Dreaming…

Image by Syaibatul Hamdi from Pixabay

I have been told that thinking is a dangerous thing to do at my age.  It is possibly a dangerous thing to do at any age if you think about it, for who knows where it may lead?

I quite like thinking, and all the things that trigger it off. Like books and pictures for instance. What I could do with is a method of keeping said thoughts, as they usually evaporate like so much smoke, never to be seen again. I make notes on everything in a vain hope of remembering all the good stuff, and it works most of the time.

Then I am told ‘what do you expect, at your age?’

But this is the difficult part. My mind does not feel old, even though it seems to have more holes in it than my favourite cheese, and when I see or read something that stirs my imagination, I am back in my prime, having a sneaky feeling that this is not all there is for me.

Some of the time I must admit I really don’t want any more, I am too tired to even consider the possibility. Then there are the other days– when you forget just how old and how stiff you are. That you find it difficult just going to the shops and back.

Days when you choose to ignore the sands of time slipping through your fingers and find yourself considering the most amazing possibilities.

Of course, this may be what happens as you approach old age. I don’t know, I have no experience or knowledge of it, not having done it before.

But if you can think, you can dream. And if you can dream, I believe you can do anything… at any age!

I have been struggling to finish the fifth book in my crime/mystery series. Although I am three quarters finished, the sneaky feeling that there might be something wrong just won’t go away.

It gets worse. 

I have been waking up in the early hours, thinking about the story. This has been going on for weeks now and last night I dreamed about it. In the dream, my hero and my villain changed places for some reason.

I wanted to know about temporary and easily changeable hair colourants. None of this made any sense to me, all my book needed, I think, is a substantial edit to tighten up the plot. But it did get me thinking. 

Could my choice of villain be all wrong? This could be why my hero was a bit lack lustre too. The whole premise could be askew. Anita and I had a brainstorming session to try to make sense of it all, and although we came up with some interesting ideas, they all involved major rewriting. No mean feat when you are 60.000 words in already.

I should be feeling devastated, and not sure why I’m not. The problem may or not be sorted, but whatever happens, it is doable. So that old post was right after all. If you can dream, you can do anything…

The Old Couch…

I found this image on Pixabay a few days ago, and it has been haunting me … This could be its story…

image by pixabay.com

The morning sun warmed the memories in the heart of the old couch, spreading through the worn feather cushions to the wooden framework, easing the pain of arthritic rigours.

A rustling in the tree above announced the presence of a lone squirrel. Landing on a cushion with a soft thud, the squirrel began to stretch his muscles in the sunshine. The settee sighed as he watched, a sound like a gentle whisper of wind, as he remembered his early days when he was king of the house, looked for by tired bones after a hard day’s work.

Babies had been born on his comfortable cushions, and countless children had safely fallen asleep in his arms.

So many good times.

A cloud passed in front of the sun, temporarily removing the heat. A shiver reminded him of other times when tears were shed, dampening his upholstery.

Of angry tears, and later, happy ones.

Romances had begun and ended, and the years passed.

Before he knew it, they noticed the sagging cushions and faded covers. He heard the uncomfortable complaints and the plans to replace him. All too soon, he found himself forgotten, dumped under a tree in the garden awaiting collection.

Only nobody came.

He wasn’t lonely. The birds and animals were his friends these days, and nature did her best to comfort him, spreading soft moss and grasses around him as if to protect him from the elements.

Families of field mice had made homes under the cushions, their happy existence bringing joy to the heart of the old settee…

Linda… a week in her life ~ Thursday #serial

Thursday

I have a confession.

No work was done that afternoon. Now I had sheets to clean, thoughts to reassemble. Would I repeat the experience was my first thought? That didn’t take too much consideration. Yes, yes, yes! Is he a keeper? I don’t think so. If he is a test drive; I need more lessons.

He left before I woke. The space beside me empty, his presence lingering. Rolling into that empty space, warmed the scent he had left behind. Bottled, it would sell well. I stripped the bed, leaving the sheets in the machine until later. A quick shower, skipping breakfast, I took the car, to work. I can’t afford to be knocked off my bike right now. That makes it sound like I am planning to in the future. I mean, I don’t want to play with that kind of danger right now.

