Habits WAG entry

Children say and do the funniest things, and it seems that their habits are no exception. My eldest for example goes daft when she is trying to fib, or when she is nervous she pulls at her neck, the same thing my Nan used to do, odd that in Heather I can remember one she never met. She went through a stage of chewing her hair, this was only stopped when she was told she would have to have all her hair cut off, can’t deal with hairballs!
Memoir rather than fiction this week!


Lucy is a little bit young to develop too many habits other than that the Pooh bear she loves so much has to go with her, if she falls over or is ill she wants him, how I wish I had a spare. Her main habit if copying Matthew, one of new words is ‘actually,’ and she uses it at every opportunity.

Matthew perhaps is the best habit wise! At the word no, he will fall to the floor in dramatic fashion and writhe around as if he is in terrific pain. His other habit is to ask for a drink or food or what time x,y,z is happening! It doesn’t matter how many times I tell him he will still ask. Imagine the are we there yet but every minute of every day, my new habit has become imagining ways of stopping the torrent of questions.

Saying No

‘There’s a first time for everything,’ at least that’s what her Father had told her over and over again. As she floored the accelerator rushing away from the awful scene before her she realised that maybe that was true.

She had broken the rules, for the first time in ten years with him she had dared to say no and mean it. Enough was enough she had decided and so when he had been out for his Friday night binge at the pub, she had packed. Only the necessities went it, clothes, a brush, her meagre collection of books. She took nothing else, she didn’t it, she just needed the freedom that being away from him would provide.

She had heard him coming, singing badly and swaggering from side to side as he came up the road. He hadn’t been as long as she thought he would be, usually he was there until kicking out time, chatting up anything in a short skirt with long legs and bottle blonde hair. He was on first name terms with all the landlords and of course, they all thought he was wonderful. She had used to be the one by his side, everyone had admired her and wanted to be the one standing beside him, he was of course striking, film star looks.

Still that was a lifetime ago now. She looked over at the picture she had put on the mirror, her last little act, now she’d have to move fast or it would be too late and she knew, she just knew, that when he found out what she had done he would be furious. She knew where she was going to go, had phoned one of the friends that she had managed to keep in touch with despite his vice like grip on her life.

He was fumbling at the front door by this time and she had grabbed the last bag and raced out of the back door just as he had fallen though into the hallway.

‘Karen, Karen, I’m coming to get you,’ she could hear him yelling. She winced and as she raced towards the car she winced as the bag brushed against the bruised on her ribs. She was at the car and fumbling with the door, nerves making her hands shake. He was roaring now, he had found it, of that she was sure, there was only seconds now before he would come down to check the car. She had been clever than the last time she had tried to leave, when she had paid such a heavy price.

She was in, engine on and off, she engaged the door locks – there was no way he could get in, and as she raced out of the respectable cul-de-sac with its well spaced detached mock tudor houses she didn’t feel anything. He was out of the door, screaming, swearing promising revenge and she sure the curtains would be twitching. Funny how when things were out in the open everyone had something to say, but when no-one could see it, despite the bruised and the frequent trips to hospital, the tragic miscarriages not one of them had lifted a finger to help her.

She raced away, not sure what the future held, but as she patted her stomach she whispered to the growing baby;
‘Never again, he won’t catch us and lay a hand on us ever again, this time we’re playing by my rules.’

Ripples WAG#23

She stepped into the pool and the water rippled out, making ever increasing circles until it reached the sides. Every movement was now a struggle as she puffed and panted her way into a sitting position. She is encouraged to move around, to make things easier for herself.

She didn’t want things to be easy, none of it has been so why should the last act. She knew what she had let herself in for and it was her principles and strict upbringing that had led her to this hospital ward, this birthing pool and this birth.
Hours later it was over, the baby was delivered, weighed, dressed and suckled. Healthy thank goodness, she now had a son. She had cleaned herself up and was on the post-natal ward, due to her special circumstances she had been put in a side room although she longed to be part of the ward, outside there was activity, people to talk to and a tiny bit of normality. Soon the new parents of baby Turner would come and she would go home, back to her disappointed parents and resume her non-descript life in the village. She would be obedient and do as she was bid, but even so, from now on, she would always be that girl.

Her parents had tried to cover for her, she was going away for a few months travelling as part of her studies, but of course at such a tender age and with little reason to travel when studying English, psychology and philosophy most people had guessed the real reason for her absence.

She watched smiling faces come and go throughout the first hour of visiting time. She had phoned her own parents but their response had been one of relief that it was all over rather than joy, the other phone call has resulted in more enthusiasm. Just then the door opened and the people she had met twice before arrived beaming, their arms laden with gifts for their new charge and even some flowers for Anne, the name she had chosen to call herself.

‘Where is he?’ Anne indicated the peaceful baby in the transparent plastic cot, not daring to look at him directly, worried that the love she had thought she wouldn’t feel would overwhelm her, stop her from going through with the decisions that she had been so certain about six months ago. They rushed over, instantly they were cooing, stroking his face and the little squeaks he made as he awoke tugged at the heart strings of all in the room.

