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Sad News

Last week my step-dad was diagnosed with pleurisy, which the doctor seemed to think was caused by a viral infection. He was given antibiotics and was told to rest. The pain in his chest increased though, and on Sunday evening he suddenly collapsed.

He is now in hospital with a broken ankle from the fall, but more seriously, a blood clot on each of his lungs. After suffering a pulmonary embolism a few years ago, this was our greatest fear.

We’re all hoping and praying that he makes a speedy recovery.



And now onto more sad news, I’m afraid.

I was looking at all those tiny square pictures at the top of my screen of the people who follow my blog. Amongst them is a picture of Suzanne – the blogger known to so many as Liquid.

I visited her site today because I noticed she hadn’t updated in a while, which was very unlike her. It was then that I discovered she sadly passed away on Christmas Eve. She took her own life.

There is an online memorial book for Suzanne HERE which her parents will be printing as a keepsake for Suzanne’s children. Many people – including those who didn’t know her – have left their tributes and goodbyes. Perhaps, as a fellow blogger, you may like to do the same? I’m certain it would much appreciated by her family.



May your day – whatever you are doing - be happy and safe. x

Sunrise this morning.
(I do love it when nature gives me a helping hand!)


Hope you all have a lovely weekend. x

Poop

I must say that the narcissist in me was doing a little happy dance after reading all of your comments on my last post. I guess the subject of blogging is close to all of our hearts, right? It was such an unexpected response and I want to thank all of you for your contributions and compliments. I also want to give a mention to two people who emailed me shortly after I put the post up. First of all, just a quick hello to Margie – a reader I didn’t even know I had -
Hello Margie! and secondly, I’d like to bring to your attention a new blogger on the block (well, new to me, anyway), Kenny Wisdom. I popped over to his site after reading his email and ended up staying there until I’d read all of his archives. The guy is, in my eyes, a literary genius. When I wrote ‘I’ve never been more in awe than when I’ve read something truly amazing – a handful of words which have been put together in such a way that it makes my heart stop and my mouth hang open,’ it was words like Kenny’s that I was talking about. Amongst his archives is a play he has written, which I actually read twice. If you don’t do anything else today, check him out.

Right. Now onto much more pressing matters!

Remember I told you about the cat who was sneaking in at night and shitting on my kitchen floor? Well unfortunately, it’s still happening. Each time it happens I wipe it up (notice I used the word 'wipe'), toss it into one of those scented nappy sacks and put it in a bin bag in the garden. I was horrified on Monday when I realised the bin bag was FULL! Can you imagine…an entire black bag full of poop? It’s disgusting, and really brought it home to me how long I’ve been putting up with it. The two ‘cuddly’ cats that used to visit me disappeared off the face of the earth, so I knew it wasn’t them. And then last week I caught the back end of the perpetrator himself just as he was jumping over the garden fence…but not before he turned back to scowl at me. He’s the ugliest, mankiest cat I’ve ever seen, with knotted fur and wonky eyes.

How do I know it’s a ‘he?’ Because a girl would never do something so disgusting.

Anyway, this morning I woke up, ambled downstairs, turned on the kitchen light and saw this.




Yeah, sorry it’s a bit blurry. I figured you’d understand me not staying down there too long.

I was gagging just thinking about clearing it up earlier, so for the moment I’ve left it. It’s so bloody cold out there that I’m hoping it’ll freeze and I’ll be able to stab a fork in it.

Please tell me – somebody, anybody – what can I do? I have a cat flap for my two cats and when they are in the house at night I lock it. It means they have to cross their legs till the morning, but they can deal with that. However, if they’re out when I go to bed and no amount of calling them brings them back, I won’t lock it and leave them outside. It’s minus godknowswhat out there and they’ll freeze their little goolies off. (Well, they would if they still had them.) Somebody suggested a magnetic cat flap with special collars, but my cats won’t keep them on.

I wonder if there’s any kind of product I could buy which would be a deterrent?

I did have a bit of a brainwave. I thought about setting the cat flap so it’ll let the cat in but won’t let him back out again. That way, I can catch the bastard. But what the hell could I do with him once I’d cornered him? I don’t want to hurt him. (Actually, I want to shove a fucking marrow up his arse, but I wouldn’t.)

Any thoughts on how could I frighten him enough so he doesn’t come back… but without being too cruel?

