The Job you Can’t Quit: 2013 365 Challenge #311

Clean house, clean head?

I’ve had two major jobs in my life and I quit both of those as a result of stress. The first time the job was my first after graduating from university (aside from bar jobs and the like). I stayed for nearly two years until I had a nervous breakdown.

I’m the kind of person that likes to do everything to the best of my ability and I ended up working twelve hours a day, six days a week, without getting anywhere near on top of my work load. The more I did, the more they gave me. I was also working as a Guide leader and doing their accounts as well as some other stuff and in the end I imploded.

The company nurse (almost as her last act before they sacked her) signed me off sick with stress and the doctor diagnosed me for the first time with depression. So I quit, worked out around four months’ notice and went travelling.

The second job I quit was the last proper paid job I had. I had worked there for just shy of five years and it was feast or famine. I either had no work to do, because I didn’t fit into any department and they didn’t know what to do with me, or I was doing the work of three. I was ineffective and unstructured and pretty rubbish at my job towards the end, but they still rehired me as a contractor after I quit, because no one else knew how to do my job and they thought I was the bee’s knees.

Kitchen always the last to do

There’s a pattern to my life: I like to get praise. I like to feel like I’m good at what I do. I like to feel valued. If there’s work to do, I will do it to the best of my ability. I hate missing deadlines, I hate letting people down, I hate saying no. I hate conflict or being told off or not making the grade. I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t realise I was working hard rather than smart, and making myself sick in the meantime.

Free from the work place I was a new person. I enjoyed life. I painted and wrote and mostly managed my own time. I had low periods of loneliness away from the work place, and feelings of low self worth because I wasn’t earning anything. But I wasn’t depressed.

Then I became a parent. Oh shit. If ever there was a job where the work was never done, the hours were lousy and the thanks rarely forthcoming it’s being a mum. And I mostly feel that I suck at it. On a good day I’m about average. I can just about praise the kids more than I yell at them, I can feed them more healthy food than rubbish, and I can put the laptop down long enough to read a story. That’s on a good day. On a bad day, like today, when I have PMT, I’ve had a cold for a fortnight, and the house looks like some scavenging bears used it for their party cave, I’m not a good parent.

I try. I try to keep my cool. But there’s a raging beast in me that escapes over trivial things. This morning it was the forty minutes it took to get the kids dressed, the fights with both of them that summer clothing is no longer appropriate, the lack of clean and ironed clothes because I haven’t stayed on top of it over the last two weeks, the twenty minutes of not-eating-breakfast-but-blowing-bubbles-in-our-milk-instead, and – the final straw – the taking everything out of my school bag instead of putting my shoes on, even though we’re all late for school.

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

I yelled. I screamed. I was angry. Then I calmed down and I hugged and I talked about the monster mummy that escapes. And my kids told me they loved me and it was mostly okay.

Only then we were really late, and I kept up a running commentary in the car about how late we were and how much trouble we’d get in if my daughter missed the school bell, and how we were now snarled up in the school-run traffic. Even when my kids tried to laugh me out of it, I told them it wasn’t funny. I was more mummy monster then than when I was yelling.

I left my son at nursery sobbing hysterically. He was still crying when I rang back fifteen minutes later to see how he was. I left my daughter clinging to the classroom assistant. I went home and sobbed. It took twenty minutes and some nice emails from hubby to get me out the car. Then I sobbed for at least an hour, when I was meant to be writing my post. My head aches. So I wrote some random Claire installment and I’ve spent the last two hours cleaning, trying to get some control back. But the dark monster still lurks.

I want to quit this job, where someone dirties my house as soon as my back is turned, and puts every item of clothing in the wash as soon as it’s ironed, and empties the fridge quicker than I can get to the supermarket, and takes away my smile and my love of life and leaves me yelling and crying. I want to quit. But I can’t. There’s no where to go. So, still crying, I will write my post, iron some more clothes, finish the vacuum cleaning, walk the dog in the rain, run to the supermarket and pick the kids up from school. I will give them a huge hug and tell them Mummy is sorry, even though they’ve heard it before. And, like I say to them sometimes, they’ll probably think, “Sorry isn’t good enough, Mummy. You have to not do the bad thing in the first place.”

Easier said than done.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Hello, Mrs Jenkins, it’s Claire.”

“Hello, Claire, how are you? Still travelling round the West Country? Kim reads your blog, although she says it’s been a while since you’ve updated it. I hope everything’s okay.”

As Claire listened to Mrs Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting she wondered how many other people had noticed her absence of posts and thought briefly how nice it would have been if someone had bothered to check she was okay.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m staying at the Tintagel hostel tonight; just spent the day at the castle, so hopefully I’ll be able to write about that. I’ve been busy with work is all.” She hesitated, wondering if the lie sounded as obvious to her friend’s mum as it did to her.

“And how’s Kim?”

Mrs Jenkins sighed and the sound twisted Claire’s stomach with fear and guilt.

“Much the same, I’m afraid, still sunk in her melancholy. I understand, I really do. I’m as devastated that there won’t be any grandkids for me to spoil – I can’t see her sister ever settling down. But it doesn’t do to dwell. I’d tell her to get back to work, but she doesn’t have what you’d call a regular job.”

Her voice trailed off, and Claire felt her disappointment. As a parent you wanted your children to be happy and hopefully settled nearby. Kim’s mother must wonder what went wrong.

“Can I talk to her?”

“Of course, Claire. Sorry, here I am wittering on and you didn’t call to talk to me. Maybe you can snap her out of her misery.”

I doubt it, Claire thought privately, but merely said, “I’ll try.”

She waited while Mrs Jenkins went to find her daughter, and tried to decide how much she would tell Kim about recent events.

