Sink your teeth into these short stories…

Whoo hoo, I got 82 per cent in my first TMA. That’s a tutor-marked assignment for those of you who don’t know. And if you still don’t know what I’m harping on about, I’m undertaking a three month course with The Open University called Start Writing Fiction.

This assignment required me to write three lots of 500 words, the first in the voice of a child, the second to portray a character and an emotion, and the third something based on what you hear when you turn the radio on.

Here are my attempts, constructive criticism welcome…. What I am discovering on this course is the fact I find it tricky to write anything other than chick lit. It’s what I know, although oddly, not what I read.

See what you think peeps…

Just a bad dream?

We were heading towards school and I remember it well ‘cos I didn’t want to go. It was PE day, and I hated PE, always the last to get picked and always looking silly in front of everyone.

Mum was pulling me by the hand ‘cos we were late. We both hated being late, mum because it meant she got told off at work and me because I’d get watched by everyone when I walked into class.

“Come on love,” she said. “The sooner you get to school the sooner the day will be over and it’ll be time to come home again.”

This wasn’t strictly true, although I didn’t really know why. It was the sort of thing mum said a lot to make try and make me feel better. It never really worked.

“I can’t walk any faster, my legs aren’t as long as yours remember,” I replied, as I ran a couple of paces to release the tension in my extended arm. I was being dragged to school!

We were just about to cross the road, the school gates within eyesight now, when it happened. A huge noise erupted from the nearby tube station and suddenly it was smoky and I started coughing. I remember coughing ‘cos mum was doing the same and I remember wishing I had some cough sweets.

At this point I think mum had forgotten about getting to school, she just stood there on the pavement. It was like time was standing still or something.

And then came the screams, lots of them, and I felt scared. I didn’t know where the noises were coming from and I didn’t know where to look. It felt like I was in danger and mum was just standing there, her hair and coat flapping in he commotion but her body as still as a statue.

Then came movement, people running from the tube station entrance, screaming, crying and shouting for help. They didn’t look like the normal business people I saw using the tube, these people were dirty, their clothes torn or scuffed, their bags abandoned and some of them were hurt. I remember that some of them were bleeding ‘cos I hate the sight of blood and that’s when I started to feel sick. And then I started to cry.

“Muuuum,” I bellowed, “Muuuum, do something.”

I felt an arm around me and opened my eyes to see mum’s concerned face staring down at me, her eyes a little bit wet in the corners. I saw my school uniform hanging on the door, my magazines on the carpet and my Britney Spears quilt cover ruffled around my feet. I was in my bed, at home.

“Hey sweetheart, you just had a bad dream, that’s all. Everything’s okay, I’m here. Try and go back to sleep.”
As I closed my eyes again I remembered having that dream before, how real it felt, like I was right there when it happened. Dad died in a tube bombing three months ago and I’d been having that horrible dream ever since.

Desperately seeking something…

It’s nearly 8pm on a Saturday night and she’s curled up on the cool leather sofa, tub of Ben and Jerry’s in hand and watching The X Factor. If she was 13 this would probably be okay. But she’s 28; rapidly approaching 29, in fact.

Roxy always feels like a bit of a failure when she spends a Friday or Saturday night in front of the TV, ‘cos surely she should be straightening her brunette bob, applying lashings of eyeliner to her hazel eyes and pulling her size 12 frame into a slinky party outfit? Surely she should be partying with mates, out to dinner with a guy or running a romantic bath for her boyfriend?

Well, Roxy doesn’t have a boyfriend, or a date, and she’s too tired for partying with mates; it’s been a hellish week in the newsroom – and that wasn’t ever on the agenda this weekend – plus she got drunk last night. Feeling too old to flush her system with alcohol two nights in a row, she wasn’t keen on throwing her Sundays out the window all in the name of recovery. Hangover hell was increasing year on year.

So, Roxy’s staying in tonight. Just her, the widescreen TV which set her back a small fortune, and some calorific snacks. It’s not like she can’t afford to go out either, although the rent on her swanky apartment is crippling. Thank goodness for daddy’s allowance. It’s a proper bachelorette pad too, carrying off the minimalist look – modern furniture, clean lines and low lighting. So romantic, or at least it would be if she didn’t have only herself to woo. It’s doubtful she’d even turn herself on this evening.

She shuffles further into the settee to get comfy, tipping the remote control over the arm and onto the bright white carpet, showcasing every drop of spilled wine, every fallen flake of make-up, every meal that escaped from the plate. Roxy’s grateful it didn’t fall into the glass of squash sitting idly nearby. That would have been a disaster.

In fact, the whole evening was a disaster. The girly outfit from last night had been banished for slippers, trackie bums, a hoodie and her Clark Kent-style glasses. Not a stitch of make-up – not even a smudge of the everyday eyeliner – adorns her face and her skin’s elephant grey and dehydrated from yesterday’s booze binge.