Blogging

I was having a conversation about photography with one of my family members yesterday and I thought I’d share with him my New Year’s Eve fireworks fiasco. However, not wanting to repeat something which he may have already been aware of, I asked him if he had read my blog recently.” His answer was:

“I never read your blog. I don’t agree with them.”

“Nor do I,” someone else said (not for the first time), at which point I stood up and walked away.

It’s an old record.

I can be quite an influential person at times - in the work place, in my private life - and I like to think I’m more than capable of getting my point across to people. But in the three years I’ve been blogging I have never been able to find the words to explain why I do it, what I get out of it, and why it ISN’T weird or wrong or whatever else they may think it is. I’ve tried so many times to explain it but I’ve obviously failed because the questions or comments keep cropping up, and to be honest, it annoys the hell out of me.

Perhaps I expect too much from people who don’t have creative minds? Apart from Dan, I’m the only writer in my family – and when I use the word ‘writer’ I don’t in any way mean to suggest I’m even remotely good at it, simply that I enjoy the process of holding a pen in my hand and forming words on paper, or tapping out sentences on a screen. I was playing ‘schools’ and ‘offices’ and anything else which involved using paper and pens as far back as I can remember. I’d even ask my teacher for homework so I could get the satisfaction of working my way through an exercise book. It’s in my blood. It’s what I am, what I do, what preoccupies most of my free time, what defines me, what floats my boat and tickles my fancy and drives me forward. It’s how I best express myself. I adore words and books and the formation of sentences. I’ve never been more in awe than when I’ve read something truly amazing – a handful of words which have been put together in such a way that it makes my heart stop and my mouth hang open. For some people it’s the creation of a painting, or a piece of music, or a plate of food which makes them wide eyed and ga-ga. For others it could be the weeks and months someone has spent making a piece of furniture, or building a bike. For me it’s words. I am still totally and completely dumbstruck when I think about the masterpieces which have been and have yet to be created, with just 26 letters. It blows me away, actually.

But why do I blog? 'Because of my love of words' isn’t the right answer, is it? If it were merely the writing process itself which I enjoyed, I could simply write for my own pleasure and not have a blog. Millions of people out there probably have diaries and stories and thoughts and feelings scribbled on scraps of paper and stuffed in wardrobes or under beds, for their eyes only. I used to be like that, once upon a time. But then something happened.

After keeping my writing extremely close to my chest for my entire life, a very close friend of mine - who happens to be the most amazing writer and one of my biggest influences - persuaded me to show him some of my work. And so with gritted teeth and feeling incredibly exposed, I did. What followed was a remarkable year where we joined forces and wrote a book together. The feedback I received from him boosted my confidence to heights I could only ever dream of before, and upon completion of that book, something within me changed. I’d reached the point where the simple act of writing wasn’t enough for me, and I began to crave a bit of recognition, advice or feedback for paragraphs I was proud of. But saying “read this” and shoving a piece of paper under the nose of someone who didn’t know their apostrophe from their antonym gave me little reward. I’d sit there, poised on the edge of my seat, watching their eyes flick across my words, and when they’d finished I’d ask: “What did you think?” The reply would be something along the lines of: “Yeah, it’s good.” It was so disheartening.

So is that why I blog? For the praise and the attention and feedback of like-minded people?

Perhaps, on occasion, there’s a little truth in that. If I happen to write something which I’ve spent a lot of time on…something which I think is particularly funny or moving or clever or well thought out…and if it’s picked up on in the comments section (the fact that it wasn’t just a ten minute ramble but something I worked hard on) then I do get a buzz out of it. If I’ve sweated over it and had sleepless nights because of it, I guess that I secretly and ashamedly seek some praise for it. But 99 out of 100 of my posts are written with very little thought, no editing other than a quick spell check, and for no other reason than to scratch a creative itch and relay to you a load of old twaddle about my last few days. If it was recognition and praise for my creativity that I wanted, I’m certain I’d be using something other than a blogging platform. And I’d definitely be putting out creative pieces of work rather than diary entries.

Maybe I just like having an audience, regardless of the brilliance or diabolicalness of my writing? (Perhaps I blog so that someone can actually tell me whether or not ‘diabolicalness’ is a word?) Perhaps I’m a narcissist? Yes! Perhaps there was something fundamental missing from my childhood and I’ve been left with a ‘look at me, listen to me, notice me, HERE I AM!’ kind of personality?

(For any family members reading, that last sentence was a joke.)

