My Halloween Hell ... Er, I Mean Blind Date

Inge set me up on a blind date.

Well, originally it was to be Inge and Deek and me and Deek's pal from Glasgow. See, Deek is the manager of Compass Travel Agent's in Dundee. He is Inge's boss. Inge is good at her job; she is currently the top sales person in Scotland. I am sure she works hard just to please Deek. However, I am convinced Deek only sees Inge as a fun time gal, (though I have never voiced my feelings as she is head over heels and I still haven't passed on my copy of He's Just Not That Into You by Greg Behrenndt & Liz Tuccillo). So when Deek mentions his pal, who is currently single, visiting from Glasgow ... Inge concocted a plan. A plan involving me.

The arranged time to meet is 7 pm: I start preparing at 4 pm, though I think I may be cutting it fine. I give it the works because this Glaswegian could be the man of my dreams. Right? You just can't take chances; now with this in mind, I bathe like Cleopatra except I don't use real milk that would be silly, but some sort of detoxifying and nourishing bath milk; I shave, I buff, I moisturise, I fake tan, I make up, I blow dry, I straighten, and I dress sexy. Then I undress. I dress again maybe three or perhaps seven ... teen more times. I am almost ready when the phone rings at 18:20.

"There's a change of plan, Shaz!"

"Oh no!" I shriek thinking that the night has been cancelled.

"No, no, Shaz it's still on. Only Deek and I are doing our own thing; you have to meet Noris by yourself."

Dammit! Inge planned this from the start.

Bar Rio: 19:20

All dressed up and no flipping place to go, I mumble disgruntled as I enter Bar Rio and scan the bar to find Noris: Two drop dead on the floor gorgeous men - probably gay - standing in intimate conversation; one sleazy guy leaning over the counter in attempts to come on to Sally, the bar tender and one guy who - I swear - is the spit of Rab C. Nesbitt waving at pals in the far corner. Knew it! I arrived too early. Just as my thoughts are conglomerating into how dare he be late! or worse stand me up! I think to check the far corner. Yikes! There is nobody there.

Rab C ... er, Noris strides over, as I am trying to slink out of the bar. He doesn't know me. Right? I'll get away with it.

"Shaz, Shaz ... SHAZ, it's me Noris!" shouts Noris. "Ye, I recognised you straight away from your photograph; fabbie! " Inge, gave him a photo! Trollop, like mother like daughter.

Guising & Stovies

The night is as black as coal and although it's the eve of Halloween I'm incognito.

I creep west along the Perth Road, passing Blackness Library on my right hand side and finish at my destination; this being the tenements at the top of Windsor Street. I am wearing a fiery red duffel coat with the hood up looking a little like Paddington Bear, skinny jeans tucked into ankle boots, chilly hands thrust into pockets and my Esprit sun shades on.

"Hi, Mrs Strudel," I say to Inge's mum, a coarse Dundonian who married a German, as she lets me in.

"Wit have you come as, a Gonk?"

Ha, ha very funny, I mutter under my breath. What I am doing is keeping a low profile, after our girls night in last Friday night, I didn't want to be bumping into J-Lo anytime soon.

Inge shouts to her mum from the bathroom.

"Is it Shaz or Janet?"

What! I am out the front door, down the stairs and almost at the end of the close, before Inge manges to grab me by my hood.

"Listen Shaz, J-Lo is on her way because we three need to sort out things." She pauses and then, "I have an announcement of my own."

Hmm, I am intrigued; for that alone I will stay.

I sink into Inge's sofa set in the high walled living room of the flat that overlooks Magdalen Green, tho one she shares with her mum and her eight year old daughter, Marie. Marie, incidentally is around the houses with her pals guising. As I am waiting for J-Lo to arrive, I cannot help but observe Mrs Strudel's strange behaviour: She is sitting in front of the home computer in the far corner picking away on the keyboard with one hand and giggling sweet nothings on her mobile with the other. She is wearing the same skinny jeans as me, dammit, a Lycra scoop neck tee and I am convinced she has borrowed Inge's chicken fillets because her bust is about to pop from her top like a balloon. Mrs Strudel is seventy to the day.

