Saturday, February 28, 2009

The biggest oxymoron in the world isn't military intelligence.

No, the biggest oxymoron in the world is 'power shower'. Whomever invented this useless bit of tripe lied when they discussed it's attributes. Buggeryfuck!

However, bathing here is an art... deep wonderful tubs you fill with hot water and one of a zillion different bath scents. Myrrh, jasmine, roses, sandalwood... just a few of the bottles of scented bath soaps I saw today at Waitrose. I was in olfactory heaven!

Today, I used Tesco's brand of lemon body wash... I can still pick up the tangy smell on my skin.. I felt refreshed and chipper from that portion of my cleaning... the power shower part?

Not so much.

Our Neville Fact

Neville and Margaret bought a Wii for the grandchildren, then kept it for themselves. They've created characters to represent themselves and others in their lives. Sometimes, to be daring, Neville will be 'Jesus', and when he mucks up, he says, "Oh my Dad!" or "DadDamnit!". Even though he's done it many times, it still makes Margaret giggle.

Thursday, February 26, 2009


Cat was far too furry.

His winter coat was full of mats, burrs, tangles and general mess for him to be comfortable anymore. He refuses to clean himself, expecting we humans to keep him brushed... after which he runs outside and rolls about, in complete disgust over the idea someone's tried to his job for him.

Nothing like a 30lb Cat who is pissed off at you. Thankfully, he's fairly settled for the scissoring, the picking out of mats and the eventual shaving. He'll stay sitting for a long period of time, and then he does let you know he's bored, so, the entire process takes a good week.

He produces enough hair to weave yarn to make an blanket. We've cut perhaps 1/3 of his fur, and the pile was as high as his leggy legs are long. I say cut, mostly, it's hacked away at for now, trying to shorten it enough to use the scary noisy clippers. Vidal Sasson, we're not.

Poor Frank, neurotic as ever, hovered outside, forgetting he can't fit in through the cat flap, was worried he was next. Actually, Frank worries about everything, so, I can't be sure it was the shearing of Cat that was on his nerves.

We'll be working at this for a few days more... I'll post the final photo soon. Currently, Cat is avoiding us and the comb used to tease out his intense tangles and the scary noise making clippers, walking about with one eye out for us.

And shedding as he goes.

Our Neville Fact

Margaret has been away for a week at Flick's, helping out while Flick recovers from a spill in the jumping ring. During this time, Neville has had the lads over, playing snooker and smoking cigars. One night, Simon Basington dropped his cigar on Margaret's prized rug, burning a noticeable hole. Since then, Neville has been working on how to explain the hole, since cigar smoking is banned outside his man room. He's currently leaning towards saying aliens, but, doubts this is going to actually work.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Three Word Wednesday~Flash Fiction

Three words, persistent, callous, interfere, as a prompt... the rest is fiction, plain and simple.


It was nothing more than a need for her to interfere with my life that kept her persistent in staying involved in my doings, leaving spam, making rude comments on my postings and sending me batshit crazy letters. She had a callous disregard for the understanding I was not interested in what was on with them; I had moved on happily. Her obsession with me was complete, surpassing any relationship she had in her life.

Eventually, I installed a code that redirected her to a porn web site every time she came to my blog, a move that both delighted both of us--me by it’s in your face comment and in the end, her innate desire to have more than one partner. Who knew stories about group sex would be right up her alley.

Last I heard, they were both living in a polyamory relationship on Staten Island with a lesbian from Toledo--and I’m bored with the lack of excitement dealing with her gave my life.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Strike The Sets

The play is done, complete, closed.

Although we only had four performances, it seemed like 4,762. Again, let me say it: Save me from tap dancing children. Please. Sure, they are cute, but, when they are on stage over and over.... even if they were the best rehearsed and well behaved people of my cast.

Panto is an art form, found in the UK. You take a basic fairy tale, and make it into a play that must contain a cake baking scene, a Dame who is male, the male lead who is a woman, shouts of "Oh, yes you will!" and "BEHIND YOU!!" and really bad jokes and improvisation and heckles from the audience and well, you get the idea. You have to have a trained audience, every time.

Our Dame was 84 year old Ron, who was brilliant. Peter Pan was played by Phillipa, and the evil Captain Hook by Linda... all of them in drag.

We had a gay sailor, a huge green crocodile, a backstage crew that danced with the cast, and amazing audiences. We threw in things that weren't there (Hook forgot hi..her lines, and came over to my place off-stage, where I showed her in full view of the audience the script, and then, loaned her my readers so she could see. TonkerBell, think Tinker in punk gear, played by my friend, Loo...she danced upstage from the dancers, and was a hit.