“Hello?” Kim’s voice, when it came on the line, contained none of its usual vivacity. Claire stifled a groan and, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, greeted her oldest friend.

“Kim, hi, how are you? Is your mum taking good care of you? I hope you’ve been out enjoying the sunshine.” She winced at her tone, and waited for Kim to complain she wasn’t a five-year-old. Instead her friend snorted with derision.

“Mum’s driving me mad, Jeff hasn’t been down once and the theatre company refuses to give me another role until I’m better, whatever that means.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you could do something else for a while. Work in a coffee shop, you know, just to get you out the house.” She injected a laugh she didn’t feel and added, “Isn’t that what unemployed actresses do?”

“This isn’t Hollywood. No big tips here. I didn’t go through drama school to earn the minimum wage making lattes for yummy mummies.”

Claire swallowed a genuine laugh. “You should start a blog, you’ve definitely got a way with words.” She regretted it instantly – the last thing Kim needed was someone making fun of her. But all her friend said was, “What, so I can just stop writing it one day, like you have?”

Claire took a deep breath. “It’s only been a week or so. I have been rather busy.” Running round after you for a start, she added silently. Sheesh, no wonder Jeff hasn’t been round. Then she reminded herself of everything Kim had been through and admonished herself.

“Conor tried to snog me,” she blurted out, to fill the uncomfortable silence. She waited, wondering if that would be shocking enough to rouse Kim from her darkness.

“Your boss? Why?”

Claire reeled. Of all the responses, she hadn’t expected that. It was a good question, one she hadn’t really thought of before.

“He was drunk, I guess.” That sounded lame. “He said he’d been wanting to do it since we met.”

“Did you snog him back? You might get a promotion. Isn’t that how it works in your world?”

The bitter, cynical words cut Claire. Then she remembered gossiping with her friend about a promotion in the office that could only have made sense if those involved were sleeping together. Even so, it was a hard accusation to throw at her best friend.

“I can’t believe you’d think me capable of that.”

“Oh, keep your hair on. You said he was cute, so what’s the harm?”

“He’s my boss! Besides, I don’t think of him like that.”

“Liar. You described him down to the green eyes and sexy bum. You don’t notice details like that unless you want to bed someone.”

Trust Kim to remember that when she’s heard nothing else. Claire wanted to defend herself, but the new edge to her friend left her unsure and vulnerable.

“Whether I like him or not is irrelevant; shagging the boss can only lead to trouble.” She tried to think of a way to change the subject, but couldn’t think of a safe topic.

“Look, my battery’s about to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay? I’m going to write a blog post. You should think seriously about starting one, you might find it helps.”

“Right,” was the only response Claire heard before she hung up the phone.

***

Autumn Sun: 2013 365 Challenge #310

Sunlit walk

Back in the summer I did a freewrite on the season and had a vague idea of compiling a seasons thesaurus. Add it to the list of projects. Still, it doesn’t hurt to take some notice as the weather changes. Here are my thoughts on a sunny autumn day.

The wind chills my cheeks as I walk, but it’s refreshing after weeks spent indoors watching the rain. I feel like I’ve been breathing the same air for too long and my skin feels clogged.

The sun paints long shadows across the fields, as it drops to the horizon despite it only being mid-afternoon. Beneath my feet, soggy leaves lay scattered in a random pattern of yellow and brown. Those on the trees look tattered. Hanging on against the odds.

When the wind drops the sun brings warm memories of summer and hope for a swift return although autumn is only just here. Across the endless azure sky tufts of cloud are hurried like so many sheep before the biting wind. The wind whistles in my ears like the sound of rushing blood or an angry sea. It drags tears from my eyes and makes my nose run.

Autumn sun

My shadow marches at my side, long and dark against the bare hedges. Muddy puddles make a playground for the dog and tractor wheels have dug deep furrows in the road.

The fields dance with short stems of green as a winter crop pokes optimistically about the earth. Seagulls searching for wormy treats swoop and dive over the green landlocked sea of soil.

As I walk beneath the trees the wind stops and I hear the bird song, adding welcome decoration to the endless green, blue and brown. The sun sparks a fire in my heart – so precious after weeks of rain and grey skies. I walk slowly to savour the warmth on my skin, feeling too hot and bundled in my thick coat.

Despite the cold cheeks and wind-battered face I am reluctant to return home. The house feels like a dark cave, gloomy and dead, with stale air and artificial light. Somewhere to hibernate like a hedgehog.

The dog brings me a muddy stick, and throws it playfully at my feet. She runs with glee through the mud as it squishes between her claws. My house won’t be clean again until spring

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Claire gripped the rail with two hands as the spray from the sea glistened on the wood and made it slippery beneath her fingers. Her thighs burned from climbing the steep steps, but she refused to stop for a breather. If she looked around she might notice the steep drop down to the rocks below, visible beneath the white froth of the crashing waves.

Trust me to come on a windy day. I should have waited until it was calmer.

The manager at the hostel had said a visit to Tintagel castle would be all the more impressive against the backdrop of the rough sea. She’d failed to mention the perilous climb or the narrow stairway.

Claire pulled into the side to make way for an elderly couple, holding hands and giggling as they skipped down the steps like teenagers. Claire wondered what they found so funny.

At last she reached the castle, perched on the cliff top overlooking the sea.

How on earth did they build this, all the way up here? In the dark ages, with no equipment? Crazy.

With the wind threatening to drag her from the cliffs, Claire wandered around the ruined castle, trying to imagine what it must have been like when it was complete. The views stretched for miles, even on a blustery day, with the scudding clouds chasing each other across the sky.