Aren’t you supposed to stop getting spots at my age too, she wonders? Roxy looks terrible but knows there will be no knocks at the door – she’s uncomfortable with unexpected visitors – and should there be the odd text or unlikely phone call, looking good’s not required or expected.

Roxy knows there’s no place she’d rather be tonight than in the warmth of her trendy apartment, the lakeside view waving to her through the floor to ceiling window, and the comfort of her double bed just two rooms away. But she still thinks and feels that she should be somewhere else, anywhere else, living life and creating new memories. Tonight’s only memory is that the wrong person got voted off The X Factor. Gotta love Simon Cowell though, she grins.

A bad date

It’s Saturday morning and I was determined to go to the gym, work off some of those mid-week stresses that had built up in my shoulders. I pulled back the covers and sprung out of bed like a child on Christmas Day. The sun was shining as I flicked on the radio.

Instead of being greeted with Lady Gaga pumping from the speakers, it was a stream of adverts. I must have flicked stations when I snoozed the alarm earlier. Oh God, there’s that advert again…the one about that dating website, guaranteed to find you that special someone or give you your money back. And they say romance isn’t dead? Pah!

The whole single/couple debate riles me. I’d love nothing more than to curl into the arms of a loving man every evening but honestly, finding one is no mean feat. And dating is so exhausting.

I did have a date lined up for tonight but I cancelled it, reeling off some horrible lie about a sick relative. The truth is, I’m just not into him and would rather chill at home than make polite but forced conversation with a guy I know wants to jump my bones at every opportunity.

I’ve had three dates with this guy and that was two too many. He’s alright, but there’s no spark. Physically, there’s nowt much wrong with him, but his personality…well…I couldn’t really tell if he had one.

He knows nothing about me, because he hasn’t asked anything; he only knows what I’ve told him. But he’s quite content to slide his hands up my top and dribble all round my face. He doesn’t kiss the way I like either and despite trying to move my mouth in such a way as to hint to him I want to kiss slower, he continues to slobber over my lips like a dog with a bone. Yuk.

Our last date, dinner at his new-build semi, was painful. He can cook, I’ll give him that, but conversation was stinted, he’s not funny, and he kept interrupting me.
I was perched on the edge of his hard leather sofa trying not to touch his looming frame, dodging eye contact for fear he’d dive in for a snog like an Olympic swimmer competing for a medal. My eyes were drawn to things that only irritated me further – the carpet strewn with bits of fluff, the bright lighting, the pile of unopened mail on the Ikea sideboard, and the lack of a mirror in the bathroom, not that I needed to check my lippy.

I made my excuses and left early, side stepping along his hallway as he stalked me to the front door, that hungry glint in his eyes. Well, he wasn’t feasting on me, that was for sure. I slid away from him like a burglar trying to avoid torchlight, his body looming closer as the door – and my great escape – crept slowly nearer. It was a painful exit and I walked away shaking my head like freshly bathed dog, tongue hanging out in semi disapproval. The click of his front door signalled closure for me, the realisation and relief that the date was over.

Tonight is date night

Tonight one of my friends and I are both going on dates, although not with the same guy and not at the same place. That would be awkward.

But we do share the same opinion on dating. It’s a bit of excitement combined with a lot of effort, and usually the result is disappointment. It’s not that we’re being overly negative here, just talking from past experience.

But I least I know Date Guy is tall enough for me. I text him to ask his height – the alcohol consumed on the night we met has clouded my memories somewhat – and told him I was trying to decide whether I should wear heels or not on date night. Yes, he probably thinks I’m odd now, but at least I know he’s not short. I couldn’t lower myself – literally – to date a guy shorter than my 5ft 9ins.

Anyway, Date Guy is a couple of years younger than me and someone I met on a night out before Christmas. We became Facebook friends, swapped mobile numbers, and have arranged to meet several times before now but something always got in the way.

So, tonight’s the night. And who knows, maybe if we like each other we’ll have a second date in September time?

PS The picture above depicts some dates (the fruit variety) – I was trying to be clever – but they could mistaken for pieces of poo. I felt an explainatory note was called for here.

Does your face fit?

My mate – another member of the SIngle Brigade – emailed yesterday, directing me to a BBC news story which prompted her to experience a “eureka” moment. “I’m single because I’ve got the wrong face,” she said. How depressing.

This news story suggests you can tell if a person wants a one night stand/bit of fun or a more sustained relationship – just by looking at their face! Research shows, apparently, that men are more interested in the women who look like they want a bit of fun. No shit Sherlock!

So, for us girlies who haven’t had much luck in the “lovin” department lately, does it mean we have the wrong sort of face? Great.

Now, not only am I an overweight binge drinker (see previous blog entry) I am single, the big 3-0 is drawing ever nearer and I also have the wrong face. What’s a girl to do eh?

Another friend, who’s just joined an internet dating site did confess to me: “You know, I don’t usually go out with total lookers but when flicking through this site I’m disregarding the ugs and looking at the guys who look like players.” Maybe there is something in this “face fits” theory, and it works on both sides.

