Apologies & A Pretty Picture

I'd like to apologise to those of you who have left comments since I started this blogging marathon, because so far I've only managed to reply to the first day's replies. Blogger is being an absolute pain in the butt and keeps signing me out every time I try to leave a comment, which is extremely annoying. So just so you know, I've read each and every comment in the last week and I've appreciated them all, so thank you!

I'd also like to apologise to Natasha because today's blog is not only short, but not what it should be either. I was asked to blog about fireworks, and how everybody liked them. There are two reasons why this post is lacking in length. One, I actually don't really like fireworks at all. I mean, I love the colours and the patterns - who doesn't? - but the noise and the smell have always put me off them. I'm a spoilsport, I know.

The second reason that this post is short is because I've had about ten minutes in total all day up until now that I was able to get to the PC (my sister visited with us as soon as I was home from work and has only just left). It is now past 9pm, I've been up since 4:30am (stupid shifts at work, ughness), and I only had about an hour of sleep tops last night, so my brain is fried (insomnia sucks).

Rather than leave an empty blog, I thought I'd explain why there is nothing of interest here, and leave you with a pretty picture. Better a pointless post than no post at all as far as I'm concerned. *nods*

Anywho, here's the picture, and it's goodnight from this Procrastination Princess. *yawns*

Shoes! Shoes! Shoes!

After completing Maria's blogging challenges, I'm now moving onto Natasha. who has given me my next block of five subjects to ramble about, the first of them being 'wedged shoes/and or sneakers.

Here goes!

Wedged shoes are probably my favourite kind of footwear. I'm a bit of a short arse (as we say here in the Diff), so heels are a bit of a must. Of course, most heels are really REALLY uncomfortable to wear, not to mention dangerous (especially if you have a tendency to fall flat on your face like moi). But wedged shoes are awesome because they not only give you a little extra much needed height, but they are so, so comfortable.

I have a pair of wedged ankle boots that I live and die in every winter. They keep my feet warm, I can wear them all day without making my toes feel like they've been jumped on by an elephant, and they have the added benefit of having non-slip soles, which considering that I live in a hilly area that is more often than not covered in a thin layer of ice for half of the winter, is a very good thing indeed

Wedgie sandals are cool too, simply because if I wear ordinary sandals (which are usually on the flimsy side), I usually end up slipping all over the place. I'm probably giving you the impression that I'm a real klutz, but... well, I am, so you're getting a true picture. *snort* Wedgies are great all year round, no question.

As for sneakers... well. Sneakers are tricky, very tricky. I wouldn't trust a pair of sneakers any day of the week. Nasty, tricksy and false, they are. *nods*

Oh!!! You mean trainers!! Okay, I was being silly there for a moment (there's a surprise), but here in the Diff, we don't have sneakers, we have trainers. Sneakers are people who sneak in Taff Land.

Anyway sneakers -er trainers, that is - are another firm favourite of mine. Though I don't wear them for the reason you're meant to. I mean, they're supposed to be for running and sports, but the last time I did anything like that was when I was in high school. Any exercising that I do is done barefoot in my living room where there is nobody around to laugh at me.

Anyway, most days I wear trainers. I'm usually to be found in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, so trainers go with my casual (coughsloppycough*) look. They're comfy, have good sole-grip, and if you have to make a hasty getaway, they're perfect for escaping. *shifty*

No, seriously, trainers are awesome. AND wedgies. I love them both equally. And my feet don't suffer agonizing pain from wearing them either, which can't be a bad thing, can it?

Princess of Pickles

Yup, not only am I the Princess of Procrastination, but also the Princess of Pickles (there's that obsession with the letter 'p' again). You see, I'm one of those people who who gets herself into a pickle almost on a daily basis. If there is a problem to be had, I'll have it at some point. If there is a bizarre situation to be in, you can guarantee that I'll be in the vicinity.

Yup, I get myself into some awful scrapes, I really do. Sometimes they're literally scrapes, of the multiple kind. Like when I ran for a bus one day and did my infamous Tara Trip. Not content with falling flat on my face, it had to be while I was on a hill - going downward, obviously. So it was more of a nosedive and a long skid than a trip really, which resulted in the majority of the front of my body being covered in various scrapes and bruises, with lots of lovely grit embedded into my skin in the most unusual of places. Of course, it was summer, so I was wearing thin trousers and a strappy vest top. And of course said vest top got pulled downwards in my slide, er, downwards. So obviously the bus load of passengers who were desperately trying to stifle their giggles at the silly woman who was rolling down the hill also got more than an eyeful of my boobage. And trying to explain to the doctor how I had managed to get an infected nipple isn't my most favourite of memories...

Moving on.