Turning to see how far she had come, Claire held her breath at the sight of the castle walls, looking like piles of balanced stones or sand castles, climbing the steep rock face, with the tiny archway leading through to the endless steps back to the mainland. Overhead, seagulls screamed their defiance to the wind, swooping and diving in an endless dance.

With effort, Claire blocked out the sounds of the tourists, the giggling children, the frantic mothers, the bored teenagers up to mischief. She focussed on the cry of the birds and the howl of the wind and felt herself transported to another time.

Who knew all this beauty was here? So much history crammed into one place and I would never have come if it weren’t for this project.

For a moment all the fear and doubt seemed worthwhile. It seemed a shame to come back to the present and take notes for her report.

I have to remember I’m being paid to be here, I’m not on holiday.

With a sigh that was instantly whipped away from her mouth by the playful wind, Claire began her exploration of the site, taking notes of all the things people seemed to enjoy.

I wonder if the castle in Dorset is this impressive. What’s it called? Cough castle or something like that. I’d better look it up.

It was getting dark by the time Claire finished her tour of the island. She’d covered every element – from the gun house to Merlin’s Cave – and her legs throbbed while her mind swirled with the history and mythical stories she’d consumed.

Looking up at the castle from the café, it wasn’t hard to imagine Arthur and Guinevere standing in an open window holding hands, or cosying down on a rug in front of a roaring fire, while Lancelot stormed across the cliff tops in a jealous rage.

Blimey this place does bring out the romantic. What tosh.

She smiled at the thoughts, ignoring the prosaic part of her mind that told her it was all just legend anyway.

What difference does it make? Real historical figures are only as real as the representations of them, passed down through the centuries. Arthur and his missus are as real as any European king. Probably more so, seeing as we know more about him.

Trying to drag her mind back to her work, she wondered if there were any legendary characters lurking around Conor’s stomping ground that could be used to good effect in her report. It wouldn’t hurt to look like she’d done her homework.

Claire cupped her hands around her mug of coffee and let her mind drift, until the images of Arthur ravishing his queen morphed into Conor’s boyish face; his hair windswept and his green eyes full of love. With a quick shake of her head she dispelled the image.

He wouldn’t spend five minutes in a remote place like this. Not enough people.

She drained the last of her drink and headed back to the car.

***

Kastel Dintagel a trip to #Cornwall (joeosullivan.wordpress.com)
If Money Were No Object (thewritersideoflife.wordpress.com)

Peaceful Plateau: 2013 365 Challenge #309

Not quite a mountain

In response to a comment on the blog a few days ago, I wrote about the contentment of sitting on a mountain top and letting yourself just ‘be’, because the journey to get there was enough.

At the end of a difficult climb, when you’ve challenged your fears and pushed your body, it’s enough to stand, hands on hips, sun on face, and take in the view. It’s a time to congratulate yourself on effort and determination, to say, “I did that and I’m proud and this is my reward”. A moment of tranquility.

As I survived my art presentation this morning and drove home in the sunshine I had a similar feeling. I treated myself to some stilton and cranberry bread, I read my book, I dozed on the sofa, (that bit was a mistake – I woke with my vision blurred in one eye that took an hour to shift. I don’t do daytime naps even after a night of no sleep).

I’m now walking the dog, breathing in the invigorating air and watching a kestrel fly by. I’m not flooded with quite the same euphoria I used to get climbing mountains, before parenthood and dodgy knees put paid to the activity. It’s hard to see how far you’ve come when the ground is flat and rocky.

But I know I survived a long week and I’m taking a moment to breathe in and say the journey was enough. Only a moment, mind, because there’s a post to be written, stew to prep and shirts to iron, before collecting the children from school: The climb back down the mountain is always harder work than the climb up!

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Claire’s mind whirled as she drove west. Conor’s message tugged at her thoughts like a puppy on a leash. She felt as if she’d received a bad report from her favourite teacher. Maybe not even a bad one, just a “Could do better”.

Determined to make sure it didn’t happen again, she spent the miles behind the wheel searching for some way to impress. She tried to think what Conor’s idea of tourism might be. It was clear that skulking around Dartmoor National Park hadn’t found favour.

What did you do in the West Country if you didn’t like to be alone? Bands, theatre, the Eden project, they all needed exploring. Claire wracked her brain for anything else she knew about the area. A book she’d picked up in a hostel came to mind. She remembered it because it was by that famous gardener her mother loved so much.

It was a novel about a lighthouse keeper, but one of the characters was a woman who loved painting in Cornwall, and moved there to set up an art gallery. She had talked about the special quality of the light. That sounded promising.

Of course I know as much about painting as I do pub bands. Namely bugger all. That artsy stuff is more Kim’s domain. Which reminds me, I must give her a call.

Claire told her phone to remind her to call her friend and investigate art courses, then went back to cudgelling her brain for inspiration.

What about writers’ retreats? Bound to be some of them; that could be fun. I might even learn something useful for the blog. Give it a touch of class.

Her thoughts drifted on to how much she’d neglected it since selling her iPad and she made another note to give it some attention.

If things don’t work out with Conor – as a boss that is – I might have to go crawling back to Carl. What a joyous prospect that is. Best to at least have something to offer.

Claire gave a sigh of relief as the SatNav directed her into town, along a narrow lane crowded with hills. The route to the hostel bypassed the town centre, coming in directly towards the shore where the hostel was located. She drove in past low slate-roofed buildings adorned with spectacular hanging baskets; the splashes of red and yellow lying vibrant against the grey stone.

As she approached her destination she began to see more people outside the window. It didn’t feel like a tourist destination, despite the large car park and throngs of visitors milling around. Claire turned her eyes towards the buildings, which grew in stature as she drove. The stone that had appeared merely grey now revealed a myriad of colours where the sun lit the surface. Browns and yellows mixed in with silver and gold.