My boss said I took a big risk telling a writer his idea stinks. ‘I didn’t say it quite like that. ‘

‘Lucky for you he didn’t mind. He said he would send in the locations as they arrive in the story.’

I managed to do some work. The rest of the crew were as pleased as the boss. He is a big name. His books are followed by young enthusiasts all over the world. I felt like I had landed a marlin after hours wrestling, much of which ended up between my sheets. A night to remember, yes. A night to repeat, yes please, and soon, I hope. That depends on his first draft when he sends it in. I cannot wait to start work on it. The sooner I give him something to look at, the sooner we might meet again to approve the work over lunch. I was hoping for a repeat of the last time.

The weeks passed, I was beginning to think he had changed his mind.

Turned out to be five weeks before I received a call for lunch. Same place, mid-day Saturday.

I don’t work weekends. For him I made an exception. I need to drop that into our next conversation. Don’t want him to make a habit of changing my life around. I know, I can hear women across the globe saying, if the sex was worth it, what do you care about weekends?

I do care. All week the boss calls the shots, the weekends I’m in charge.

Saturday is going to prove interesting. My back isn’t exactly up, it’s a bit prickly. It would be up to him to smooth it out.

By now, I had extra work on my desk. I try burying myself in it, not wanting to think about Peter Westwood and his edible eyes. The extra time will give me time to stop thinking about him as I’m sure he’s not the one. I haven’t taken him for a test drive yet. One encounter after a long dry spell doesn’t tell me much more than I was just horny. If there is to be a second time, it must match the first time or surpass it.

I will let you know when that happens. Needless to say, I haven’t had the time to read the book that I picked up…

See you tomorrow…

© Anita Dawes 2021

The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 522 ~ #Poetry

Back Then…

Years ago, I watched my dad
Smack seven bells out of my neighbour
For insulting my mum
At that time, dad kept doves
Mum believed in elves at the bottom of the garden
Back then, we all walked to school, rain or shine
Boys wouldn’t use an umbrella
For fear of being called a sissy
I have been drumming the same tattoo
On the edge of my desk for years
I wonder if I would ever write words to it
Would there come a time when other artists
Would covet my song?
Behind our estate, there is a small forest
I have seen many lovers blunder in and out
Running under thundering raindrops
I often wondered if ghosts 
had driven them out of the woods
There had been stories of girls screaming
Saying someone touched them
As for me, I stay away from the place
Not just because mum told me to
She had a bad experience years ago
She won’t tell me
Dad says it was in the past
I must admit the kids have always called me pixie
Because of my pointed ears
Gran says it happened because mum got scared
by an elf or a pixie when she was carrying me
Do you believe in such twaddle…?

© Anita Dawes 2021

Linda, Wednesday…

Sorry that we missed a day yesterday! I wonder what you think of Linda…

I found the Rose and Crown too smoky.

Pushing open the door, I remembered Brian had thick, blond hair, a crew cut back then, dark blue eyes. Making my way to the bar, trying to look without swivelling my head too much. Wouldn’t want anyone to think I was about to spew pea soup across the bar or speak in tongues.

It was the eyes I noticed at the corner table. I sat opposite Brian, holding out my hand. He stood, shaking my proffered hand.

‘I’m glad you came.’

The blond hair had vanished, a shiny dome in its place. That makes it sound as if he was doing an impression of St Paul’s. I remembered the whispering gallery when mum took me. I wondered what thoughts were running around inside that dome that will never get said that evening.

He ordered drinks, reminiscing about the old times. The past doesn’t interest me. I could feel boredom creeping over me like unwanted ivy.

About an hour in, I made my excuses. ‘I have a big lunch meeting tomorrow; I need my shut eye. Been nice catching up.’

I stopped myself from saying we should do it again. He stood; I could feel him watching as I left.

It wasn’t exactly a lie. I do have a meeting my boss wouldn’t want messed up.

On my way home, I scolded myself a little. I could have given Brian more time.