"Is your mum ok?" I whisper to Inge with a frown. "Maybe she needs her readers as she keeps stretching from her seat and peering at the computer screen."

"Ach, ignore the Trollope; she's on her Live Messenger, Shaz and is flashing her cleavage at the icam."

Ding Dong

Inge leaves for the door with her pouch of silver for paying the guisers only to bring one of them back: Oops, it's not a guiser, it's J-Lo, dressed like a witch in sheep's clothing. Inge cuts to the chase and like a referee says,

"Shaz apologise to Janet."

"Sorry Janet for sleeping with your lad."

"Accepted, Shaz, as we had split up ... all's fair in love and war," said solemnly.

"Great attitude lassies 'cos eh slept wi Atilla tae."

Me, Inge and J-Lo ... dumbfounded.

Heading now for the kitchen with a tip tap of her stick; Inge's mum continues, "Girls, a plate o stovies? Made wi real beef mince from Grants up the Blackie, non o yir corn beef oot o a tin. And eftir oor stovies ... we'll swap ah o the details!"

Awards and Memes Coming Out Of My Ears

Over the last few months I was thrilled to have recieved a number of awards - displayed down my right hand column - now it is time to pass these beauties on. (The moral is, don't put off until tomorrow what you can do today.)

So without further ado:


Superior Scribbler Award, presented by the hauntingly beautiful, Ocean Dreams.

I give to:

Tale Peddler
Lady Truth
Michael Rivers
Tom Bailey
Loud Silence

One lovely Blog Award, presented by one lovely Bendigo, at Bendigo's Rage

I give to:

Random Thoughts
Susan Long Online
Tessa Just Read
Nevine
Junker Jane

Official Seal Of the Ultimate Me Me Award & Meme, presented by she tells funny things about love, Lady Truth.

I give to:

This award includes a meme: choose 5 random categories tell us 5 favourites things from these catagories (eg movies, books etc).

Let's have a Cocktail
Domestic Rockstar
Louisiana Jeff
The Serendipity cafe
5ft Inf

Lemonade Stand Award, presented by the loveliest Canadian I have ever known, At My Kitchen Table.

I give to:

Vodka Logic
Cross Your T's
Sweeter Poetry
Machinist's Wife
Meredith Teagarden

Honest Scrap, presented by the Fable Queen herself, the Tale Peddler

I give to:

Can't wait to hear these 10 honest truths:

Gary Heller Photography
Bendigo's Rage
Improbable Joe
My Deadly Truths
Phivos Nicolaides

Uber Amazing Blog: Keep it Up, presented by she tells it how it is! Kit Courteney.
Uber Amazing Blog award: is for sites that inspire you, make you smile and laugh, give amazing info, are a great read, have a wonderful design, or any other reasons that make them super.

I give to:

The Daily Connoisseur
Tale Peddler
Victoria Stitch
Art of the City
Barcelona Photo Blog


Love Your Blog , by the wickedly witty, White Rabbit.

I give to:

sixtyfivewhatnow
Jimmy
Peach Tart
Paris Through My Lens
ABQ Annie

I received memes from both Lucy's Lounge and Lady Truth (Official Seal Of The Ultimate Me Me Award) which I will combine with 10 Honest Truths and adapt to make 5 Honest Truths & 5 Fav Things. That's me up todate: Enjoy!

Protocal
1/ Accept award and post on blog together with the name of the blogger giving it
2/ Pass the award on (or not if your prefer).
3/ Links to your nominees in your post, and let them know by leaving a message in their comments box.

5 Honest Truths & 5 Fav Things to follow ...

Haunted House At Davidson's Mains: Hired Help

If someone is haunting the rented cottage at Davidson's Mains, is it not my duty to find out who? Or what? Is it not my responsibility to have the rooms blessed by a priest? Is this not protocol for living in a haunted house?

I checked in Collins dictionary: the word paranormal is a general term that describes experiences that lack a scientific explanation. I pledged then, to myself way back in 2008, to identify the weird stuff and explore first to see if there was a logical explanation.