The worst culprit of my many pickles is my urge to take on more than I can handle - this blogging every day for a month thingy being one of those times. I mean, seriously, most days I have trouble stringing two words together coherently, so this commitment to blogging every day was a bit of a silly thing to do. The thing with promising to blog every day is that there's not really time to go over your posts to see if they are ok. When I committed myself to the NaNoWriMo project last year (another pickle-inducing commitment if ever there was one), at least I didn't have to go public with my pages of rambling if I didn't want to. The finished product was a manuscript that had more typos than anything else, and an embarrassing amount of grammatical errors too. But it didn't matter, because I could choose who would be reading it, if, indeed, I decided to share the madness.

Not so with this blogging malarkey. For a start, the pesky posts are dated, so you can't really cheat - a post has to go up every day to 'win' the challenge. I'm sort of cheating slightly and working a day ahead of myself, and some days I need to cobble together two posts and schedule them in order to work around my commitments elsewhere, but as long as something new goes up every day I'm not overly worried.

Of course, not content with committing myself to this little pickle, I've also (mostly) promised to join in the rather larger pickle of this year's NaNoWriMo too. Which just happens to follow on directly after this blogging challenge finishes.

*faints* I'm screwed.

PS - For those of you who were expecting edible pickles, here's an interesting jar you might like...

*is clueless*

Day four of October, and by some strange coincidence, it's also day four of my October Blog Marathon, complete with the fourth suggestion from Maria. Today's ramble really will be a ramble, because the topic for today is, and I quote, "your thoughts on a topic that you are not qualified/have no business discussing (oh I don't know nuclear physics, genomics?)"

Lordy. *faints*

Now, I'm not qualified on thousands of topics, so picking one wouldn't be a problem. But because Maria gave me a couple of options, I'm going to go with one of those. Looking at them, one looks marginally easier to tackle than the other. Not because I have any idea about either of them, mind you, it's just I have at least heard of one of them. Seeing as I have never in my whole life heard of 'genomics', I'm going for nuclear physics (not that I know anything about that, either, but at least the words are vaguely familiar).

So, nuclear physics. Where to start? I have no idea what this is, and because Maria stipulated that I needed to have no knowledge of the topic, I can't go to trusty Wiki to have a look see. I figured because I am definitely clueless, I would split the topic in two (like an atom - maybe that's to do with nuclear physics?)

First I'll ramble a bit about the word 'nuclear'.

I'm a bit of an ostrich really, who is mostly oblivious to what goes on outside the space that is the Tara Bubble. I know, it's bad - I mean, everyone should be at least a little bit aware of what is happening in the world, right? Not so with me, though. It's not that I'm uncaring or disinterested, it's more that I'm way too easily distracted and have always found it better to concentrate on the things closer to home or I would end up worrying about half the world's problems (yes, I'm a natural born worrier too). So to me, when I hear the word 'nuclear', I don't really know what people are talking about, except that it has the potential to be very, very bad, and that scientists from all the main 'power' countries all want to be the first to master it (or whatever term you want to use). I have vague notions of apocalypse-style bombs being made and entire continents being blasted off the face of the earth, that sort of thing, you know. That's it though. I have a feeling that my notions are a little extreme, but I suppose I have a tendency to over-dramatise as well as sticking my head in the sand.

As to the second half of the phrase - 'physics' - well... let's just say that the word actually brings me out in a cold sweat.  Along with my complete ineptness at maths, physics is a subject that just goes over my head. I had the typical 'mad scientist' as my physics teacher in secondary school. Well, I'm pretty sure that he wasn't literally mad, but he just gave off that air of scattiness that all good scientists should (in my humble opinion). I completely frustrated the poor guy, I have to admit. It wasn't that I played around in his lessons, or refused to do any work, I just didn't understand anything that came out of his mouth. For two entire years he might just have well been talking gobbledygook as far as I was concerned.

I remember having one breakthrough in one of his lessons though. I distinctly recall having a strange feeling come upon me one afternoon. I was sat at my table, dutifully paying attention and trying my best to understand what he was talking about, then I almost fell off my stool in shock. Unless I'd been deceived, instead of the usual 'blah de blah blah blah, gurgle gurgle, blah blah' that I generally heard when he talked, my physics teacher actually uttered a few words that sort of made sense. Even stranger, when he asked a question, my hitherto dead weight right arm actually moved in an upwards direction.

It's hard to say who was more surprised - me or the teacher. Nevertheless, he picked his jaw up from the floor and called upon me. I'm pretty sure the entire room was struck silent when I gave the correct answer. To this day I have no idea how I knew the answer, or if my teacher ever recovered from the shock. Alas, this was the one and only time that anything positive happened during a physics lesson for me.

Such is life, eh?

Well I'm pretty sure I've rambled enough for one day, and I definitely didn't say anything that remotely did any justice to the topic of nuclear physics, but I don't think that I was meant to, so it's all good.

See you tomorrow, when I'll be talking about pickles. No, seriously - I will.