As the road ran out, Claire remembered that she was meant to park in the large car pack she’d just passed. Suppressing a sigh, she turned the car and headed back, wincing as she saw the parking fees. With effort she pushed aside her irritation and pulled her bag from the boot.

Claire followed the path back down towards the harbour and her smile grew as she got nearer to the low stone buildings lurking at the water’s edge.

Around her rocky hills – partially covered in patches of luminous green grass and red gorse – climbed away from the water as if afraid to get their feet wet. White-washed buildings threw back the bright sunlight, dazzling her momentarily. She blinked away the spots in her vision and looked around. With a lungful of the salty air she felt her shoulders go back and her chin lift.

To her left a bridge crossed the small inlet that ran alongside the path, and up ahead she could see a slip sloping down into the water. The tide was out, showing the rocky bed, but she could imagine fishing boats being pushed into the water at high tide.

Then she caught her first glimpse of the hostel. The front shone white, interspersed with bright flowers, and people sat outside on metal chairs and tables. The roof looked as if a huge and heavy bottom had rested there once, leaving two deep dips in the slate. Claire pictured a giant taking a rest awhile, and grinned. As she got closer she realised the building was a café, tagged on the front of the hostel.

Handy for coffee in the morning.

Claire took some photos, determined to write a blog post that evening, and went round to check in.

I hate to admit Conor was right, but I’m glad he prompted me to get a wriggle on into Cornwall. I think I’m going to like this place.

***

You Can Paint Abstracts: 2013 365 Challenge #307

The rough draft of my book

Following on from yesterday’s post about me having to give a talk on my art and paintings on Monday, I was digging around on my computer for things to use, and I came across a book I started writing a few years ago.

I’m always starting projects and then abandoning them. This one I abandoned because I couldn’t imagine ever convincing anyone to publish it. Now, with self publishing, I could probably resurrect it but I doubt it would be profitable, and I’m not short of things that need finishing!

The book is called Affordable Abstract Art Made Easy and I wrote it as a ‘teach yourself’ type book, for people who wanted bright artwork on their walls but didn’t want to pay gallery prices for it. Actually, you can buy some very beautiful pieces of original artwork off ebay for not much money, so the whole premise was flawed from the get-go.

More pages from my pretentious project!

This is the contents list:

Why do you want to paint – an introduction
What do you want to paint – considering the space
All about colour
Materials, what to buy and where to get them
Setting up your Studio
Don’t fear the blank canvas
Texture, to build or not to build
Taking it further – the perfect gift
Selling your work

What struck me was how similar it was to a Creative Writing craft book, and that led me on to consider how much I approach painting the same way I do writing. The first lines of my artist’s statement could equally apply to my writing:

“I paint because it makes me feel alive. I love creating something from nothing; starting with a blank canvas and building it up layer by layer without knowing what the final result will be.”

An almost blank canvas

As a pantser I approach writing in exactly the same way. I start with a blank page and a few colours (characters / plot points / themes) and that’s it. I don’t sketch, I don’t plan, I just switch off my conscious brain and create.

I grew disillusioned with painting when I began to try too hard. I started finishing off the edges, working to make it perfect, not knowing when to stop. In writing terms I over-edited and my paintings lost their vibrancy. They grew bland and samey.

And the finished piece

I’m all for reading books on writing craft – they’re really important if you want to become a better writer – and of course editing is essential. But I do think you can overdo it and edit out the very thing that makes your writing special.

I read a quote on Twitter recently by author Janie Storer that said: “If ever asked what style I write in, I shall simply reply ‘mine’.” Wise words.

Maybe that’s what I’ll say in my talk on Monday. The beauty of art and writing is that it is all about expression and never more so than when engaging in fiction or abstract paintings. No one can tell you if you’re doing it right except you. There will be lovers and haters, fans and detractors (and people who say “my two year old could do better.” That’s another post entirely!) As long as you’re having fun and giving your all that’s enough.

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Claire followed the SatNav’s directions through the town and out over the main road. A quick glance at the screen showed that the hostel was only a few hundred metres ahead.

I’m not sure about being so close to the A30: the noise is going to be horrendous. Maybe I should have stayed at the other one.

The reviews had suggested the town hostel was cleaner and had more facilities. It was the remoteness of the Tor hostel that attracted her. Although she wasn’t going to admit it, hiding out in secluded locations suited her frame of mind.

Not that Conor would approve. I’m meant to be researching tourism, not lurking in the wilderness by myself.

Claire gripped the steering wheel and pointed her car up the narrow lane, crawling along in a low gear ready to stop if another vehicle appeared.

How does anyone get anywhere around here? I can’t see more than a few metres in any direction, the hedges are like walls and there’s barely room for one car. And don’t talk to me about sign posts. Thank god for the SatNav.

Not for the first time Claire realised how much easier travel was with all the gadgets and gizmos. She couldn’t imagine trying to find her way around with just a road atlas. Never mind getting anything done without free WiFi and a permanent phone signal.

Although I haven’t had much of a signal for the last few days.

She grinned. One of the attractions of Dartmoor had been the poor reception. No need to worry that Conor might call and make a fuss. She only picked up messages when she climbed up the Tor.

I could grow to like this place.

The thought made her twist her lips in a wry smile. Three months ago, being out of phone signal for more than half an hour would have left her hyperventilating.

And when did I last have a Starbucks? Oh god, I’m going savage.

The hostel, when she arrived, looked like someone’s house; a sprawling brick building with large white chimneys, surrounded by trees. It had a homely feel, despite the looming woods encircling the place. As she got out of the car, she could hear the noise from the road below. It was steady, though, like a river or the wind in the trees, and she soon blocked it out.