I had a wonderful time, with an easy going group of actors, a calm director....the whole lot were kind, giving, and made the full experience a delight.

Oh, and they gave me flowers. Woot!

Our Neville Fact

For years, Neville has been trying to cross breed a cauliflower with spring peas. Margaret has grown tired of finding different ways of fixing the CauliPea, and has forbid him any more attempts. Little does she know, he's got a new variation germinating in the back of the greenhouse...he's determined to beat the Right Reverand Jeremy Throckmorton in the vegetable category of the W.I.'s yearly fete. He feels no one would ever eat the CarroColi based on the name alone.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Sunday Scribblings~ Flash Fiction

The prompt word was trust.

Trust Funds

“Be mindful of who you trust!”, her Gran always said. “People will take advantage of a good soul like yours.”

She spent her life picking the wrong people; friends, lovers, business associates. She handed over money, possessions, her heart. All of them took what she gave so freely, and when she had no more to give, walked away... leaving her confused on how to work with people, how to know who was good who was bad who was simply around to take until the well was finally dry in every way.

“Be mindful who you trust!” she whispered. Putting the barrel in her mouth, she trusted she’d loaded it properly, and pulled the trigger.

Note: Yes, this is pure fiction.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

On With The Show, This Is It!!

Panto opens tonight.

I have a show that is to be 75 minutes that runs 125. Save me from children on stage. Tap dancing children.


Our Neville Fact:

When Neville and Margaret were first married, they went to Europe for their brief honeymoon. The resort Neville chose was, unknowing to him, a nude beach location. The first trip to the beach, in their very proper English bathing costumes, sent them both to their room in shock.... where they spent the next three days in mad lust, inspired by the sight they'd seen.

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Three Word Wednesday Flash Fiction

The words were candid, impulse and risk.

My Bad

Thom and Molly started their relationship via an internet chat room. Later, meeting in person, they realised they had an true attraction, deep and intense. He was shy, burned. She was more experienced, willing to try almost anything, teaching him all sorts of new games. One night, after a particularly naughty exchange on the phone, he decided on an impulse to take a candid shot of himself, and text it from his phone to hers. As he pressed send, he remembered why he should never risk not wearing his glasses when using his contact list.

He doubted his mom will appreciate seeing how he'd grown.

Women Against Violence Against Women

I've a new blog linked on my blog roll.

It's officially called "ViolenceUnSilenced".... it's listed as Women Against Violence Against Women.... I wanted it to be very clear about the subject matter.

With this in mind, I just finished reading an article that stated "....people don't cry in private anymore; they blog." Many people do use their blogs as emotional dumping grounds, I'm included in that lot on occasion. For the most part, I try to keep my deep personal things out of my blog... it has to be fairly important to me, or when I'm pushed too far.

This is very important to me, this site, and therefore, this blog post.

I was a victim of domestic violence. It was long ago, I was in my 20's and mad in love. He was my first love, what I thought would be my only love... and to be honest, if the events hadn't occurred, my children would have a different last name.

And, I'd still be married to him.

We had a number of things in common, sense of humour, family importance, friends... the big difference was, he drank and later moved on to drugs. Now, I'm not using that as an excuse for him--however, knowing him 20 years later, I do realise those two things really did release demons.

The first time, it was a slap across my face. He looked horrified, then, cradled me and cried with me. It got easier as time went on... slaps, punches, kicking me. I took it and made excuses, as we do, "Oh, I fell down the stairs!" "I ran into a door!".... It went on for years. One day, when I missed a shot in doubles tennis, he beat me with his racquet in front of all our friends...who turned away and pretended it wasn't happening.

I had bruises for over a week.

Long story short, one day, he pulled back his fist...having me cornered in the kitchen, and I said, "If you touch me, remember, you'll sleep sometime, and I'll be waiting with an iron skillet." He stood up and walked out and again, long to short, we split up...not to see each other again for 20 years, when he contacted me, 10 years sober, and asked forgiveness. He worked at a center for abused women, playing the 'dummy' they learned self defense on. He gave advice on how to deal with a violent partner. And, every AA meeting, he announced he'd beat the one thing he adored in life.