I sketched up a plan: considering that as The Amityville Horror is the most famous haunted house that states,

More hideously frightening than the Exorcist because it actually happened

I will use the activities from The Amityville Horror as a checklist against the activities here at 202 Quality Street in Davidson's Mains.

My mind was so fuelled on the business of this haunting that, when I heard the shower trick and the rush of water again, I was gunning for a fight. It occurred whilst I was washing up some lunch time plates and cutlery left from a tuna salad panini, at the kitchen sink, had suds up to the seams of my pink Marigolds; it was 2 o'clock in the afternoon.

"Ha!"

Sleepwalking?

Hallucinating?

It's two o'clock in the bloody afternoon; I am wide awake.

"Think you can play games with me? Do you Spooks?"

I say aloud to thin air, a snoring Goofy and a purring Boss Cat, then I stomp into the shower room with my finger pointed to give the demon shower a piece of my mind.

I was standing directly in front of the shower cubicle, with the perspex screen still closed; I could hear the rumbling of water, yet the shower was silent. Dead silent. From the corner of my eye, on my right hand side, the left hand tap on the vanity unit was purging like a garden hose.

What the ... How?

Back in the kitchen cum diner cum living room I spread over the counter the Edinburgh, Yellow Pages, and began flicking for Priests.

This is a short post series, that is more frightening than The Amityville Horror, because it happened to me.

Can I Ask A Personal Question?

Or worse, she may put you in a book and give you a small penis.


See, I am still in a dilemma over whether to include sex scenes in my novel or not.

Initially, I felt that the sex element was integral to my protagonist's development as a character. (Yes, really.) I asked around and of those people I asked some said, Sex please! whilst others said, leave it out, as sex doesn't add anything to a novel.

In the course of my research I am indulging in a little experimental sex. No, tut tut, not literally: I am reading modern novels which include sex scenes:

My findings are as follows. (I do hope you have finished breakfast.)

Paranoia by Joseph Finder, published in 2004.

A corporate thriller, commercial, enjoyable, a page turner. It was announced in 2009 that there is a movie to be made. The movie could be a potential blockbuster with the right adaptation and actors.

Of course, the hero, Adam Cassidy bags a babe. There is one sex scene. The couple's first time: It didn't do anything for me. I didn't connect with it. Maybe the scene was written to gratify men. Even though it was romantically written, I felt the novel better without it.

You decide: Here it is,

I had my arm around her narrow waist. I wanted to feel the soft skin on her tummy, underneath her breasts, on her upper buttocks. I wanted to see her most private areas. I wanted to witness the moment when the hard shell around Alana, the impossibly beautiful, sophisticated woman cracked; when she shuddered, gave way, when those clear blue eyes became lost in pleasure ...

The next minute I had my lips on hers, my groping fingertips gently stroking her tits, and she snaked a very warm hand down to my groin. Both of us were quickly aroused, and we stumbled over to the couch, the one that didn't have plastic wrap still on it.We kissed and ground our hips together. She moaned. She fished me greedily out of my pants. She is wearing a white silk teddy under her black shirt. Her breasts were ample, round, perfect.

She came loudly, with surprising abandon.

See! Men can't write sex scenes - A woman would never wear a white teddy under a black shirt.

The complete opposite of Paranoia is The Birthing House by Christopher Ransom. About a haunted house. Published in 2008.

The protagonist, Conrad Harrison has sex on the brain: Agg, too much for my liking. It reminded me of being in a wine bar around lunchtime with a friend and some random sleazy bloke decides to come on to us in the manner of a dog with a bone, and spoils my chicken pasta.

Funnily enough, I stopped reading at chapter 25 (42 chapters in all) not because of yawn sex scenes (because I could skip over them) but because it was not scary enough. The blurb said that it is the scariest novel since Stephen King's The Shining. The blurb says there is a terrifying final twist so I might yet go back and read the last two chapters. I get the impression though, that the hero's increased sex drive and perhaps a ghostly rape all have something to do with the birthing house, but I will never know because I didn't finish the book.

Here's a sex scene,

When he regained his senses he had no idea how much time had passed. Daylight had faded somewhat. His shoulder throbbed and the bathroom seemed to be tilting in every direction at once. He raised himself on shaking legs and began to pull his pants up. What just happened here? How much time had he lost? Minutes ... or hours? The last thing he recalled was experiencing a too realistic image of Jo and the first strand of a mighty orgasm.