I didn’t have to be in work that morning, the boss wanted me fresh for the meeting with Peter Westwood. I chose to wear my pencil skirt, long sleeved pale blue blouse, three buttons undone, showing just enough cleavage. If his eyes drop below my face, I will know something about him. A gentleman never lets you notice his eyes wandering. He is practised, he can do it without staring. This one knew the rules. Not once did I see his eyes wander. Deep brown, like chocolate buttons. Thick black hair with a slight kink trying to be a wave.

He is polite, stood shaking my hand, letting me sit before he did. His voice is deep. Not down in your boots deep, just enough to be sexy. Which I very much found him to be. ‘Would you like to order? I have to admit I am ravenous.’

He spoke naturally, which put me at ease.

We spoke while eating, which surprised me. I had to admit his book idea didn’t go down well with me. A teenage story of murder come whodunnit with a prize, if you entered of a replica of a jewelled dagger.

Knives and guns are all wrong, I told him. I couldn’t in all consciousness work with his ideas. I wondered what my boss would say if he was standing right behind me. I could almost hear him screaming between clenched teeth.

‘Maybe it could be a magical mystery tour around London where the reader could track the perpetrator, and the winner could have lunch with you.’

He must have liked the idea, for he stopped chewing, took a swig of his white wine. ‘That a much better idea. I could run them all over London, then back to Mayfair to the Silver Spoon.’

Before leaving, he gave me his card and his ideas for the sketches he wanted in the book. A young man with a book and pencil in his hand, roaming through London, hoping to win a lunch date with his favourite author.

He offered me a lift back to work.

I told him I was working from home today.

‘Home it is then.’

He sat in the back with me, my skirt riding up more than I would normally like. This time I didn’t tug it down. I couldn’t tell if he noticed the amount of leg on show. ‘Ask your driver to turn left here. I’m the one with the monkey puzzle tree out front.’

Turning to face me, he asked if he could come in for coffee. ‘I think there is more we can do.’

I will let you know tomorrow what he had in mind…

© Anita Dawes 2021

Mindlovesmisery Photo Challenge #385

Photo credit Mark Payton

MLMM PhotoChallenge #385

I cross the old wooden bridge
A time machine to the past
Each step could be the one 
To trigger the magic
I am halfway across, looking back
I can see nothing, 
clouds, mountain tops, no bridge
My footsteps vanished, 
alongside the old wooden planks
I walk on, praying
Please let the next step take me home
The clouds ahead looked thinner
Started to clear
I could see the most amazing buildings
Blue and white
Gripping the rail edge to move on
A white shroud stole my beautiful vista
I was alone, 
nothing but wooden planks ahead of me
That’s when I heard a small voice
Do you want your old life?
I couldn’t stop myself from yelling, yes!
Then turn around. If you have faith
The bridge will appear
Would you take that step back
With nothing to see but clouds?

© AnitaDawes 2021

The Sunday Whirl ~ Wordle 521 ~ #Poetry

I have my ticket for the 
First passenger flight into space
Not until next year 
will I be able to take my seat
To sit in that sacred space
Will bring comfort to me
This may sound lame to most
In my mind I avenge myself
On all those who said 
I will amount to nothing
Here I am the cat with the cream
I know for most folk, 
life gets in the way
Dreams die by some evil desire
Life pulls you in the wrong direction
Could be we walk the path 
of second-hand dreams
Old, used parts of life
A mishmash of leftovers 
that never amount to much
I count myself lucky 
that my dream has been paid for…

© Anita Dawes 2021

#Whatdoyousee #Keepitalive #WDYS #Poetry

What do you see # 102 – October 4, 2021

Image credit; Xresch @ Pixabay

For the visually challenged reader, this image shows a rocky landscape, near the ocean. Overhead an old house with a few mechanical devices is floating in the sky on a small piece of land.