My ex was also abusive, only in a verbal, emotional way. I bore those bruises internally, learning to find myself unattractive, stupid, a bad wife. Luckily, those days are done, too... and I'll say no more because of who reads my blog on a daily basis. They don't need that information... they are healthy and happy and I'm pleased that's occurred. I raised my children to not take abuse off of anyone, and they don't. They found partners who rever who they are, who adore them, who would never think of belittling them in any fashion... and should they, my children know what to do....


This second bit is difficult. Until recently, only a handful of people knew about this event... the Oddship knows and just a few more.

The Ex, when I told him, said, "You must have done something to make it happen." and was disgusted. It kept me quiet for all this time.

I was raped.

There, I said it in public. I was raped. I was 20, on a date, and I was raped. That I'd been drinking has no difference.... his idea of how to end a first date and mine were two different things. I didn't think buying me dinner gave him more than the right to my company. He felt differently, I reckon.

I said no. I said it again and again and again.... didn't stop things. I am sure this is where my 'rule' about kissing came in... he kissed me again and again, and now, well, as much as I love to kiss... it's really something I don't do easily.

I went home and sat in my shower, sobbing... I threw out my clothes, I scrubbed, I cried, I prayed, and I went on with my life.

I always laugh when I remember he called me two days later, asking if I wanted to go out again, "....we had such a good time." Yeah. Right.

I'm sure I should go on, discussing how it caused me emotional distress, distrust of people, a sudden fixation on honesty. I was in a point of life where my first love and I were not seeing each other, he'd not started hitting me... it was he'd moved out of the state for a bit. I felt guilt that perhaps I should have waited to date... I felt guilt my jeans and sweater and garish socks I was wearing was enticing. It had to be my fault.

It wasn't. I said "NO!".

I raised my children that the magic word is "NO!" no matter how far you are into making love... if the woman says that, everything stops.

Date rape is no less an act of control and violence than being raped by a stranger. It's almost worse, as you are usually driven home by your rapist. It was not seen as anything to discuss or file complaints against when it happened to me, I'd have been seen as the tempter of his acts... I lured him in, obviously.

I am no longer a victim of domestic violence...not the beatings I took as a child, not the beatings I took physically, emotionally and mentally as a woman. I am no longer a victim of rape... even if it was on a date and I had on those luring striped socks. I grew and I learned and I stand tall now, saying to people, if you see this, if you know of it, do something. Women, there are places to go, people who will help you leave a violent home. Rape is to be discussed with your peers (sad as that word sounds) You are not alone. You are not to blame.

I support groups who do these things... I've acted in the Vagina Monologues proudly... I will be a victim no longer.

I am a survivor.

Comment Moderation is off for this post.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

My Secret Addiction

Every morning is a struggle to get out of bed.

I'm thrilled the girls are on term break, I get to lie in every morning now. It's not that I'm lazy, it's the, well, the bed.

Large enough for me to sprawl out in as I tend to do, perfect sheets, four....count 'em four...pillows, a wonderful feather comforter, a mattress form pad--and--the undersheet electric blanket.

What a perfect invention for this place, for any place! I almost want it to be the beginning of winter again! The entire surface of the bed is a lovely, toasty perfection of warmth. I don't have to curl in on myself or put another dog on the bed to be comfy... I am lying in a cocoon of wonderfulness, tempting me to stay put all day.

No icy regions lie at the bottom, where my foot might slip and wake me up with a shiver. No spots of cold lurking in case I roll over. No, it's all lovely.

And, with that, I'm going back to bed to read. After I move Cat off the middle of the bed.

He can find his own heating blanket, and leave mine be.

Our Neville Fact:

When Margaret was on her Adventure, and Our Neville was posing for a nude, he often had to temper his thoughts of the future with Margaret while under his hood, else they find they'd need more clay to sculpt him. A lot more clay.

Monday, February 16, 2009

Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day is past, thank goodness.

I've never been one for this 'holiday'.... if you can't show me I'm special during the year, don't bother on one day assigned, based on some poor martyr.

I spent mine in a perfect fashion... letters to and from the Oddship, a hugely amusing dinner with MB and HB, eating England's national dish--a good curry.... and some films afterwards, while we chatted and laughed.

I don't begrudge Valentine's Day, I simply want it to be a day, and yes, I'll make a special meal, I'll buy a card, I'll do the stuff if you want it done.

I'd just prefer if you don't.

Our Neville Fact:

He noticed Flick's tape, and asked, "What in the world are you doing, you silly moo!!"

They still aren't speaking.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Big Ev

Loo is engaged to a really nice man.