For two painful weeks Anne had to stay with the new parents, to feed the infant and recover, she had agreed to this to allow herself to return home as she had left, no sign of the pregnancy or baby. Now she was nearing the end of her time here and she was both reluctant and eager to live. She picked up George Lucas Miller, not the name she would have chosen, he looked more like a Noah to her, and gave him one last feed, one last kiss and entrusted in the care of his Mother a letter. Maybe they’d just throw it in the bin but at least she could tell him her side of the story, explain, as best as she could why she had to give him to someone else. Maybe he’d never read it but maybe, just maybe he would, she would have to wait.


As the doorbell rang Anne fought her way past the twins to the door, a strangely familiar face stood before her and yet she couldn’t quite place him.

‘Mum’ three voices yelled together.

The hero

The Unknown hero

He walks through the crowd unnoticed. His clothes smart, of the time but almost uniform, they don’t mark him out as different.

But he is, but nobody knows. He doesn't like the limelight, doesn't take the credit for the miracles he has worked.

He spends his time thinking of ways to improve things, help people this man in a t-shirt advertising the latest band, the blue denim and the converse trainers. He spends his time making time for others rather than looking for excuses to duck his responsibilities. Yet no-one makes a fuss as he passes them, the cape that should be there invisible, even to himself.

His brow is furrowed is concentration, his phone rings and he becomes animated, his blue eyes seem to dance and he finally seems to look around, take stock of his surroundings, notice that he is not alone on the high street. He finishes his call and passes through a door, the place where the magic happens, the place labelled; ‘charity headquarters.’

Taken for granted

Wishing you a Merry Christmas that was all the message had said, but it was enough.
These days when the job was done in darkness and the deliveries made to faceless customers still tucked up in bed, when payments were made by the invisible magic of direct debit and the only company were the foxes it was easy for people to forget you.
They took it for granted that when they came down for their morning drink and yawned their way to the front door their milk would be there. Indeed it was now the postman that housewives teased one another about; the milkman was not just another commodity.
Not today though, today the little message had warmed his heart, had made him realise that someone still appreciated him and all the cold and rainy mornings, as well as the mad rush to visit everyone on the hot mornings so the milk didn’t sour. He picked up the bottle which had held the message and held it to his heart as he wandered back to his float, silently thanking the sleeping box for helping him to remember he was a person and not the invisible man.

WAG #20 The Beast

It is Friday. 4pm. Not a scary time of the week, just a normal non-threatening daylight hour. Despite this trepidation has filled my heart, the small boy beside me tugs at my coat, and I look down knowing before he speaks that he is going to say;
‘Mummmy, I’m bored!’
I am not disappointed and I smile indulgently and then train my eyes back onto my daughter as she approaches the beast. She will require expert help to tame it that is certain.
I flashback to my own first time, the beast seemed to tower over me, the equipment necessary seemed so alien, from a place that adults prevailed, a place that was dangerous, one in which children had to tread carefully. I had survived though, here I was safe and sound and wasn’t I pleased that my little girl was going to be sharing one of the things I had loved at the same age.
As I watch she nears the beast, it stands still, looking innocent enough, sleek white coat glinting in the sunlight and the foothold hanging menacingly down its flank. She ascends the steps and with one mighty push she’s on. She straightens up and looks over at me, the biggest grin spreading across her face. As she is led into a trot, I know that she is feeling the same exhilaration I had felt the first time I had mounted and hidden a horse.

Check these other responsed to WAG #19 and get involved with #20

WAG #19 Results and WAG #20 instructions below. All are welcome to join next week’s adventure!

The theme for the Writing Adventure Group 19 was “Pick a Pocket”: Pick someone out of a crowd and describe what (you imagine) is in their pockets (Unless you want to be brave and ask them!) Give us both meaning and physical details, and don’t forget to let yourself be surprised.

For those who participated, please cut and paste the links below (and instructions for next week, if you wish) to your own blogs. This will help promote the group and give some linky love to each other, creating a fantastic cross-promotional network of WAGs!

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How to Join the Writing Adventure Group

Isaac Liljedahl (New to WAG!)

Caroline Dickey (New to WAG!)

Melanie Trevelyan

Peter Spalton

Miss G (Follow Miss G on Twitter!)

Marsha Moore (Follow Marsha on Twitter!)

Sue O’Shields

Gunnar Helliesen (Follow Gunnar on Twitter!)

India Drummond (Follow India on Twitter!)

JM Strother

Kate McIntire (Follow Kate on Twitter!)

The Writing Adventure Group is on Facebook. Join us there too, and get weekly reminders so you never miss an adventure.
Next Week:

“WAG #20: The First Time” Everything we’ve ever done had a ‘first time’. Think of an activity (either of your own or something you observe of someone else) and write about the first time of that experience, and perhaps even compare it to subsequent experiences. Maybe even pick a moment that might have looked mundane from the outside, but made a significant change to the person experiencing it. Not a lot of rules, as usual… just let your imagination flow!

