In my parent’s house I obey the sign that says: NO SHOES NO EXUSES before mounting the stairs. There’s a smell of apple crumble, my favorite, coming from the kitchen; Sweet cinnamon, brown sugar, nutmeg even; and although these aren’t the stairs I used to climb back then, I am thrown into childhood. Then, all of my Sundays were dominated by Sunday- School first, Sunday dinner next and the delicious desserts that followed.
I hug my mum who is sat up in bed and hope the smell of mints and white musk is stronger than roll ups. Sweet soap and powder waft upwards from her cheeks, her robe. The room is drenched in the yellow of the afternoon. My mum is soft and warm to the touch with arms that feel like a chocolate cake that I take out of the oven too soon.

Flash Fiction

In the run up to the new year, instead of thinking about Sales and Food and Nights out, I have been thinking about FLASH FICTION. At a recent writers retreat the fabulous author Kate Clanchy introduced a group of us to the concept: Ten word and one hundred word stories.
When it should be sleep I am counting words! It's a true test on the concise use of language, especially with the ten word stories:getting to the essence of the story straight away but still with the beginning, middle and an end! It's fun as well, and as such I've dedicated a whole new blog to the idea!!Does it work? (my attempts and the concept) Take a look, see what you think :-)      http://2010wordstories.blogspot.com/

thoughts on 2010

i'm starting again. again
another new year
another whole decade
to turn full circle
again

Company

I lift the knocker and drop it on next door. Mine is left open. It's about a minute before Verna answers. "Hi. I just brought my washing round."
She pushes up her mouth like she's giving a reluctant kiss and says nothing when I'd seen her most of this week and that's all that she's said; You going to bring it? Day 1.
Don't go to the laundry girl. I'm just next door, Day 2.
Bring it nuh!! Day 3.
And here she is on Day 4 pushing up her mouth like she doesn't want me to bring it.

My friend

My good friend would bound into a room, fragrance first. Eyes would immediately be drawn to the low cut and expansive rise of high bust. A skirt would touch just above her knees, bare legs always, smooth skin with either long boots or boys-come-get-me heels. Her hair was dyed brown a while ago now. Sometimes she needed to pick out white fluff before she left the house from locks that had been the same length for about a year.

Gone till November

I have had a great year! I ditched work after nine years and attempted to go back to Uni. I lasted a week! I won't mention the name of the ghetto university in which I enrolled, but I knew it just wasn't me. If I am going to pay ten thousand pounds for a degree that essentially I don't need- it has to be at a place more organised, cosmopolitan and prestious. I may as well learn from the best right? My friend said I'm a snob. I am not a snob. I am a poor working class gal who has become clear about what she wants out of life. But before I tell you what I want I have to think about my use of the word 'poor' and what I put out there into the Universe. Poor?...mmmmm. Scratch that. I am abundant in all ways, regardless of what I have thought in the past!
Ok. Now I can tell you what I want...

Can I see you naked?

I bump into a local guy from time to time and we end up in conversation. He is about to go to Uni to do a Masters as he wants to teach. I am on the verge of leaving teaching after a vast number of years to go back to Uni as I want to write. Our conversations go something like this;
enthusiastic (him)
burnt out (me)
enthusiastic (him)
burnt out (me)
Theory theory jargon theory (him)
Oh God please (me).
And so it continues for several minutes whilst my eyes wonder above and beside him for something slightly more interesting.