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Date Posted: 14:28:39 06/02/02 Sun
Author: Raphaela
Author Host/IP: webcacheB11a.cache.pol.co.uk / 195.92.168.173
Subject: Re: Between A Rock And a Hard Place
In reply to: Margaret Savage 's message, "Between A Rock And a Hard Place" on 08:10:36 04/18/02 Thu

I apologise for taking so long to comment but I like to read several times, savour, toss them around before swallowing all the tasty morsels.

I really liked this Margaret - could see were you were coming from.

I liked your style - interesting yet visual. I think you could expand on some of the details though - to help build up the picture in the reader's mind - evoke the senses so you take us along there - and extend those moments. This 'snapshot' was excellent though - but you could develop into a book - or as Marcel Proust did in his Remembrance of Things Past - 3 enormous books - if you savour the moments in more detail.

Hope to read more from you - and please feel free to comment on the other stories here or poems in the poetry site.

Raphaela


>It has taken me a considerable time to find a title
>for this, my first piece of babbling, that would befit
>the writer. I only ever wanted to write a book that
>someone like myself would pick up and actually laugh
>out loud and identify with. If you are like me and
>have read all the usual pick me up at the airport
>paperbacks and thought “I don’t mind if this gets
>covered in sun tan oil and sand”, this is the book for
>you. It comes ready packed with a bag (supplied at
>cash register) for easy transportation to the beach.
>
>I would not profess to be a literary wit or even very
>bright, but I do know that I have led a very unusual
>life, and if anything after you read this, you think
>“I could do that”, then, you know what? Sit your arse
>down and start typing.
>
>I have no start, I have no end, just a bit of a giggle
>in the middle (which incidentally rhymes, did you
>notice?), I feel this may ramble all over the place,
>but ask yourself does it really matter? The
>experiences are all the same, okay my first
>realization of the male species would not be very
>politically correct at the age of 5 instead of 15, but
>the memory is there, way back in the darkness of time.
>
>I have a terrible affliction which I have adopted
>since I fell (somewhat drunkenly from a bar stool in
>Barcelona - another story which I will no doubt relate
>at some point) on my 30th birthday. Whenever I read,
>what I like to call “messages from the mother ship” I
>always have to write them down, paint them on walls,
>store them in journals, add them to my screen saver on
>my computer as if they might just disappear, for
>example :
>
>“You cannot control the length of your life, but you
>can control its breadth, depth and height.”
>
>This would indicate a bit of a hippy chick being
>enlightened via all things illegal, no, to me it means
>“look after yourself and screw the lot of them”.
>
>“Life is what happens when you are planning other
>things”, this I painted on my bedroom wall when my
>long term boyfriend left me for better and younger
>things…so there I was planning a holiday of a life
>time to New England and there he was planning his
>escape….when the workmen came to decorate you can
>imagine the embarrassment I felt, which I tried to
>hide by continually asking them if they would like a
>bacon sandwich. It wasn’t very effective, they still
>relate it back to me and anyone who cares to listen
>when we meet in the local pub.
>
>The runner up for favourite of the year is ….”the
>quickest way to a mans heart, is through his chest,
>with an axe” - okay a bit scary fatal attraction bunny
>boiler stuff, but still poignant I think,…but my
>absolute favourite is…..
>
>“Sometimes I am so open minded, my brain is in danger
>of falling out.” this sums me up to a tee. I am
>probably the most gullible person on the planet. I
>believe with total entirety everything and anything
>anyone tells me, why wouldn’t I, why would people lie?
>See! Gullible with a capital Green.
>
>Back to Barcelona and the origin of my mother ship
>messages. There we were basking in culture on La
>Ramblas watching all the pretty people pass us by. I
>had been wanting to visit Barcelona since seeing a
>Coca Cola advert with some girl running through the
>city highlighting the works of Antonio Gaudi. I longed
>to visit the city where the architecture was so
>different from my own city, which itself is steeped in
>culture and heritage, which I am fiercely proud of. As
>a surprise for reaching my 30th birthday without
>losing my mind, my partner whisked me off for a treat.
>We were met at the airport by a chap I can only
>describe as a Claude Van Damme lookalike - and drove
>the waiting flash car with the same reckless abandon.
>Arrived at the plushest hotel in the city and shown to
>a beautiful room. I initially was overcome with love
>for my partner at his generosity, his kindness and his
>obvious affection of me. Taking me in his arms, he
