celts move out.
And where will you be then
Miss Racial Purity?
Miss When-in-England-do-as-English-do?
Not here, I reckon.
'I'm not racist, but...'
The world will be a better place
When you move on.

Loss

I wrote this using my non-dominant hand - which happens to be my right hand - as an exercise. It is supposed to access different areas of your brain. As I'm not sure where this came from, perhaps it worked!



Prompt: Winning or Losing



What is the loss that changed you and your life irrevocably and forever? Was it a thing? A feeling? A person? An important number? Your reputation? Your mind, your heart or - God help you - your soul?


I don’t have many things I care about deeply. Mostly they are just things. But we had a burglary when the children were much younger. An invasion of our mostly happy, always chaotic family home. I would have said it was about twenty years ago but that just shows I have also lost track of time! It would be more like thirty. 


They came in through the back door, kicking it open, splintering the frame. They stepped over one dog and we think the other showed them round. When people asked would the dogs not have been scared by the noise of the door being broken down, I had to explain that they probably thought it was my son coming home for lunch. 


The only thing of worth they took was a handful of bits from my jewellery box. Nothing there would have been of any value to them nor would it have netted them more than a few pounds. Not even enough for a night out. But they took my Mum’s ring. My Mum who had died when I was sixteen. When I lost her, I lost links - to the past, to the stories she could have told to a daughter who was too young to listen when she died. 


The ring was itself a link to her Dad. who she loved with a depth which spoke of the troubled relationship with her own mum. It was a plain little ring - just a gold band, worn by the years of contact with the fingers of people I loved. I don’t remember my Mum wearing it. I think I was told it was a plain band when my Grandad wore it and the stones were put in for my Mum but I might have dreamed that, made it up or got mixed up with another story. My mind plays these games with me. But the stones were there - two pearls like abbreviated traffic lights across the width of the band, flanked by two amethysts along its length. Worth nothing to them. Worth everything to me. 


I still occasionally look for it in the windows of second-hand shops. I bought myself a consolation ring in India. We visited a jewellery store and it was waiting for me, similar but nothing like. A sliver of a ring with a central ruby and a diamond chip either side. See? Nothing like. But I saw it and I heard my Mum and now I call it ‘my Mum’s ring’ and it fills a space and holds the memory. 

Two Short Stories (Too-short stories?)

These are two short stories written from prompts on my FB Creative Writing group. I'm really having fun doing these. They are written quickly and not 'polished'. Enjoy!

Prompt: She realised something was wrong as soon as she opened the door……

Thank goodness she was home. It had been a long and demanding day both physically and mentally. She hated working a Saturday shift. Why didn’t people visit their GP’s during the normal working week when their ingrowing toenails and haemorrhoids actually played them up rather than stoically storing it all up for the walk-in centre on a Saturday?  Their stoicism didn’t last till the weekend, did it? Oh no. Come Saturday afternoon it suddenly became unbearable and there they all were, lined up in front of her window, whinging and moaning that the queue was longer than that at Asda and they needed to get home before the old man got back from football. Still, she was home now. She rooted through her bag for her front door key, minutes away from a nice cup of tea. She was on a promise tonight. Not that! Sixty was too old for that sort of promise. At their age it needed planning. She snorted in affectionate amusement. No – Gerry had promised to cook tonight so she could put her feet up and be treated like a Queen. She found her key at last. It was funny that no-one had realised she was there – they were usually alert for her bus going past having dropped her off. She realised something was wrong as soon as she opened the door. Darkness. Darkness and silence. All the doors from the hallway were closed and the usual sounds of the TV downstairs and a ghetto blaster from the boys upstairs were missing. Worst of all, not even the dog was there to meet her with his silly smile and wagging tail. She stood stock still and breathed shallowly.

            ‘Hello?’

Her voice sounded a little lost against the density of the waiting silence, too thin to do more than scratch its surface. She tried again;

            ‘Gerry? Boys?  Butch?’

Her ears pricked as she thought she heard a distant whine, instantly cut short. What to do? Should she phone the police? How foolish would she feel if they all turned up, lights flashing, sirens wailing, neighbours goggling only to find that Gerry and the boys had walked the dog down to the local shops to pick up something they needed for dinner. Her hand groped for the light switch and she took a deep breath, steadying herself before she stepped into the hallway. She took off her coat and realised that, as usual, there was nowhere to hang it. All the pegs were full. Oh god. Were the family lying unconscious – or worse -  behind one of those closed, forbidding doors, having come across a burglar in mid spree? They wouldn’t have gone anywhere on a night like this without their coats.

            ‘Silly. Silly silly silly’.

She’d go and make herself that cup of tea, sit herself down for five minutes and then they’d be home. Her footsteps echoed ominously on the laminate of the hallway. It was lovely for keeping clean but not so good when it reminded you of the sound effects in a second rate horror movie. She reached out towards the door handle and slowly, slowly opened the door. The silence thickened; the darkness beyond the door was exaggerated by the light seeping in from the hallway; she pushed the door wide and as she stepped through –

            ‘Surprise!’

The suddenness of the light momentarily blinded her; the blast of sound confused. She looked round open-mouthed at the row of glasses raised in her direction, the glistening teeth of the smiles ranged behind.

            ‘Happy Birthday, darling’

            ‘Happy Birthday, Mum’

            ‘Happy Birthday, Josie’

And finally the dog was there, freed from the hand firmly around his muzzle, wagging and whining and leaning on her leg.

****************************************************

Prompt: How did you and your partner meet?

PM from me to my bestie:-

OMG! OMG!  OMG! I can’t believe I have met him. At last. Mr. Right.  Mr. Perfect. Mr. Scrummy-Yummy-Yumptious (hyphenated, of course!) It really is about time. I mean, honestly! How many Mr. Wrongs can you go through before you just give up? 

I met him on that website. You know ‘No strangers, no dangers’. I was in the chat room with the girls and a couple of lads from up North somewhere (Chelsea fans – LOL – no chance there) and he PM’d me. He is sooooo dishy. Over six foot (he’ll make me look small even in those four inch heels) with black hair, just a bit of gray at the sides. He says the men in his family always go gray young. I said he’ll look like my Dad except my Dad isn’t old enough for gray hairs yet even though he says we are enough to give him plenty. Anyways, you are the only person I can tell at the mo. He says we need to take things slowly because he’s been hurt plenty in the past and it’s better if we just keep it between ourselves for now. That’s why we haven’t actually met yet. But he is so romantic. We spend hours just talking – Mum and Dad keep asking why I look so tired. LOL. If only they knew! He can’t use his webcam at the moment so I haven’t seen him in real life. He’s living with his Mum because she is quite old and until they can get her into a home he has to look after her. He says he’s embarrassed at the state of the place and that’s the other reason he can’t invite me round yet. Obviously he can’t come round here. I mean – hello! Can you imagine the faces on the oldies????  He loves my webcam though. He thinks it’s really funny how pink and girly my bedroom is and he laughs when he sees me in Disney jim jams. He says I look like a little girl! Bloody cheek!! He’s suggested a hotel for a night. This is top top secret. You have to promise not to tell anyone – I mean no-one at all . I’m going to say I’m coming up to stay at yours . You will cover for me, won’t you? I’ll let you know times and stuff as soon as he says when.