I suppose the bottom line is that I blog because I enjoy it. I enjoy the entire process…from thinking about what to write, writing it, editing it, getting it out there, knowing it’s out there, watching the comments coming in, being able to interact with people, seeing new faces popping up, making people laugh or cry or yawn or giggle or arch their eyebrows. I enjoy getting a reaction, a thought, a bit of advice, a compliment, a point of view, a nod of the head, a frown. I even enjoy the moments when someone disagrees with something I’ve said - which triggers a burning desire in the pit of my stomach to prove my case. More than any of that though, I just enjoy having another place to go. It’s an extension of my house…another room. It’s like going to the local on a Friday night, or calling a friend for a chat. It’s the best therapy I’ve ever come across. It’s the most fun I’ve ever had on my own (without batteries). It’s quite simply the most amazing, long lasting, worthwhile experience I have ever been a part of…on so many levels. And perhaps most importantly of all, there are many people who I’ve met here, and who visit me here, who I now class as some of my closest friends.

“But these people CAN’T be friends,” is another common remark. “You can’t KNOW them. They could be ANYBODY!”

And right there, begins another lengthy debate. Another moment where I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and can’t even be bothered to explain.

So, wonderful people. Tell me (and them)....

Why do you blog?

New Year

I wasn’t looking forward to seeing the New Year in on my own. However much I told myself that it was just another evening and that there are lots of evenings when people kiss and hug each other and sing silly songs, I couldn’t help but feel I was going to miss out on something. So I decided that I had two choices….either go to bed early and miss the midnight hour completely, or do something constructive when Big Ben bonged.

I settled for option two.

I’d been given a tripod and a camera release button for Christmas and I thought it might be a nice idea to try and capture some New Year’s fireworks. As the day went on I actually got quite excited about the prospect and spent an hour or so researching various camera settings and set-ups. There seemed to be a lot of conflicting advice as to the best way to go about it, but I eventually chose a method which I thought would work.

At about 11.30pm I went to the kitchen, opened the back door, and erected my tripod in the doorway. I set up the camera with the correct aperture and shutter speed and focused on one (quite large) area of sky. The idea was to concentrate on just that area, wait for a little light trail going up in the sky, and then click the button just before it exploded. It made perfect sense to get two or three great shots rather than jump around like a lunatic trying to capture everything (but inevitably end up with nothing but blurred, mediocre pictures). Happy with the set up, I sat down with a bottle glass of wine and waited.

Standing back in the doorway with a few minutes to go, I double checked everything. Lens cap off? Check. Camera on? Check. View-finder covered? Check. Corrcet settings? Check. Camera release button in hand? Check.

The countdown began and I stood there staring at my empty rectangle of sky. I hardly even noticed the chorus of ‘Happy New Year’ which was ringing out around me. I didn’t give a thought to all the loved up couples who would be in each other’s arms. I completely ignored the fireworks going off in the distance - probably some community display – as I waited for the neighbour’s fireworks which we get in abundance each and every year. And I wasn’t disappointed. Before long the sky was alight…explosions of red and green and silver and blue going off around me.

It was amazing! Incredible!

I won’t bore you with them all, but this is my best one………
















Not ONE bloody firework went off in my rectangle. It was about three minutes past twelve when I realised I had to move the tripod, and that involved getting it through the door into the garden because I couldn’t get the correct angle from inside. But would it fit through the bloody door? Course it wouldn’t. Frantically, I tried to undo one of the legs but for some stupid reason I couldn’t remember which clasp would release it. Thrashing around like an idiot and flipping, twisting and turning every knob I could get my hands on, I finally figured it out and got the damn thing outside, where I encountered five bags of rubbish and a fridge.



WHOSE FUCKING STUPID IDEA WAS IT TO PUT A FRIDGE IN THE GARDEN?



Have you ever tried clambering over a fridge…in the dark…in your dressing gown…with a tripod…and a fucking broken foot…while trying to stop your tits flopping out because your perv of a next door neighbour is peering over the fence with a face which, quite honestly, would have been a picture?

Had I taken it.



“Are you ok Elaine?”

“Erm…yes! Fine! Just getting some…OW! Shit. Some firework pictures. Bollocks. Ummm…I think I’ll go in. It’s a bit cold out here and FUCK. My foot is...ummmm. Bugger! Is that my nipple? Oh dear. S’cuse me. Piss off Barney! Anyway. Yes. Happy New Year to you, too.”