The hostel appeared deserted. Leaving her bag in the car, Claire bypassed the house and went to explore the grounds. Behind the hostel the gardens stretched down the hillside. The sun beat down on her head as she rambled through the undergrowth.

After a while, aware of her grumbling tummy, Claire headed back to the building. It still felt completely empty. With a frown, she went to the main door. It was locked.

Damn. Don’t tell me it’s one that isn’t open all year round. I knew I should have rung ahead.

“Are you booked in?”

Claire span round at the sound of the low voice. A middle-aged man walked across the car park towards her, pushing a wheel barrow.

“No. I was hoping it wouldn’t be too busy, as it isn’t the school holidays yet.”

“Maybe not, but the reception is down at the other place. In town. You’ll need to go down there to fetch your keys.”

Then, without waiting for a response, the man vanished round the side of the house.

Resisting the urge to swear, Claire headed back to her car and prepared to drive back down towards town.

“Next time, I’ll call.”

***

Artistic Me? 2013 365 Challenge #306

One of my favourite pieces

Just when I thought I only had to struggle through a few more days until I can stop and be ill, when the children go back to school on Monday, I checked my calendar and discovered that I’m meant to be giving a talk on Monday to a local art group. Arrgghh. I vaguely remember the woman ringing me up weeks and weeks ago, and I agreed without really thinking how exhausted I would be after half term (even without the killer cold!)

Not that I don’t want to do it: I love talking about my paintings and hopefully inspiring others to try painting acrylic abstracts. They are wonderfully liberating; a great way to pour emotion onto canvas and create something beautiful. It’s just I don’t know how to do an hour-long talk on the subject. Particularly as I haven’t painted anything for two years. Two years! I couldn’t believe it when I realised that’s how long it has been since my solo exhibition.

I thought I would start with digging out my Artist’s Statement, that I produced to go with my artwork at the local gallery Art in the Heart. I was mortified to discover several typos in said document. Me! A writer! I even put ‘site’ instead of ‘sight’ in one sentence.

Crawls under rock in shame.

My excuse is I seem to remember I was mad-busy when I put it all together, to the point where I broke down sobbing in the shop where I went to have it all printed because it didn’t print properly. Ah, the wonders of sleep-deprived stress.

Anyway, this is my artist’s statement (hopefully now without typos). Do you think it makes a good enough place to start a discussion on me and my paintings? What else would you want to know?

Purple Ghost

I paint because it makes me feel alive. I love creating something from nothing; starting with a blank canvas and building it up layer by layer without knowing what the final result will be.

My paintings grow the more you look at them. What seem at first only blocks of colour become intricate landscapes and strange dancing figures. I believe art is a collaboration between the artist and the viewer and my paintings are created anew each time they are viewed. If someone sees something within one of my pieces – a face, an animal, a landscape – then that will always be there. The painting is recreated and will always be personal to them.

I was originally inspired to begin painting abstracts by a fellow artist and it has now become my main passion. I work in acrylic because I love the vibrancy of the colour, combined with the speed with which it dries. This allows layers of texture and colour to be built up using different brush strokes. This texture means the paintings change with changing light through-out the day.

Tranquility

I am inspired by the colours of everyday items: a glass of wine or the vibrant orange of autumn leaves. Although I don’t seek to reproduce on canvas the things that inspire me, I search for the same sense of joy the items bring: The sight of a sun-drenched landscape fills me with elation and I feel the same emotion when I am painting my abstracts.

My favourite colours are Rose Madder and Pthalo Blue. They are both strong colours that can be made soft and magical when mixed with white. The Pthlalo colours (blue and green) create beautiful sea colours that I find very restful. Rose Madder is wild, like blood or poppies. I work mostly in primary colours, with a restricted palette of two or three colours per piece. I prefer to mix colours directly on canvas and it never ceases to amaze me how many colours can come from mixing magenta, yellow and Pthalo blue.

I thought I would start with something like this, and then maybe talk through some of the individual pieces. I don’t think they want a demonstration, which is a shame, as that kills loads of time! 🙂 Ah well. Wish me luck. (Oh and I must send an updated personal statement to the gallery. Mortified!)

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Claire looked around the hostel lounge, gave a deep sigh and smiled. Although the room was crowded it wasn’t noisy. In the corner a family played cards; their muted voices punctuated occasionally by a cry of “Uno!” One or two people curled up in the deep red armchairs, their faces intent as they absorbed themselves in the books cradled in their laps. Claire wondered what worlds they inhabited, far away from the prosaic room.

Her contentment surprised her. The whitewashed stone walls, utilitarian carpet and faded furniture were not exactly the height of luxury. It was no different in the kitchen, with the formica-topped school-like tables and plastic chairs, or in the bare bunkrooms.

If I’d come here a few months ago I would have stayed one night and run away to a refurbished city hostel with relief.

The beauty of the place was not inside the cool stone walls, but outside, where the sun shone endlessly on an expanse of never-ending verdant nature. Somehow the mundane accommodation complemented the experience, allowing a visitor’s attention to focus on what was important.

Stretching her legs out in front of her, Claire shifted the laptop to a more comfortable position and continued typing. She’d been trying to capture her thoughts on the subject all evening, but her mind frolicked away from it like the Dartmoor ponies who visited the building from time to time.

She tabbed away from her open document to reread the reports she’d discovered on the company laptop. It had helped direct her writing, but she still wasn’t entirely sure she knew what she was doing. Something had to be written, though: she’d been in the Dartmoor hostel for nearly a week and knew that Conor would be expecting an update.