How to be added to the “results” post next week:

1. Write whatever you like based on the theme suggested
2. Post the results on your blog
3. Email THE DIRECT LINK TO YOUR WAG POST (not just your blog) to India AT IndiaDrummond DOT com (or use the handy-dandy web form). This way I can link back to you in the next post! Please include the word WAG in your subject heading. Please include the title of the post (if any) and your name as you want it to appear on the listing. If you do not do this, I will use the name as it appears on your email. NEW! You may also include your Twitter ID. (Please put it in your email, even if I already follow you as I do not want to have to go look it up for everyone!)
4. To get more people involved, please use Twitter, FB status, myspace, your blog, etc to tell your writer friends about the group and talk about your own writing adventure! All are welcome to join, so spread the word!

Pick a pocket WAG #19

I think I've cheated here a little as my imagination ran away with me turning a real event into something rather odd, but here goes...

WAG #19
Pick a Pocket
I was sitting staring out of the window of a well known coffee shop chain window. People came and went and still I stared and then, inspiration struck. Two men in a rather inebriated state passed by wearing patriotic wigs, it was St George’s day after all. The local community support officer was looking a little worried as the men were singing rather loudly and there was a lot of swearing, swaying and exposure of beer belly going on.

Our town centre is not used to such behaviour, not even on Friday nights, even the busker has a flute and a laminated sign asking for donations. It wasn’t long before two police cars arrived spilling out a few officers to deal with the situation. The men were drawing a lot of attention, some people hurried by not wanting to get involved, other struggled to conceal a smile and others stood around to watch.
People were mumbling as they passed and as they came in to the coffee shop one word stuck in my mind, ‘clown’. At that moment in my mind that was what the men became, clowns. The police officers were trying to talk to the men, to calm the situation down, when one of them reached into his pocket, panic ensured, police were yelling but the man simply pulled out a banana! Now the police were fearing the worst, they needed to assert their authority and so they arrested the men and then the rest of the pockets were emptied.

First came the clown hooter, just perfect for traversing the high street and scaring unsuspecting people going about their business. Then there was the elasticated red nose, perfect for all those nose pulling antics in the big top. The third thing was the grease paint, red and white ideal for those fiendish and, to me at least, rather scary oversized clown smiles.

The men must have had deep pockets as last, but certainly not least, the police officers recovered a custard pie. I guess that as well as being drunk and disorderly they can add being in charge of an offensive weapon to the charge sheet.

Result for #18 and instructions for #19

Have fun visiting these people to see their take on this weeks task and for next week's.

Mickey Hoffman

Kate McIntire

JM Strother

Marsha Moore

Miss G

India Drummond
Next Week:

“WAG #19: Pick a Pocket” Let’s do some stalking people-watching for this one! Pick someone out of a crowd and describe what (you imagine) is in their pockets (Unless you want to be brave and ask them!) Give us both meaning and physical details, and don’t forget to let yourself be surprised. (This week’s topic inspired by my son Bear.)

How to be added to the “results” post next week:

1. Write whatever you like based on the theme suggested
2. Post the results on your blog
3. Email THE DIRECT LINK TO YOUR WAG POST (not just your blog) to India AT IndiaDrummond DOT com (or use the handy-dandy web form). This way I can link back to you in the next post! Please include the word WAG in your subject heading. Please include the title of the post (if any) and your name as you want it to appear on the listing. If you do not do this, I will use the name as it appears on your email.
4. To get more people involved, please use Twitter, FB status, myspace, your blog, etc to tell your writer friends about the group and talk about your own writing adventure! All are welcome to join, so spread the word!

WAG #18: Invisible Object

The writing group is back so here is my take on the first new topic...

Where I often work looks out onto the back garden. I tend to take it for granted yet it is spectacular. The shrubs offer such an array of colours. The blazing red of the azalea the delicate pink of the cherry blossom and the bold yellows of the dandelions fighting for their space all serve as inspiration. I often state out onto the lawn watching a bird or a squirrel foraging, sometimes watching the children playing, undoing all the hard work that has been done in just a few minutes.

I have often sat and imagined fairies darting in and out of the branches of the conifers and pixies darting in and out of the flower bed, magical creatures grazing on the lawn, just out of sight, indeed the garden could easily be my magical setting for fairy stories and yet I don’t even notice it, I change it and twist it so the rainbow that is seldom there becomes a permanent fixture.

Now as I look I can appreciate the space, the ever changing nature of the garden as flowers bloom and droop, leaves grow and fall, children play and adults tidy. A place of inspiration and beauty that is constant in terms of being there but constantly in flux. The garden would be missed if it wasn’t here, the space, the colours and the ability to spend time in the open, fresh air and yet not notice, taken for granted and yet beloved, another part of our family. We tend it, seed it and enjoy it but how much do we see it?