Dating is hard enough, whether you have the face for it or not.

My brother, who’s two-and-a-half years younger than me, once fed me the line: “The trouble with women your age is that you know they’re desperate to settle down.” Hmmm. Newsflash guys – just because we want to go for a drink with you doesn’t mean we’ve planned the wedding and started reading babay magazines. It just means we want to go for a drink with you.

Oh, gone are the days when a guy walked you home from the dance at the village hall, started courting you and married you a few months later. How simple it was back then. Now, with the likes of text messages, email, social networking, speed dating and online dating, the dreaded “D” word has become a bit of a minefield.

One of my single mates is having her third date in as many weeks tonight, bless her. They both play sport and he handed his number over after watching her fall over a courtside sports bag while she struggled to put her hoodie on. He thought it was cute. If that happened to me, people would be inspecting the Robyn-shaped hole left in the ground.

 

Very funny – if you get the joke

My ickle friend spent a couple of days with me this week – she’s a teacher and thought she’d have less distractions at my place and could crack on with her marking while I was at work. She’s a PE teacher, probably half the size of most of her students and without make-up she could easily pass for a 12-year-old. She’s 29 this year.

But one of the things I love about her is her quirky sense of humour, which only those who know her best seem to get. She’s pretty quick witted and often causes discomfort for the many people who just don’t get her jokes.

We were in Currys last night looking at TVs and chatted to the sales guy about the spec and size and all that jazz. And we started talking about 32 inch TVs versus 40 inch TVs. Then ickle friend says: “Well, I’m not sure what to believe when men start talking about inches – they say this is six inches,” and then placed her hands as if she were holding a metre long invisible plank.

The poor TV guy didn’t get it at all and I quickly moved the conversation along. Then, later, when were at the food counter at the cinema, ickle friend asked for a cup of tea. “How big’s the large?” she enquired.

The poor guy serving her looked a tad on the shy side and held up a huge piece of cardboard with the prices on. He’d obviously misheard her. “Really, as big as that?” she said, and the poor chappy turned bright red and I had to hold in my giggles, being the mature 28-year-old I am.

Bless her. It was a fun evening, although her stay wasn’t that productive. She did my washing up for me (thanks!), did a bit of shopping and stomped round the flat in my heels (three sizes too big for her!) and sent me a text picture message of a notepad with “stinky marking” emblazened on it in biro. Hmmm.

I think the real reason for her visit (she travelled an hour down the M1 to see me) was an appointment with my physio, the one who sorted my ankle out. She’s got dodgy shoulders and wanted Mr Physio, who is quite cute but a tad on the short side for me, to take a look. She even wore the most inappropriate bra she could find and attempted to justify it to me. Nice try sunshine.

Anyway, it was lovely to have her to stay. Even if I do have to lug half her luggage back up the M1 tonight. She’d brought about three suitcases with her and didn’t have time to load them into the car this morning – she was running late for a date ‘cos she’d been to Next to buy an outfit ‘cos the 25 she had with her weren’t suitable, and because it was raining she was worried she’d get ger hair wet with too many trips to the car. Bless. 

The love train – running out of steam?

I’ve tried to avoid the subject of dating on this blog, for fear of going off on one, but this is a happy (ish) tale and doesn’t involve me wanting to knife a guy in the head. See what I mean, it’s happening already!

Anyway, I was on a stinky train to London yesterday and was flicking through the pages of the freebie city papers that random guys fling into your hands when you walk past.

After the news about Britney, snow storms and Kentish Town being a burglary hotspot, I glanced at the little column where people leave anonymous messages for folk who’ve caught their eye, you know, in a romantic way. You were on the tube to Victoria at 7.15am wearing a pink jumper and I was too nervous to ask for your number. Drink? Ah, how lovely. I wonder if people ever respond? But I think it’s a cute way of breaking the ice. Dating is a nerve-wracking game and approaching someone for their phone number can have diabolical consequences.

So, while sat on the stinky train, reading about love, I was reminded of my fellow bridesmaid who managed to hook herself a date last week using this ‘orrible mode of transport. Heading for Manchester and wearing a Make Poverty History T’shirt – and being the nice, polite young girl she is – Alice offered to help an elderly lady with her bags and then fetched her a coffee as the train chugged into motion.

She’d spotted a guy in the corner of her eye but thought no more about it until she dismounted the train and as she trundled along the platform he slipped her his card with a little message on the back – I thought it was really sweet that you helped the old lady and I really like your T’shirt. Call me. Only turns out he’s a flippin’ doctor! Result!

So, thinking I could be sat on a love train, rather than a London Midland from Euston to Milton Keynes, I took a look around me. Drowning out the sound of the screaming child two carriages away I spotted a greasy looking guy reading Page 3 of The Sun, a little Chinese dude (I don’t do short men!) and a guy with a ponytail who was sucking his thumb. 

You were a grown man on a train sucking your thumb and I was thinking ’help, get me outta here!’