He patted the front of his boxer shorts and pants, then up higher to his tee shirt. He bent over, which made his headache sing, and scanned the floor, the tub, the sink. Where the hell did it go? He longed for an ultra-violet light, one of those scanners they used on CSI, the better to locate his discharged DNA.

Conrad cupped his package, shifting things around. He was sore in the way that suggested he had, in fact, climaxed.

Next is a novel that I am half way through and it is my favourite, for all the wrong reasons.

Driving Nowhere by Craig McCabe. Published in 2007. The novel is set among the low-lives of Dundee. This novel is too close for comfort for me, because the writer makes it very accurate. Cringe. Cringe. Driving Nowhere is inspired by Irvine Welsh's works; his famous being Train Spotting.

The novel is a satirical account of Shane, a taxi driver experiencing the unique culture of Dundee. I smiled at the reference to Fat Sams, a night club in Dundee, that I too refer to in my Inge & Shaz series, except Craig calls it Slim Jims.

Here is a sex scene by the protagonists friend Gav. (WARNING: if you have a sweet sensitive nature stop reading now.)

Well Shane, she might no be good enough fir you, but she's certainly gittin it fae me. She puts the kettle on an before eh ken it, we are kissing in the middle o the kitchen. Eh hae meh hands on her arse an lift up her wee denim mini. She pulls awa fae is an gets doon on her knees ti suck is aff ... She pulls oot meh knob an looks up at me smilin before puttin it in her mooth. She gees it a wee suck but she's no very good at it. Eh pick her up an bend her over the sink. ...Eh slid meh knob in an it feels like it's no even touching the sides. Eh'm banging awa but eh stop ti tak her knickers right aff ... Eh slide meh knob back in an as eh git meh rhythm back eh start ti think aboot diseases an realise eh dinna huv a condom on. This is a first fir me as it's never worried is before ..

There's nae point in worryin aboot it now, meh knobs already in ...

The above extract is the censored version.

I realise that a sex scene will not stop readers finishing a book. (These paragraphs can always be skipped over.) So including sex is not necessarily detrimental. On the other hand, including sex will not turn a novel into a best seller. Perhaps, then why bother?

Sorry, I have no need to ask the question now. I know the answer. I will detail the sexual exploits of my heroine; according to her tastes, desires, abilities ... and the men.

PS One man definitely will have a small willie.

Haunted House At Davidson's Mains: Open Invitation

Living in a haunted house is very different from one that is not. By far, the strangest experience was the singing.

At three-fifteen in the morning, I would sit bolt upright and begin to caterwaul. I cannot sing. I have never pretended I could. I am one of those people who get funny looks, whilst singing Happy Birthday, around a cake filled with candles: looks which glare, 'Stop singing you are spoiling the party'.

As someone who - normally - does not sing, cannot sing and who is not musically gifted or inclined, I could not for the life of me, throughout this possession, think of any dammed lyrics. Do you remember the scene from the movie Ghost, where Patrick Swayze's character sings to Whoopi Goldberg, I Am Henry The Eighth I Am, over and over?

Do you remember how crazy that singing made Goldberg?

Well, this repetitive singing of mine was most bizarre. Yet again though, I had no fear.

(For interested readers I sang over and over the first few lines of Sandy, by John Travolta from the movie Grease.)

Stranded at the drive in,
Branded a fool!
Sandy
Oh Sandy,
Sandeeee!

Helena Dowser, sitting on my pea-green sofa, whilst eyeing yet another Jaffa Cake says I had done something to invite them in. Like what?

"Have you been dabbling in the occult?" asks Helena.

What with all the painting and writing lately, I had no time for new hobbies I told her with a smirk to counter balance her seriousness.

Come to think of it I had acquired this intense hyperactive phase: I had painted three canvases in oil and completed five chapters of my novel. George Lutz in The Amityville Horror, if I remember correctly, had a mad active phase, dashing around the house fixing things; the door in the boat house, shelves etc?