Could be I have set my sights too high
This old house aint worth moving
It’s mine, I love it
The land too, it holds memories
Strange to say, I have found a way
To mechanise my piece of land
I now travel the universe
Looking for a place to set down
Many of the seas and skies
Remind me of the old homestead
Like Gulliver, I long to find a space
To drop down, to call home
To make new memories
To add to my land
The sights I have seen
Seeds and plants I have gathered
I have taken away memories of people
Who have stood on my land
Their essence seeping through like rain
Will speak to me, keep me company
On dark nights
Until a space opens that I can fit into
And drop anchor…

© AnitaDawes 2021

Remembering my first Encounter with a Mobile phone…

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Remembering my first Encounter with a Mobile phone…

It’s not often that I give up on anything. Being one of the most stubborn people on this planet, means that I usually persevere or (drive myself and the rest of my family insane) until I master whatever it is I want to do.

But giving up doesn’t happen often, and I am ridiculously happy to be able to say that. I gave up on a job once. It was well paid but strenuous, and after two weeks, I was forced to admit that it was slowly killing me. I gave up on my marriage for roughly the same reason.

What this usually means, is I regard it as a personal failure, rather than the acceptance that it was a mistake and not for me. It has to be my fault, you see, that I had to run away/or give up.

And today, I gave up on my first mobile phone.

Sounds silly I know, when you consider that I have tackled the world of computers, the internet, self publishing and the vagaries of Twitter, to mention but a few.

I had wanted a mobile phone for a while. Everyone I knew had one, so they couldn’t be that difficult to use, I thought. What I didn’t realise, was that you are essentially looking at a computer system in a very small box.

“Just charge it up and switch it on…” the attractive young man in Carphone Warehouse told me. Adding, with a smirk, that I could return it inside two weeks, if I changed my mind. And that should have alerted me. For if it was that easy to use, why would I need to change my mind?

I chose a Samsung, nothing too fancy, assuming it would be easier for me. It had a nice big touch screen, and I remember looking at it in the shop and wondering how on earth it could be operated with just the one button.

The first day, I opened the box and stared at the phone for most of the morning before switching it on. I was at once assaulted by several messages – all requiring me to do various tasks. I tried to understand what they wanted, but after just one hour of insanity –I switched it off in disgust and not a little frustration.

I had been assured it had an instruction manual, but a small leaflet explaining how to change the battery did not cut the mustard!

On the second day, I tried again. After several attempts to enter the required information, I gave up again. Mainly because it logged me out after two attempts. I moved on to more interesting subjects, installed a few apps and explored a bit. But even with my stubborn streak running at full throttle, I ended up switching it off again.

The damned thing goes into stand-by mode every time you stop to think.

It also makes countless annoying bleeps, for as yet unknown reasons.

None of the menus appear to work, switching you to other screens as and when it feels like it.

I eventually found the help screen, but even following the advice to the letter, nothing helped. The instructions were concise but didn’t seem to be referring to my phone. And even when I found something to actually try, it didn’t work.

I was beginning to feel increasingly more stupid than usual, so I decided to quit. I didn’t really need a crazy, non functioning nightmare accessory to highlight my faults, so I put it back in the box and went back to my regular means of frustration, most of which had already learned who was boss…

The trouble with being super stubborn, is that you never really give up, and of course, I hadn’t. Sometime later, I was introduced to an Apple iPhone and fell in love with how easy it was to use. Makes me wonder if I would prefer an Apple computer too as they are so user friendly…

This was written for me!

#BlogBattle ~ Scattered ~ #Poetry

October #BlogBattle: Scattered


My granddaughter dropped her kaleidoscope
From the top window
Tiny, coloured pieces scattered across the patio
I heard her little footsteps running down the stairs
Holding my breath, hoping she wouldn’t fall
Three-year-olds often know no fear
The tiny jewels shone under bright sunlight
Lost treasure belonging to the shining ones
Running into the kitchen where I stood
Watching the coloured dancing lights
Renewing my faith in magic
“I didn’t throw it Nan,
I tried to find more light to make the pieces shine”
Hugging my leg, her tears drying on my apron
Looking at her tear-stained face
I couldn’t tell her off for playing near an open window
Taking her hand, we walked outside
We will go to town and buy a new one
With a sob in her voice, she said
“It is a broken rainbow…

© Anita Dawes 2021