Perfect Getaway

Here I am with day three's post for my October Marathon. I'm still working through Maria's suggestions, and today's lovely subject is 'your favourite childhood hideout/ or fort/ getaway space' (Maria's come up with some good ones, don't you think?)

Technically, I never really had an official hideout as such, as I was never an outdoorsy kind of girl. If I wanted time for me I would simply go to my bedroom (which I always shared with one of my sisters) and pull out - and this should come as no surprise - a book. I can't ever remember a time when I didn't enjoy reading. I don't have any specific memories from my earlier childhood, but I do know that reading was always something that I did.

As I mentioned before, I'm not a very good mixer, and add to that the slightly over-protective parents who didn't really let me go out to play very often, plus a sister who was frequently too ill to join in the fun, and another sister who was manic depressive probably from birth, I was definitely a bit of a loner as a child. Oh, I had friends that I saw at school, and a couple of kids from next door that I would play with off an on, but usually I would make my own fun. I did all of the usual things that most girls do - I played with my Barbie dolls, and I played dress up with my mother's clothes and made extensive use of her make-up and perfume, that sort of thing - but when you don't have company to share the fun with, you do your best to make new friends.

So that's what I did. I became friends with all of the characters of my favourite books. My parents had little money to spare when I was younger, so my mother made frequent trips to the charity and second-hand shops and came home laden with clothes to get mucky in (we had a large backyard that was used for more grass and mud fights than anything else), dolls that needed nursing, and books. Lots and lots of books.

I don't really think there was a particular book or series that was a 'craze' in the 1980's, but being a girly girl, plus a child who would read anything and everything, I soon began to get hooked on dog-eared copies of Enid Blyton's books. I became fast friends with Darrell and Alicia from her Mallory Towers series, for example. Of course, the books were set in the Evergreen Jolly Hockey Sticks era of posh Britain - which is about as far away as you can get from a council estate in one of the poorer areas of Cardiff - so they were definitely rather dated, even in the eighties, but the underlying message of friendship appealed to me I suppose because I wasn't very social. Of course, I didn't know that was the reason they appealed to me back then - how many eight and nine years can self analyse? - but with hindsight I can definitely see why they attracted me.

One of the books that sticks in my mind most from my youth was Little Women by Louisa M Alcott. I absolutely adored this book for a number of reasons. Mostly, I loved the characters, especially the feisty Jo, with her sometimes misguided way of doing things, and her enduring love for her family. I'll never forget the part of the story where she cuts off her hair to make a little money - which, in the time that the story was set, was a huge deal for a woman because her hair was viewed as her crowning glory - and her elder sister, Meg, exclaims; "Oh Jo, your one beauty!" (or words very similar, I haven't got the book to hand), and that definitely struck a chord with me. Meg, indeed all of the family, loved Jo a great deal, but even at the fairly tender age of ten, I picked up the fact that they definitely weren't seeing Jo's inner qualities as much as they should.

See, this is what I mean by making friends with my favourite characters. This is what I would do when I wanted to get away from the ever-present concern for my elder sister, and the constant stress that my younger sister caused. I would pull out my latest favourite book and pretend that I was one of the characters. I would be one of the girls at Mallory Towers, drinking hot chocolate in a freezing dormitory and trying to keep the chills at bay, thoroughly enjoying myself as we all took the mick out of Madame DuPont and her funny little glasses.. Or maybe I would be one of the March girls (probably Jo), acting out the man's role in a performance for Marmee on Christmas Day.

In my later youth I progressed to slightly more dramatic books, and took my pleasure in writing first chapters of the non-existent sequels. I'd never go beyond writing that first chapter -somehow I never could spoil the original story by going too far into the characters' futures - but writing a little extra scene, as it were, would finish the story off nicely for me. I'm rarely happy with the way a book ends (I'm a fussy mare), and even now I usually find myself rewriting the final chapter of most books that I read.  When I was younger, I did most of the writing in my head, granted, but I guess the habit never died, and was probably the first strong indication that I wanted to write books of my own.

So there we have it, my personal spin on childhood getaway spaces. Though to be truthful, I still do it now, which goes to show that some habits never die.

I'm Watching You (in a non-stalkerish way).

Day two of my blogging marathon, and it’s also day two of suggestions from Maria. Today’s subject is ‘the people that you see on the street every day’.

This is actually a subject I sort of covered before in one of my earliest blog posts, though it wasn’t in any great detail (well, it wouldn’t be, not with me being the Queen of Short Posts). It’s actually a perfect subject for me to ramble about because I’m generally a people watcher anyway.