Big Ev (no, I've no idea on all of him, but, he's 6'8", thus the moniker) is pure delight. Not since The WeatherGuy have I been around someone who listens to what you say, retains it, and follows through. Before, I'd mention delightful single malt, pomegranate juice, chocolate ice cream...and, what do you know?.... it appeared. Just for me. Ev knows I never get flowers, and every time I'm here, he sends them.... and remembers I like roses and lilies. In pale yellow. My current bouquet is on my dresser, the first and last thing I see every day. He knows I have my little UK mobile, so, he calls and sends text messages, just so I can use it (he knows I love the Jackson 5 ring tone James put on for me). He, too, honestly critiques my writing, and I appreciate it, as he's a writer, too. A good one.

Like The WeatherGuy, he has awful puns. Groaners. The kind you say, "NOOO!!" when they are done. He has that same level of melodious voice, soothing...only he has a proper Yorkshire accent.

He works at a number of things, all of them something he's good at. At one time in his life, he was part of the guard for Princess Anne... and he's told some very funny stories about that time in his career.

He is perfect for my Loo--for any number of reasons. They look at each other with deep love and respect, and it gives you hope.

I love Ev to bits...not for the flowers, or the bad puns or the jokes or the good conversations... those are part of it, granted.. but, I love Ev because he loves Loo and HB and MB and he's a wonderful dad to his own brood. I love him because he is tender to them, caring, funny.. he sorts out what each girl needs from him, and gives that... never overstepping into the role of their father, they've got one of those, but, he is a kind friend, one who loves them as a child needs to be loved; with compassion and understanding.

He adds to my pleasure of being here...

And, he sends me flowers.

Our Neville Fact

Margaret is secretly taking tap dancing lessons with Lisa in the Village. Her plan is to dance to "Tea for Two" on Neville's next birthday, wearing seven veils she'll remove during the dance. Margaret believes in mingling cultures.

Friday, February 13, 2009

'Wrecks' At The Bush Theater

There really is nothing like theater.

I had seen Wrecks, written and directed by Neil LaBute, at the Public Theater in New York when it premiered there. I paid for my ticket, I sat in the back row, and I spent the evening on the edge of my seat, leaning forward, chin on hands...while Ed Harris charmed all of us, leading us down the dark.ish path of Ed Carr, a man who had just lost his beloved wife, JoJo.

When I was notified by the Bush Theater in London it would be playing during my time here, Loo and I decided to see it, so I could enjoy the play again, and she could take it in for the first time. LaBute wasn't directing, but, it was still one of his works, and I do loves me my LaBute.

The UK version starred Robert Glenister and was directed by their artistic director, Josie Rourke. Once again, it was a stark, simple set... you walk in, and you are confronted by a casket..nothing more.

It tips you off this will not be your average play.

And, that it isn't. It's a 75 minute monologue, given by Ed, who takes your hand and leads you down the trails of his life-- his bringing up in foster homes, his discovery of his JoJo, their courtship and subsequent life together. He tells of their kingdom of car rental locations; created by restoring old wrecked classic cars, and their huge success with that business. He touches lightly on their two daughters and JoJo's two sons from her previous marriage. The whole focus of his life, it seemed, was JoJo, the business...oh, and his almost equally beloved cigarettes, which he puffs all through the show... Wait! You mind if he smokes? Why, would you deny a grieving widower anything in his time of sorrow?

I'm a huge fan of LaBute. Unlike some, I don't find him to be misogynistic in any way. I actually think his men tend to come off as the cads, the wimps, the fearful ones...the ones who don't quite get what life is all about, who make promises they will never keep. I have maintained that his work has a solid bedrock built on the subject of love--how we abuse it, use it, discard it, steal, cheat, lie and destroy other people in its name. This particular play is an excellent example of that theory... what we will do for love.

This is a lovely, rich, intense monologue, that holds you steady for the full 75 minutes, as you listen to Ed and his stream of consciousness discussion, occasionally referring to the sounds of his other 'self' and others who murmur in the background via soundtrack... and, with that nice way he has of delivering it, a full on twist that makes you go, "WTF? W.T.F.???" in the last few moments of the show. I heard a nice full on gasp come up from the audience I attended with, showing they were pulled in and rightfully shocked by said moment.

After watching Harris, I was a bit concerned. I mean, Ed Harris? He had you from the first moment with his 'join me for a bit of soul searching' smile and those eyes that are a richer blue than you can imagine, crinkling in laughter and smiles..something deep and sad in them the entire time.

Glenister didn't disappoint. He had a different take on his character, a different delivery, a different version of the journey.... however, he, too, pulled you in, took you with him in his woven storyline... and, even knowing the 'twist', I still had a slight shock.