Conor.

Just thinking his name gave her goosebumps. They hadn’t spoken since their last meeting; communicating instead via email and text message. Claire had refused to even charge her phone for the first twenty-four hours, convinced she would discover impassioned messages from him after her sudden departure. There had been nothing for a day or two, and then only a polite enquiry as to whether the laptop worked and contained everything she needed.

Even so, Claire had left Salcombe hostel at dawn, following their evening together, and had driven in blind panic to the most remote accommodation she could discover; her only intention to find somewhere to lick her wounds and consider her options.

Who knew I would end up somewhere so beautiful. And restful.

The dark grey hostel at Dartmoor sat contented amid the National Park, with all sorts of outdoor activities on the doorstep. Claire had spent the last few days pushing herself to exhaustion; hiking to the top of Bellever Tor, exploring the forest and petting the Dartmoor ponies. She’d climbed the boulders at Dewerstone and cycled the Plym Valley.

Each night she’d collapsed into her bunk with weary muscles and a full head. Despite the endless blue skies, fresh air and amazing scenery, her brain still roiled with unruly thoughts.

Try as she might, she couldn’t decide how she felt about her boss’s advances. Unlike the grazes from her fall on the South West Coastal Path, her memories of that night refused to fade and heal. Her sense of outrage at his betrayal of trust warred with a lingering feeling of loss at his curt business-like manner ever since.

With another sigh, Claire brought her attention back to the screen in front of her.

Only eleven more weeks and I can hand in my report, collect my pay cheque, and get the hell away from here.

Back in the beginning, when she’d taken her first step on the journey away from her former life, she and Kim had jokingly come up with the name Two-Hundred Steps Home for her blog. It was looking like home was a lot further away than that.

***

A Rather British Halloween: 2013 365 Challenge #305

Pumpkins 1& 2

So today is Halloween. It’s not a big holiday in the UK like it is in the States. It’s becoming more celebrated every year, slowly taking over from the one I remember most growing up; Bonfire Night on 5th November (which commemorates the anniversary of the date a man called Guy Fawkes tried to blow up Parliament).

We don’t really do Halloween in our house yet, though I’m sure we will as the children grow older. Hubbie and I say things like, “We weren’t allowed to go trick or treating when we were kids” and other such stuff which excuses our lack of enthusiasm.

We always carve pumpkins, because there’s something satisfying about hacking away at a giant orange vegetable and being creative with it. Same goes for all the fab Halloween craft that the local attractions lay on because it’s also half term. The children have made witches’ hats, spooky spiders, ghosts and masks and I didn’t have to do anything more than aim the glue.

Today’s efforts

I did buy a bag of chocolate so that we would be ready for any trick or treaters who might come to our door. Only then I ate most of it, so we decided not to put the pumpkins out: the secret signal by which children know it’s safe to knock (so very British).

This evening, though, while I walked the dog round the block after hubbie got home from work, I felt rather sad that I had been so rubbish as to eat all our offerings. There were several families out in fancy dress, on a chilly night in an almost pitch black village (where they’ve switched off most of the street lighting to save money).

I could see it was almost a game, to spot the houses with pumpkins lit outside. “Friend or foe?” I heard one husband say to his wife, as they stumbled past in the dark towards the faint glow of pumpkins up a driveway.

Our inviting window display

In total I counted about eight houses in our village displaying pumpkins. Poor reward for anyone brave enough to venture out with their little ones in the dark.

So, when I got back, we lit the pumpkins and put them in the front window, and raided the cupboards for sufficient treats to offer. Unfortunately by then most children had gone home for their tea. We did get one brave soul come to the door and retreat with a bag of cookies. I’ve since made inroads into the hanging tub of treats. Oops.

So, on this very British Halloween, we have a plastic pumpkin tub full of chocolate lurking at the bottom of the stairs and the faint odour of burning pumpkin in our lounge. Happy Halloween to you all.

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Claire came back to awareness like someone rising from the bottom of the ocean. Slowly she became conscious of the car door pressing into her back and Conor’s hip crushing her against the metal. She felt his hands tangled in her hair and the light stubble on his chin grazing her skin. The tingling in her lips seemed to be hardwired to every nerve in her body and she knew it was entirely possible that she would crumple to the floor if her boss was not holding her up.

With effort she pulled away from the kiss and ducked under Conor’s arms, cursing as the movement tugged at her hair. Ignoring the pulsing sensation making demands she had no intention of honouring, she fumbled to get her key in the lock. Before Conor could move or speak, she was in her seat and pulling the door closed behind her. Her only thought was to escape.

It took three attempts to get the key in the ignition and find a gear. Out the corner of her eye she could feel Conor watching her through the window. She let her hair fall in a curtain, obscuring her view, and revved the engine. Without checking to see if he had moved away, she reversed out the parking space and onto the street, forcing herself not to look in the rear view mirror as she left.

Her hands shook as she switched on the Sat Nav, trying to keep her scattered thoughts on the road ahead. The screen shone brightly in the dark before settling into night mode, and Claire blinked away the dazzling spots dancing in her sight. Soon her destination was programmed in and she was able to concentrate on getting there in one piece.

Driving in the dark left too much time to think. All the stunning scenery lay hidden behind the veil of night and Claire’s eyes watered as she concentrated on the yellow beams leading her to her bed. She had no idea what time it was, and hoped the hostel would still be open when she got there.

She was half way back to Salcombe before her heart rate returned to normal. Her hands felt slippery on the wheel and she smoothed them down her trousers, fearing she might lose her grip on the tight switchbacks up to the hostel.

What was he thinking?

The words echoed continuously through her mind. What is it with blokes and their inappropriate behaviour?

