Fantasies from the kitchen sink

The daffodils are blooming in my garden this morning and the sun is shining, i'ts a lovely spring day. While I was standing at my kitchen sink washing the dishes.....again! I was looking out at my garden through the window, at a big fat wood pigeon trying to cleanse itself  in my small modest bird bath. I got to thinking. Mainly about writing books and the people who write them. Famous people like models. Models hypothetically speaking of course. I was wondering if they write their own storys?. Did they like me borrow their mate Tracey's handouts from a previous English language course, then spend hours reading about the semicolon, brackets and dashes, the comma, exclamation and question marks......Probably not!. I mean they have perfumes to launch, photo shoots and botox clinics to attend. The gardener to pay. Unlike me who does the backbreaking job of gardening myself.  We did have Clive the Garden Angel for a while, godsend a tell ya, what that man could do in a garden in half an hour was fantastic!!!. I may look like something out of Shameless nowadays, but I have always had pride in my garden. It's quite splendid for a council estate in Gateshead. My own little piece of Suffolk in Tyne & Wear. It's amazing what a little bit hard work and a creative imagination can do.

Anyway back to famous models writing books. They probably already know all about English Language. I imagine they went to school, unlike me. It takes quite an astute mind to get on these days. 'Damn, I knew I should have got bigger breast implants'. So, why waste precious time writing your own books when you can hire those amazingly talented people, ghost writers. My question is: what happens when you have a book signing in Waterstones? and someone like me wanders up with a copy and says 'I used to be a model too you know'.  I can see the famous model looking at my Parka that I have worn for the past six years with envy. No question about that!. But, seriously, what happens when someone asks the supposed author uncomfortable awkward questions like, 'You must of had an amazing sense of achievement when you finished your last chapter?'. And 'can I say how beautifully written your last book was, the prose just blew me away, can I ask who inspired you?'. 'Do you use a particular softwear?. 'How many words are there in your Novel?'. Are they briefed?, that's my question. Do their publishers get them in the staff tea room in Waterstones, wipe the sweat from their brows with the tea towel, then take a large gulp of gin from their hip flask and hiss at the supposed author,  'For gods sake! don't mention the fact that you used Gerald the ghost writer, you stupid cow!. You paid him a hundred and fifty grand, hes off to South Africa with the wife and kids, forget you ever met him'. Or do they scream for 'Amanda' the PR girl, to stand at the back of the shop with prompt cards. 'Can you remember how to read luv?'. My imaginary publisher sounds more like Quentin Crisp than a suave George Clooney type in his black Armani suit. He's flown in specially from New York and wants to meet at the Ritz for drinks.... and things!!! after the book signing. But lets face it, it would be a nightmare wouldn't it, not for George but for the publisher and literary agents, the PR folk. I bet there's been a few tales like that along the way. I can see a screen play. Get writing someone quick. Actually, I can see George in the tea room of Waterstones waiting for me. He has a Parka fetish....bet you didn't know that haha!.

Well the house work is calling and the co-op is waiting.
There's a Shepard's pie to make for their tea's.
Rosie the dog has peed on the floor again
So I best clean it up, poor little me.
Chained to my fantasies from the kitchen sink.

Best tie a rope round my waist or I might just float out of the kitchen window.
 
Thanks so much for stopping by until the next time lol x

Asda and Slugs



I never did win the competition but here's a trip down memory lane anyway, what fun I had writing this xx : )

The time is getting closer for my competition entry to be sent in. I got the thumbs up from Judith, my mentor from Bridge Women's Project yesterday. I had to make a quick phone call to New Writing North, a query, being a newbie writer and never done anything like this before, I wasn't sure in what format I needed to send my story in. I was a nervous wreck making the call. I could hear myself rambling on and on and my nerves slowly kicking in. I have seen it on Twitter and on publishers web sites, your not allowed to ring them, they are like royalty and I'm the unworthy scribbler.

 After making the call I needed a large cup of coffee to steady my nerves, which I made and took out into the garden to drink. As I sat there looking at my half dead Lavatera, thinking to myself I must prune that or it will die, I got to thinking, what if I Won?, what if I actually Won?, or what if a publisher liked my story. My god! there would be no stopping me.

 All of a sudden I was there in the book aisle of Asda with my trolley half full, with their basic food range. Me with my greasy dyed blond hair and black roots, no make-up on, my Jam jar bottom glasses, wearing  my old faithful Parka. My usual everyday fashionable attire. No one would ever believe I once graced the pages of The Sun, The Star and The Sport Newspapers.

 Anyway there I am circling round and round the book aisle with my trolley, slowly sidling up to any poor unsuspecting shopper who is casually browsing through the books,  " excuse me pet" I would say in a meek little voice, "have you read that?" pointing to my book on the shelf,  "eeeeee it's fantastic", I would gush and "she's a Geordie ya knar from here, Gasteshead. A saw a on Lorraine the other mornin". whilst pushing my book into their hand and taking hold of their trolley at the same time, gently walking them away from the other books "she lives next to my friend, shiz lovely, a was gripped, gripped a tell ya, it's got sex in and murder n everything". I would whisper. Then as I took  another sip of my coffee, I notice the slugs have started eating my rhododendrons....the bastards!!!. I hate slugs, they once stripped my begonia's in one night, down to just stalks sticking out of the ground.  I'm off into fantasy land again. I'm back in the book aisle of Asda, and my Rachel (my eldest daughter) is marching towards me with two of her burly colleagues from the police. She's not very happy. 'Mutha,  Mutha' shes yelling, 'what ya doing?'. She looks like Lara croft, a brunette Barbie in uniform, with her two rottweilers by her side. 'The manager has rang us again', she scolds. 'do you know they have 125hrs CCTV footage of you trying to sell their customers your book?', and there's me looking all sheepish and sorry for myself. I'm crest fallen, being escorted out of Asda by my own daughter, still waving a copy of my novel in the air, grinning like a demented hyena.  I'm off to prune my poor Lavatera. I may be telling you in a couple of months time my story never got anywhere, but hey "we can always dream" : ). I'm also very honer ed and privileged to be promoting a couple of well known authors new books, over the next couple of weeks. Oh it's all exciting stuff. See ya soon and thanks so much for dropping by.