The two productions were alike in set, yet vastly different. The Harris work had a shiny black casket, and a very American feel to the funeral setting. The Bush set design is a bit more British, wood casket, smaller flowers and photo of the beloved. Glenister is a shade more casual in his dress, Harris being very crisp in his mourner's attire.

I was pleased on Glenister's dialect, he sounded very American, something that has caused issues in other productions in London of American plays... a lack of a convincing American dialect. He carried the flat sound of the Midwest in a positive way, and I didn't find it jarring or annoying at all, just... well.... American.

LaBute's script is woven with humour, loss, pride and that evasive love. His words cling to you, attached to your memory after you've left the theater. The lines can soar past, then bounce back to hit you with a solid 'THWACK!'. I heard the play discussed by a group who were in the same restaurant we adjourned to afterwards...discussed with awe and passion and their version of four words Ed whispers (and we never hear) to his dying Jo. It was interesting to hear other viewpoints, and a compliment to the playwright that the dinner discussion was not what they should have, but, what and why and wow! over the play they'd just seen.

There was a just under full house... although sold out, there were huge traffic problems, keeping some patrons from arriving on time. You never seat anyone after a show starts until intermission, and, with no intermission, if you weren't there, you missed out. The Bush only seats around 86 people, so, there was a wonderful intimate feeling you didn't get from the Public.

I highly recommend this play, should you have a chance to see it. London theater remains very affordable, with these tickets less than 18 pounds. The Bush is an amazing venue, and the subject of a petition signing to keep it from closing last year.

Ed Carr is a multi-layered, diverse, complex, controlling man, who never gave up in his desire to find and keep love.

He would do anything for love--anything.

Wrecks, written by Neil LaBute, directed by Josie Rourke. Playing at the Bush Theater, 2 Shepherd's Bush Green, London, W12 8QD, 020 8743 5050--above the O'Neil Pub. 9 February-28 March, 2009 at 7.30.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Snow, SAD, and Our Neville-lll

Rehearsals roll on.

The director seems happy I'm there, she's no longer the one hated; I am.

"May I have quiet please?? Quiet on stage! PEOPLE!!! CACOPHONY!!!"

Dead silence, and the terribly polite stares of irritation over my stopping their nattering are turned my way.

The director looks at them with a sympathetic glance, turns to me and says, "Well done". Right. I'm hated, they love her now...but, it's quiet.

I can't seem to drop the Stage Manager hat at all... when we went to see "Wrecks" (review tomorrow), I noticed the actor's pronunciation of 'mimeograph' was done phonetically... MIME-o-graph.

As soon as the show was over, I dashed over to the Stage Manager, and gave the proper American pronunciation. I also mentioned the lights were turned the wrong way on a few bits of blocking, leaving the actor in the dark. Loo and I had both been annoyed by this, so, I brought that up, too. We then stood about and talked theater for a bit... it's a great little place (86 seats) above a pub in Shepard's Bush. It reminded me why I love theater... you can go anywhere, and talk shop.

SAD is sad right now, still at sixes and sevens, the show is two weeks away, and I worry about it... but, being a panto, we'll get away with lots of stuff. I had Nigel, who was holding a script, still unable to do his dialogue even with me prompting him on where he was.

Now, if John would only stop improvising, and learn his lines, I'd be thrilled.

Our Neville Fact:

Flick, Neville and Margaret's daughter, has decided to have a face lift. She walks about with bits of scotch tape on her face, pulling the loose skin back and her eyelids up, to show how she'll appear to her husband and children. Keeping the tape on, in order to drive over and show her friend, Lucy Sommerfield, the projected appearance, she forgot about the tape and stopped off at Tesco's to pick up some bacon and bread. It was a prime example of British politeness that, although she had tape on her face, no one stared or said a word.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Snow, SAD and our Neville~II

More snow.

The girls are out of school, since the country is out of road salt. In one town, they've gone to mixing table salt with road salt so they'll have something to put down so people don't go sliding off the roads, as we almost did on the way to lovely Stowe...a journey that was canceled a few miles out of the village.

School wasn't as important as our lives today.

The weekend was spent in a number of lovely ways--from me trying to catch up on my sleep Saturday morning, to building snowmen to playing gin to panto. The snowman was created by MB and her friend, James, whom I'm thinking of packing up and taking home with me. He's lovely and sweet and camp and a real dear, who makes me laugh. He picked up gin rather quickly, well, the smack talk part of it at least... and is now a convert to the Church of British Gin Games.