I’m not usually very good at mixing with people. You may find that hard to believe because I’m pretty open with everyone online, and I interact with anyone and everyone in cyberspace. But in the real world, I’m usually the quiet one. Once I’ve met you a few times, my Inner Nutcase/Chatterbox comes alive and it’s difficult to shut me up, but with complete strangers I’m a bit of a Church Mouse. Because of this I tend to observe people. I quietly take in a few surface details, and I keep my ears open. Basically, I’m storing information for future reference. It could be that I might see or hear something that I don’t like, and this will give me a heads up and it tells me that I need to perhaps be a bit wary around that person.

Yes, it’s slightly creepy, and definitely a little bit paranoid, but I do it with good intentions, I swear.

Anyway, this habit of observing potential friends tends to spill over into observing pretty much everyone. Like the guy who is always on the bus stop at 5am during the week. This man catches the same bus as me, and I see him every Wednesday and Thursday morning. We do little more than exchange a ‘good morning’ and a ‘terrible weather, today, isn’t it?’, but my overactive imagination has given him a name, some children and grandchildren, an occupation, and a brief life story.

Then there is the lady who plays the accordion outside of Tesco day in, day out. Come rain or shine, she is always there, strumming away at her instrument and hoping for a few coins to fill her hat. I imagine her to be of Eastern European background for some reason. Perhaps it is the flowing skirts that she usually wears, or it may be that the music itself, which sounds like something you would have heard in the ghettos of 1940’s war-torn Europe.

Another person that I see a lot is a lady who obviously has some mental health problems. She’s obviously capable of looking after herself because she is usually well turned out, and is normally on her own. I used to work in a curtain and fabric shop, and she would come in most days just to look around and stroke the cushions. She also frequents the shop where I work now, and again she does little more than browse around, though sometimes she’ll buy a bar of chocolate. She never speaks, carries a huge bag with her filled with heaven knows what, and usually pays with small change (I’ve noticed that she doesn’t carry a wallet, just a small child’s purse).

I see lots of different people every day, but these three people stick in my mind for some reason. What are their stories? What are their hopes, their dreams? It can be fun – though sobering at times – trying to work them out for yourself. The man from the bus stop probably wants nothing more than to retire from his job and spend time with his family. The woman with the accordion maybe dreams of a day when she can play to a wider audience.

And the woman with the overly large bag and the child’s purse? Maybe she wishes she could go out and buy everything that she touches. Or perhaps she just wants to spend her day talking to someone, or dreams of having someone to share her window shopping adventures.

Who knows? What I do know is every single person on this planet has a dream, and it doesn’t matter if it is as basic as making a friend, or as ambitious as publishing a novel. It is still a dream – it is what drives us forward and keeps us going.

Lost Love

Day one of my October Blog Marathon, where hopefully I will be able to blog every single day for the next month using suggestions made by six friends. Each friend has given me five subjects to blog about, and for the first block of five subjects, my good HPANA buddy Maria is responsible. Her first suggestion was, as you can guess from the title, 'Lost Love'.

Hoo boy.

I could get very serious here and ramble about heartbreak, sad songs, despair, doom and gloom, and I could probably do fairly well with it, but I prefer to keep the dark and depressing stuff for my stories, so instead I'm going give things a little Tara Twist (which I know you were probably expecting anyway).

When you speak of love, it can mean many things. The most obvious is the love that you feel for a spouse or a partner, the love for your children, or the love for your family or friends. This is the more serious love, and it's the love that keeps most people going. It's also, in my humble opinion, the true meaning of the word 'love'.

I use the word 'love' on a daily basis, and I use it for all sorts of things. I could be telling one of my writing friends that I loved their latest chapter, I could be telling my kids that I love them, or I could be talking about the latest book that I loved. I could be raving on about a particular chocolate bar, or talking about my favourite meal.

Do you see where I'm going here?

Now I'm not saying that I don't mean it when I say these things, because I do. I happen to love roast beef flavoured Monster Munch, for example, and I also love my children. But the love I have for a packet of crisps doesn't compare with the love that I feel for my kids now, does it? I'm pretty sure I could live without my Monster Munch (although I would miss them. Actually, I have lived without Monster Munch because they stopped producing them for a good number of years, and only brought them back recently), but I couldn't live without my kids.

So what does this have to do with the theme of 'lost love'? Well, we all use the word 'love' for all kinds of things, and I think in the process we have watered down the full meaning of the word. Love, in my humble (and probably insane) opinion, is one of the most powerful emotions that humans have, and is supposedly the one thing that separates us from the animals. Every living creature has basic survival instincts - the urge to find food, water, a place to sleep, and the drive to create the next generation. Yup, even us humans can all be brought down to the same level of basic urges. But what keeps us apart from the beasts is our ability to form relationships, our ability to 'love'. In using the word 'love' to cover anything from our feelings for our kids to our feelings for a snack, we are somehow belittling the very thing that makes us human.

I think, somehow, that most of us has lost the true meaning of love. And that's a sobering thought.

Note: Blogger is being all pantsy and won't let me upload any pictures. I'll try again later.