"It's your novel," informs Helena. You have invited the devil in through something you have written.

"My book is about independent women getting laid. I would think the devil would condone not condemn me for it."

"Well, what about these paintings of yours ... ?"

"Pumpkins."

"There you have it," says Helena triumphantly.

At this point eight year old Honey Dowser comes from my bedroom and perches on her mother's lap which was full of Jaffa Cake crumbs, these subsequently being worked into Helena's denim jeans, leaving grubby chocolate stains.

"Can't take you anywhere!" I say in jest to Helena, as Honey, at that exact moment says over me, "Mummy, I like playing with the little girl.

I didn't initially catch on, but in the way that mother's do Helena understood her daughter's every word and laughed and said to her daughter that the little girl in the bedroom had been her own reflection.

See, in the bedroom at my rental at Davidson's Mains, there is a row of built in wardrobes with mirrored doors along part length of the room.

I myself was not so sure.

Helena continues her talk from behind blonde pigtails, "Pumpkin's are associated with Satan. Halloween. Spirits. Let me see your painting."

Until this day, I have shown no one. Not even Helena.

Apparently, as in the movie Lost Boys, where the chief vampire can only enter a house after first being invited. My painting in oil (below) according to Helena Dowser, allowed in all rif-raf from Hell.

This is a short post series, that is more frightening than The Amityville Horror, because it happened to me.

Postcard Fiction

I prefer postcard fiction as opposed to flash fiction, as I can imagine sending friends far and wide postcards with little stories short enough to fill the card.

Ernest Hemingway once said his best work was a six-word story,

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Ahh, I wonder why? Did the baby die? Or perhaps the baby grew so fast. Maybe the family needed the money.

See, how it works ...

Try it.

Here's my attempts,

Evening Invitation: Sally / John, shotgun wedding.

Keep curtains closed: events in progress.

Lunch menu: fresh mice, Edinburgh Zoo.

Toys R Us: Christmas shopping, Agg!

Haunted House At Davidson's Mains: On Arrival

How could the shower come on in the middle of the night? I live alone. The doors and windows are always locked. Any intruders would have to get by Goofy and Boss Cat.

"You must have left it switched on."

"Er ... I think a person would notice if they had left their shower switched on in the middle of the night. Its not like a lamp, or a television even."

"You are sleep walking. Be careful mum."

Careful of what? Spirits? Ghosts?

"Someone died in this house," my son states with his eyes eerily darting around the room and out into the corridor where they escape through the front door, without the knowledge of this being an actual fact.

That ended our conversation and two weeks later the shower began it's capers again at 3.15 am.

I was not frightened even though odd things had occurred since the crossing of the threshold, on 10 October 2008, five months previously.

On arrival my very first image of my one bedroom, tiny shower room and open plan kitchen cum diner cum living area reminded me of the Mary Celeste.

I just had not put two and two together: Until the spirits became more vocal with the shower shenanigans. I did not know it then but my friend Helena Dowser, who is into all this witchy stuff, said that I can not let them know that I am frightened because that's what they want. She said because I genuinely was showing no fear, they began creating more disturbances to gain my attention. Just as, in the The Amytiville Horror, the green slime oozing from the walls finally sent the Lutz's packing. (Actually running with out packing.)

I asked Helena, as she sat on my pea-green couch in my living cum dining cum kitchen, who they were but she just stared off into the middle distance, just as my son did, with a glazed look in her eyes and mumbled something like black demons.

The flat in the Scottish capital was fully furnished when I moved in. I walked into some body's tacky home. Somebody before me had abandoned it; shampoo bottles, toothpaste and a quarter used packet of cotton wool buds sat in the vanity unit in the shower room. There were kitchen products such as washing up liquid, tin foil, soap and brillo pads - all half used. Cups, and pots and towels and cushions and cheap ornaments and a mirror over the sofa. Cheap and uncheerful. The rental company expected me to go over every item on the inventory and check that it tallied. It would take a month of Sundays. The residential company from Morningside had a cheek since it was obvious no one even came to clear out or clean up after the last tenant.