Yesterday, I also had tea with Our Neville and Margaret. Let me say this, the real Margaret is physically nowt like my creation... still, they've provided me with a ton of new material, since he is still quite dry and she is a tiny laughing woman, and they both adore each other.

I got that part right.

It's Tuesday, more theater on the way (for Vinny!) in the next bit. I've a shower to take, a train to take, and Loo and I are braving the UK weather to head into London to see a West End show.

Life couldn't be better.

Our Neville Fact:

Neville has a Man Room, from which Margaret is banned. There he has a pool table, his computer and all his books. He's only allowed to smoke his cigars there-- although, when Margaret is off on a WI weekend, he occasionally will sit in the lounge in his Man Shorts, and have an glass of his illicit stash of first cask single malt and Cuban cigar, just to prove he can.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Snow, SAD, and Our Neville

It was a long journey, and I'd thought I'd be on holiday.

The trip up from London was fraught with snow... yes, snow in the UK!! Who knew?? From the looks of the road and houses, the citizens of the UK certainly didn't. Up north, well, you expect it, but, in Kent?? In London?? In Silverstone???


I've yet to see a shoveled walkway or driveway... and, coming from a town at just under 5000 ft up, shovels are given as baby gifts, so the child can learn early their first chore--shoveling some of the many, many feet of snow.

I digress.

My friend, Harle, was kind enough to pick me up from Heathrow and drive me up the M1 to here, thus avoiding the horrors I would have faced taking the Express to Paddington, the Tube to Euston where Virgin Trains would transport me up this way. The idea I'd have done it dragging one case and carrying a computer case and my other big bag disguised as a 'purse' for flying purposes makes me whimper even now.

The main highway was plowed...and it ended there. Anything smaller than the M1 was, well, snowy. You saw small children standing in windows, knowing they were down to eating what was left in the cupboards since their parents were paralyzed by the vast 6" of snow.


The shared road into Home was packed with snow, Loo on the main street waving at me as we pulled up. Harle and I carried my bags into the house while Loo put the kettle on. I love that phrase, 'put the kettle on' and I love the result even more--tea. Lovely, delicious, milky tea with a spoonful of sugar. With a proper cuppa, you can survive anything.

Where was I going with this? I'm not sure, except to explain everything is pretty much shut down. Poor Harle had to traverse back down to London, and later rang while I took my needed nap and told Loo the trip home had been a nightmare.

I've never been sure who actually has nightmares about traffic and trips, but, there you go... we use the phrase anyway.

After catching up on my sleep, Loo informed me not only of his call, but, that, by the by, she'd volunteered me to work as the prop mistress for her local theater group, the Silverstone Amateur Dramatics or SAD. I was thrilled, as I'd have something to do, and could enjoy the show, a pantomime production of "Peter Pan".

That part of the story is due tomorrow... right now, it's been snowing for a bit, and I need to do what ever good British citizen does when it snows.

Look outside and comment on the depth, then put the kettle on.

Our Neville Fact:

His drive is precisely shoveled, as Margaret fears she'll slip and fall and Neville could never live with that kind of guilt.

Sunday, February 1, 2009

Sunday Scribblings Word Prompt~Regrets

She stood in front of the door, the words to "My Way" running through her head.

It was time, she knew that. She'd held on to the dream, the hope, for far too long now. It was time to admit it would never happen, that her life would never have room for it again... time to accept it was a mistake to have held on this long. Time for regret.

Leaning her head against the door frame, she gave a small sigh of memory. Of good times had, words whispered to another leaning towards each other in a dimly lit room, of the way she felt, the confidence that radiated from her.... this is why she was so reluctant to relinquish it all. To admit it was over and done and would never be part of her being again.

It was time. To stand tall once again, to reach out, to touch the dream... and put it in the pile of clothes to be donated. It was time to accept shoulder pads would never come into fashion again, especially not under that particular shade of blue, and to be honest, no one but Alexis Carrington and Joan Crawford ever wore them with style and grace.

Regrets, she'd had a few.... but, never as many as keeping that dress in her closet for so long a time, waiting for the fashion world to give back the uber power suit to women. Two toned jacket with a peplum, big buttons, tight skirt, bold colours, and those shoulder pads that proved women could hold their own in the Boardrooms of Major Corporations. No, there was no past fashion she regretted keeping as much...unless you counted the leg warmers still tucked away in the back of her sock drawer.

After all, you never know, do you?