As the tingling subsided the fury began to take hold. Like history repeating, she remembered Josh’s advances only weeks before. All her irritation at him for betraying his wife and putting her in an impossible situation amplified her anger at Conor for breaching the boss-employee trust.

Other sensations wove through her thoughts. She could still feel the pressure of his kiss on her lips, the feeling of his hands wrapped in her hair. The look on his face as he’d made his move – the wide-eyed vulnerability – fixed in her mind like a poster tacked up on the wall of her skull.

Don’t fall for it, woman. You knew the first time you met him he was a charmer. The fact that he made a move on his employee makes him a sleaze. Either resign or pretend it never happened; there is no other outcome.

She knew it made sense; she knew the moral high ground was the only path to follow. So why did it leave a cavernous hole in her heart?

***

Britain Embraces Halloween and Cashes In on Ghoulish Celebration (nytimes.com)
Shitty British Halloween (penegrinshaw.wordpress.com)
happy halloween! (arayofsunblog.com)
Halloween (mjkindergartena19.wordpress.com)

October’s Cover Reveal: 2013 365 Challenge #304

October’s Cover Reveal

I struggled to choose a cover image for this month’s volume of Two-Hundred Steps Home. It’s indicative of the month I think, as the October installments have been written more in survival than planning mode.

For other months there has been a theme – September’s was depression, August was about freedom and escape. Or there has been a clear identity of place – Dorset, the Peak District and so on.

In the end I chose this picture because it seems to represent Claire’s realisation that she’s content in her own company. In contrast to those around her who need their support network – Ruth with Sky and now the church, Kim with Jeff and her mother, Josh and Fiona, Michael’s desire for a family and children.

Claire used to see work as her support network when she lived in Manchester but now she has come to realise work no longer defines her. She wasn’t happy being a tourist sheep; she’d much rather hike up a mountain and have the birds for company.

It doesn’t bode well for her and Conor – with his self-confessed need to be surrounded by the “steaming heap of humanity”. Maybe theirs will be a flash-in-the-pan coming together, or maybe they’ll find a middle ground and carve out a happy ever after. I don’t know: they haven’t told me how it ends yet. He’s a rather charming chap, though, yes? I like him.

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“Should you be driving? It’s pretty late and the road up to the hostel isn’t for the fainthearted. You can always kip on my floor.” Conor turned to face Claire as they reached her car but she couldn’t read his expression in the dark.

“Are you calling me fainthearted?” She pursed her lips into a pout that would make Sky proud, ignoring the last part of his suggestion.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Claire raised her eyebrows at her boss, challenging his remark.

“Seriously.” He nodded emphatically. “You scare the bejesus out of me; you have since the day you walked into my interview like you owned the room and everything in it.”

“Now I know you’re winding me up. You and your bunch of suits sat there like the bloomin’ Inquisition. My knees shook so hard I thought I was going to crumple in a heap on the floor.”

“That would have been worth seeing.” Conor grinned and leaned back against Claire’s car. His shirt stood open at the neck and his hair looked dark beneath the hotel lights. Claire jingled her keys hoping he’d take the hint, but his pose suggested he had no intention of moving anytime soon.

“Do you regret taking the job?” he asked suddenly, making her jump. “I know you hated your old boss but this isn’t exactly your thing, is it? No glamorous board meetings or FTSE 100 clients here: just a bunch of boring old men in a sleepy backwater. I get the impression you’d rather not have come back from New Zealand.”

Claire wrapped her arms around herself and swallowed down irritation at her boss’s drunken loquaciousness. “I was more than ready to come home – even if I hadn’t run out of money. I’m not good at being a tourist sheep following the pack.”

Conor frowned at her words and she hurried on. “This is different: I see what you’re trying to achieve and I understand your passion.” She swept her arms wide to encompass the town and area. “This is a beautiful part of the world. I feel comfortable here.”

Inhaling the tangy salt air, Claire thought carefully before continuing. Conor might be drunk but that didn’t stop him being her boss.

“Yes, I can’t lie: part of me wanted to go back to having a regular job with a decent car and my own apartment. I miss having a bath! But this part of the assignment won’t last forever. I can settle down somewhere in a few weeks, when I’m done.” She imagined being stuck in the Dorset town Conor loved so much and shivered.

Conor pushed himself away from the car and came to a standstill in front of her. A heady wave of aftershave washed over her, making her legs tremble. He stood so close she had to stare up at him to avoid fixing her eyes on the top of his chest, peeping out from behind his shirt.

“I can’t wait,” he murmured, gazing intently into her face. His arms twitched forwards, then dropped loosely at his sides.

Claire contracted her brows in mute question and he added, “I can’t wait until you’re settled close by. I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

His voice crept in her ears and trickled beneath her skin, leaving behind a trail of heat. The only thing that existed on the whole planet was his body, inches away from hers. His eyes shone wide and vulnerable in the darkness, showing no trace of the brash ladies’ man.

In painful slow motion he lowered his face towards her and she could almost taste the heavy red wine on his breath.

“I’m drunk,” he said, as if in explanation, “but that’s only obscuring my good sense, not my feelings. I’ve wanted to do this since you swung your hips into my interview and blew my life apart.”

The air caught in Claire’s lungs and her ears felt muffled, as if a blanket had dropped over her. In the back of her brain a voice screamed, but the sound of Conor’s rapid, shallow, breathing drowned it out.

After a tantalising pause their lips met, and the world exploded.

***

You Are The Source: 2013 365 Challenge #303

Sunny morning

One of the amazing things about being a writer, whether you pen children’s books or dark, creepy horror stories, is that you are the best source of information for your stories.