My rental in Davidson's Mains came with a Scottish picture calendar hanging on the wall above the microwave (which sat on a scratched counter) stuck on October 2008. The photograph was of Edinburgh Castle with a red faced piper in full Scottish regalia. This reminded me of a strange story:

Many years ago a piper was sent to explore the tunnels beneath the castle and was told to keep playing so his progress could be tracked. However halfway down the Royal Mile the music suddenly stopped and the piper was never found. It is said the piper still walks the Royal Mile and sometimes the faint sound of music can often be heard from within the castle.

The calender was marked with crosses and dates of appointments and exciting things to do. These scribbles ended on Tuesday the 8th, two days before I arrived.

This is a short post series, that is more frightening than The Amityville Horror, because it happened to me.

Haunted House At Davidson's Mains: Rude Awakening

From the day I entered and for the next five months I would wake in the early hours. That's a long time to go without ever having a full nights sleep. This was why - so I was told - I was having hallucinations. I started to believe that maybe I was.

This waking in the twilight hours reminded me of the The Amityville Horror where George Lutz wakes at 3.15 every morning and on one sleepless night heads out to the local bar, The Witches' Brew. Here the bar tender reveals that Ronald DeFeo Jn. killed six members of his family in cold blood and the murders took place in his house at 3.15 am just thirteen months previously.

The cottage near Davidson's Mains had been converted into a flatted dwelling. It had been an extension built onto the side of a larger house, on an odd shaped plot, not one room was square or even rectangle, but gambrel or crooked shaped rooms where furniture could not be placed into the corners. Possibly it was originally a garage. It had one of those flat felt roofs that are prone to leak. This had been on my mind, as in Edinburgh it rains all of the time.

One restless night I wake to the rain only I hear it coming from inside. Oh no, I need to find a bucket. Who will I call at this early hour. What will I do? These are my hazy thoughts as I creep along the narrow corridor and locate the gushing water in the shower room. I switch on the light and slowly focus on the ceiling above the shower cubicle.

Huh!

Where's the water?

Funny, how I never noticed it immediately, but the shower was on full throttle.

I had been having problems with the shower. My shower hell had made Hitchcock's famous shower scene in Psycho, with Anthony Perkins and Janet Leigh look like showering paradise.

I could never get the shower to work. It was old, dangerous and grimy. The thermostat did not work, the water drizzled out in drops with more water cascading from beneath the powered unit attached to the wall than the head. But, oh, this morning at 3.15 my shower was steaming like a power shower. I twisted the knob anticlockwise to turn off the commotion and padded back to bed. I knew, at precisely this moment - 3.18 am - that the house I was renting was haunted.

This is a short post series, that is more frightening than The Amityville Horror, because it happened to me.

Someone Just Called Me An Idiot

Someone just called me an idiot. I think the word 'idiot' is a strong word. I think if I was a serious writer I would be careful who I insulted in public.

I quote:

This lesson is aimed at already decent writers, not those whose writing is at a level of direness which you cannot imagine. (Unless you've seen a website that I recently gawped at. Put it this way: supposing its author decided to go down the vanity publishing route; this would be a) the only way she stands a chance of getting published and b) akin to Medusa paying for some glamour photos to be done as a birthday present to herself.) Sorry, but I needed to get that off my chest. There are some seriously deluded idiots out there; please tell me you are not among them.

Sounds like sour grapes to me. I guess, some people are just more photogenic than others ...

Whoever this writer was talking about is irrelevant; this writer just showed her lack of professionalism, integrity and little generosity for a new kid on the block.

Whoever this writer was talking about must be talented indeed, to raise this intensity of animosity.

Go see who said this here. Tell her Medusa said hi!

Tonight Is the Night!

The best night out is a girl's night in.

Me, Inge and J-Lo: Sweet!

J-Lo aka Janet Low, who works as a jeweller's assistant along the Murrygate, is nothing like her celebrity namesake, I hurriedly add. Extraordinarily, the opposite in fact. Short, busty and a rough bleach blonde. Think Dolly Parton less Jennifer Lopez.

The Girls' Night In, once upon a time, our monthly habit. Ritual. Religion even.

Until ...

Until J-Lo and I had a fall out. Over ...

Men, of course. What else?