>smiled and said, “don’t un-pack, it’s a mistake”.
>Apparently a cheapie from our local travel agent
>didn’t include the celebrity meeting and secluded
>retreat. I was adamant, my case was open and clothes
>hung neatly in wardrobe. I had arrived, I wasn’t
>moving. It seemed to work we weren’t asked to leave.
>
>Self determination came early on in life to me, I was
>not a particularly unruly child but one that could
>quite easily win an oscar for a performance second to
>none. I don’t know if I had an active imagination when
>I was a wee girl, either that or I was heading for a
>personality crisis. Every single day I would re-invent
>myself. I was hugely affected by my ability to run,
>stop, walk in slow motion or simply lie down at the
>touch of an imaginary button which was conveniently
>located in the middle of my abdomen. I sometimes
>wonder how the neighbours regarded this strange
>behaviour, they must have thought I was deranged. I
>thought I was the coolest kid on the block who could
>control the speed in which she lived her life. The
>bionic woman I hasten to add has a lot to answer for.
>After a week or so I would tire of running, stopping
>and lying down and up would pop my alien take over. On
>my journey home from school (which I should mention
>was about 6.7 minutes walk, across a huge playing
>field) I would imagine my body would be taken over by
>an invisible alien who had come to earth to record how
>a normal girl would live (the word normal to be taken
>quite literal). I would appear at my home, stand on
>the door mat and wait until my mother ushered me
>inside. She would call from our tiny flat “are ye
>coming in? yer letting a’ the heat oot”, and I would
>reply in my most posh voice “thank you very much Mrs
>Savage, that’s very kind of you” my mother would reply
>“oh, god, here we go again”.
>
>I have very fond memories of the rag and bone man
>visiting our street in the summer tempting all the
>children with his battered suitcase of crap, which we
>thought magical. I would have sold my grannie for a
>super ball or some “scraps” that I would swap with a
>possessive streak with my friends. This I have later
>learned is where my sales skills were cultivated,.
>That and bartering with my brothers for their
>favourite football card. Its amazing what a boy would
>do for a Georgie Best,. This I would guess is where
>their own skills were cultivated to forget everything
>in the face of temptation.
>
>My ultimate trophy prize I obtained from the smiling
>rag man was a glittery ball on a piece of elastic that
>I bounced off my sleeping baby brothers head causing
>him to wake the entire close and cause my mother to
>enquire “where did you get that”, I pondered the
>question as I knew the consequences,.but if not
>altogether bright, I was at least honest,. “the rag
>and bone man”,. “eh?….what did you give him for the
>ball?”.. “daddys suit”,..the smoke from my mother
>slippers as she sped up the road after him would have
>put Lynford Christie to shame,….but at least I got to
>keep the ball.
>
>I would often hide behind the curtain in our very
>small but cosy livingroom and after a while I guess my
>parents forgot I was even there. My imagination would
>run wild and I would look into the night sky counting
>the stars and wonder if indeed aliens were watching
>me, as I firmly believed they observed my daily
>routine. My mother after a while would shout “time for
>bed and watch the curtains or you’ll pull that pelmet
>doon!” The pelmet to me is still a thing of
>wonderment,.it hid the curtain track which for us was
>a piece of wire with a hook and eye contraption, I
>don’t think that “swish” ever made its debut in my
>house as it was deemed an expense we could do
>without,. I urged my mother every day to buy venetian
>blinds as all my friends houses had them. Eventually
>she has a set donated by my aunt, which I was very
>proud of. They unfortunately came amiss when I locked
>myself out the house and climbed in through the
>window. I never had a problem with the curtain, but
>the blinds were an obstacle that I did not account
>for. They ended up on the living room floor bent and
>battered, my mother remarked, “I never liked them
>anyway, far too much dust.”
>
>My childhood was spent every week-end on a hill, a
>beach or somewhere equally freezing with my father and
>my two brothers testing our survival skills and our
>ability to name every single capital city in the
>world. My mother would wave us off with utter abandon
>and relish her week-ends in solitude. We on the other
>hand would fight and argue till we reached our
>destination. I think we each tried our very best to
>receive our fathers undivided attention. It never
>worked. We would gather firewood, pick shellfish, sing
>songs and sleep under the stars.
>
>
>
>NEW SECTION TO BE FITTED IN SOMEWHERE
>
>“happiness often sneaks through a door you didn’t know
>you had left open”
>
>© Savage

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