Water under the bridge now. All in the past. Forgive and forget.

Inge, has been pushing these mantras with J-Lo for months as I think she deeply misses our girly nights and wants issues resolved.

Tonight is the night!

I arrive at J-Lo's ground floor flat, situated at the bottom of Roseangle, the last tenement block at the bottom of the road with a view of Magdalen Green from the kitchen window (though not as nice a view as from Inge's mum's sitting room at the top of Windsor Street), with a bottle of the right stuff to add to the bowl.

I am a little hurt to find the party started; it seems with both Inge and J-Lo already drunk.

"Ah, soz Shaz," slurs J-Lo, opening the door wearing a little denim pinafore above rhinestone studded cowboy boots, she already has a ladder in her tights just above her left knee. "Did we say nine o'clock. Oops, we meant to say seven."

Here I feel a slight tingle that this night is no reconciliation.

I enter in fake bravado and survey, J-Lo's red leather three piece suite pushed back against the living room walls. Repositioned too, her coffee table which is now settled into a corner bearing our usual humongous punch bowl filled with our regular Micky Finn. A large square rug imitates our dance floor and beats are blasting from a cd. The one and only cd: The Magdalen Girls Just Wanna Have Fun cd - aka,

The Bay City Rollers, and their greatest hits, Bye Bye Baby.

Remember Sha La La la is in full blast.

I lay my bottle of Smirnof on the coffee table top, throw my sequined clutch underneath and bounce onto our furry dance floor.

Inge, mid swirl reaches over and enveloping me in a hug says "Hi Shazzzz," and smears red lip gloss all over my cheek in her sloppy kiss hello.

We three, for precisely 25 minutes pogo to five tracks of pure nostalgic 70's teenybop heaven, squealing the Rollermania chant,

B-A-Y, B-A-Y
B-A-Y, C-I-T-Y
With an R-O-double L, E-R-S

Bay City Rollers are the best!

Throughout this whole time I feel J-Lo's boozy eyed stare. I sense danger in the air.

"Good ole days Shaz,"

"Uh, oh ye, ye, Janet."

"Let sleeping gogs lie. Eh, Shaz," slurs J-Lo.

"Er, ye."

"Don't get mad get even. Eh, Shaz."

"Excuse me, Janet."

Inge panics, sobered, "No! No! Forgive and forget, Janet!"

I know by J-Lo's intense cock-eyed look we are going to scrap.

I think I am going to go for that lacquered bleached beehive of hers and rip it apart like candyfloss from a stick, whilst dodging her evil red nails, if she dare makes a go for me.

J-lo, works faster than my thoughts and grabs with both hands my brand new, outrageously expensive, to die for top from Jane Norman, just above my bust and rips apart the stitching all the way down the right seam.

I box J-lo in the eye and she takes a tumble and a soft landing onto her back on the mohair rug, where she stays put in her drunken stupor.

"That was my new top," I say.

"You f****** slept with my man!" curses J-Lo from the floor, still lying flat out like a body in a coffin with both her eyes shut: her mascarra is now on her cheeks and her lipstick now on her chin.

Ah Ha! That's what's been bothering her.

She is referring to Attilla the Hon(ey).

"Attilla, means nothing to me," I say softly stooping over J-Lo, who still has her eyes closed, and I get a good look at the forming keeker she will have in the morning.

"It was a one night stand that's all," I foolishly continue.

J-Lo springs to life from the rug like Shelly's, Frankenstein.

I am at the Seabraes, at the top of Roseangle before Les McKeown finishes his last Shang-a-lang.

Perseverance

I learned the lesson of perseverance as a teenager of fourteen years:

I was not a youth who liked sports. My mum proved to be a gem - when I told her I had a migraine, or stomach cramps she believed me. So, off I went to my PE teacher with my Please Excuse note from my mum. Therefor, even to this day, I still do not know how I managed to be entered into the long distance run event at Kirkton High School.

To cut a two hour story short (this was how long I took), I finished the race and almost fainted, not because I was out of puff, but because I was told I had finished sixteenth.

Wow.

Me! Finish sixteenth in an athletic competition! I was never so proud. Ok. I was not in the top ten and I only beat 24 others (as the entrants totalled 40 runners).

I remember saying to myself at the start,

Just don't come last.

Although I didn't realise it then, by making that pledge, I had committed to completing the course.

That was the achievement. This is perseverance.

In Touch

"My ex boyfriend called last night!

I don't know what to do!

Should we get back together? Will it work? Do you think it will work?

Or maybe, we can become friends. It happens. It is possible.

What do you think?"

I have no idea who Inge is talking about, but it maybe Chik.

" Shaz. SHAZ! Are you still there?"

I am talking to Inge over the telephone and reply,

"When did he call, again?"

"Three o'clock this morning," She sighs. "He must be hurting if he can't sleep; tossing and turning and thinking of me. Poor darling."

I know exactly what part of his anatomy is hurting at that time of the morning, I think.

A book I have read springs to mind, He's Just Not Into You, by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo (see review here.) I do not have the heart to mention it.

Purposefully, I let Inge, ramble more, wedge my phone between shoulder and ear, fetch my morning mail scattered on the floor behind my front door and then pad on laminate planks in bare feet - naked apart from Revlon's, Autumn Rust, that is - into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I take a white ceramic mug with the mantra in Slab Serif typography,

Wake me up in the spring

and place it beside the humming kettle.

It is 8 am on an a fresh October morning and I rip my two envelopes open like it is Christmas Day.

First letter - a Council Tax statement. Yuk!

The other, with the handwritten address, a card. Much better.

Do I recognise the handwriting?

I do.

I smile.

The note card has a picture of a garden gnome (actually, it reminds me a little of Inge's, Chik, bearing a bulbous nose and rosy red checks) carrying an old fashioned lantern in hand, looking down a rabbit hole burrowed in the middle of an immaculate putting green lawn. Under the illustration is a single word

love

I flip the card open and inside is typed

It may not always be obvious ... but it's there!

And in the same familiar scrawl as on the envelope these words,

Keep in touch.

I take a step towards the refrigerator and shuffle my fridge magnets around clearing space to stick my soppy card among exotic post cards and old wedding invitations. I grab the magnate that says,

I kiss better than I cook

I must have read the message out loud in my manoeuvres, as I hear Inge gripe,

"Shaz, you still there? That you bailing out on me? Tisk."

Followed by the the buzz of a dead line and the whistle of a boiling kettle.

Antique Cinderella

Is an old book called an antique? Or is an old book referred to as vintage?

Only I had a lucky find yesterday of a book that is over 40 years old. In fact, it is one of my first ever books that was given to me as a child. It probably only survived in my possession by chance as I had a massive clear out of junk a few years ago when, I thought I was moving to live in America (long story and yes it involved a man) but then I moved to Edinburgh instead (story here).

This is the story of how I uncovered my first Cinderella.

See, I am the type of person who has approximately three new ideas a day. Great, you may think, but in honesty it's more of a curse.

It runs like this:

Two days ago I say to my son,

"Hey, son you know what, I have this great idea to blah. I have always wanted to blah ever since I was a kid."

Son who is 25 years old, and sees a spade as a spade says,

"Mum, I'm 25 years old and never once in my life have I ever heard you say, that you always wanted to blah."

Point taken.

I have an A4 size ring binder titled New Ideas and all of my ideas winds up in here. My son's comment brought home to me that is what all my ideas are. Ideas. As opposed to projects. It transpires in truth, that this folder is the end of the road for 99% of these little troublemakers.

So, I decide to obliterate the New Ideas folder as a waste of time. Then, as I was going through vague schemes; to sell painted plant pots and pet portraits in charcoal, I come across an idea for a childrens' book: Low and behold tucked into the poly pocket behind all my roughs was my little first Cinderella.

This book I must have loved, as I remember smuggling A First Cinderella, (published in 1966, by Brockhampton Press) into bed with me and as my mother tucked me in and in answer to my crumpled look of I'm not sleepy, my mother saying,

"If you dream you will sleep."

So, I dreamt of a beautiful young woman wearing an emerald green gown with ivory cream petticoats and golden hair as dazzling as jewels. And I slept.