Lying in bed this morning, it was easy to imagine that I had been abducted by aliens. My body, heavy and unresponsive, sank deep into the bed as if I had been drugged or – like Leah, in Dragons Wraiths – as if I had no body at all, but was merely a collection of thoughts held together by habit. My head felt muffled and a whole section of my brain, somewhere above my aching eye sockets, felt as if it had been removed or filled with thought-numbing drugs.

I could imagine a powerful wizard suppressing my magical ability, ensuring I was incapable of drawing my will together to fight. The thoughts themselves ran scattered through my head, as if they were in the wrong brain and were seeking a way out. I couldn’t pull them into any kind of order: even thinking about writing this post became a feat too far. My throat burned, as if I had been yelling for days for someone to rescue me, or screaming into the darkness for salvation.

Watching the sun rise

And what’s wrong with me? I have a cold. I’ve spent a couple of days fighting with the kids, my throat is inflamed from the virus and from shouting. I went for drinks with friends last night because I organised it and therefore couldn’t wimp out and go to bed. Even with only imbibing water and coffee I feel like I drank through the entire contents of the bar. A few extra hours of talking and not falling asleep on the sofa at 8 pm and I’m a wreck. My body, which hurts like I’ve run the Boston Marathon or fled from zombies, is actually only aching from fighting off a teeny tiny germ.

Right now I could imagine any fight or flight scenario and write the physical implications of it with a little bit of imagination. Well, I could, if there was any hope of gathering my thoughts into coherent sentences. Even this post is only half as effective as the one I dragged into being in my beleaguered brain half an hour ago. By the time I had escaped the warm cocoon of my bed and rolled my broken body out into the cold room to stagger down the stairs the thoughts had evaporated like mist. The slightly hallucinogenic feeling remains, as if someone else is controlling my body and staring out through my bleary eyes. If only I could capture all these feelings and save them for later! I guess that’s what writer’s notebooks (or daily blogs!) are for.

So, next time you’re struggling to bring realism to your stories, listen to your body. Especially your sick, hungover, stressed, exhausted body. It can give you all the details you could want and more. If only you can write them down!

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Claire pushed the chocolate cake around her plate with the fork. It looked delicious, but she couldn’t face eating it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat down to a three course meal and was surprised to find her ability to eat and eat had vanished.

“Not hungry?” Conor’s voice cut through her reverie. “I thought women had a separate stomach for dessert?”

Claire laughed. “Yes, normally. I guess I’m out of practice. There isn’t much call for fine dining when you travel by yourself.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Conor’s face became thoughtful. “I’ve never been anywhere by myself, unless for business, and then I usually eat with colleagues or clients.”

A memory trickled into the back of Claire’s mind. “Oh yes, didn’t you say you’d rather pull your teeth out than be alone?”

Conor’s eyebrows flew up into his sandy curls. “Impressive. I probably said it makes my teeth ache, but close enough. That’s why you’re so good, Miss Carleton, you’re as sharp as a tack.”

The look in Conor’s eye made Claire flush and she hid her reaction by taking a drink of her wine. The alcohol warmed her as it ran down into her body, and she had to remind herself she had a long and tricky drive back to the hostel. It wouldn’t do to be tipsy.

Conor maintained eye contact without speaking. Eventually Claire felt compelled to fill the silence. “So you’ve never been on holiday alone?”

Her boss shook his head. “No. I don’t really do holidays. Not since the family used to come to Dorset every year, when I was a kid. My job is one long holiday. I don’t really feel the need to sit on a beach to relax.”

“There are other kinds of holiday!” Claire thought about all the activities she’d done in the last few months. Then she recalled that, before beginning her assignment, beach holidays had been the only type of vacation for her, too. “What do you do when you’re not working?”

Conor took a long drink of wine, then wrapped his hands around the glass and looked contemplatively into the dark liquid. “There isn’t much time when I’m not working, to be honest. But I guess I like to go to bars and listen to the bands. Go to the cinema, that kind of thing. What did you do, in Manchester, before your boss banished you to the back of beyond?”

It was Claire’s turn to ponder. “Much the same as you.” She thought about her trips with Michael, and wondered if Conor ever dated. Back at the interview she had taken him for a ladies’ man, but the more time she spent with him, the more that didn’t wash.

“There’s no significant other, then?” she found herself saying, keeping her face on her plate and the patterns she had made with the ice cream.

“Oh, plenty of those, darling, don’t you worry.” His voice took on the brash Irish lilt she remembered from before and she looked up at him in surprise. A flash of bitterness crossed his face, to be replaced with the cheeky charmer expression that he’d worn after the interview, when she’d vowed never to be one of his conquests.

Not that I need have bothered. He’s not made any effort to conquer me, that’s for certain. She swirled the wine in her glass. And that’s a good thing, of course. With him being my boss and all.

She watched as Conor drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. His eyes had the sparkling glitter of someone heading towards half cut, and Claire became conscious of an urgent need to escape.

***

School Comms? 2013 365 Challenge #302

Maths Homework

I sat down with my daughter today to do her homework, as it’s half term. She was mostly happy to do it and we had fun. However, I have to say, I’ve been generally surprised at the poor communication between school and parent since my daughter started in September. I did my best but I didn’t really know what we were meant to do or how often: it was all rather vague. It also came as a shock as I wasn’t expecting anything to be set this early on in her school career (she’s not even five years old yet).

As far as school-parent communication goes, I’m the optimum parent: I drop my child off every morning and pick her up every afternoon. I browse the messages posted on classroom walls. I read the newsletters and emails and I trawl through daughter’s book bag every evening to fish out the paperwork. I read and write in the reading diary and I attended parents’ evenings and lunchtime reading meetings. And STILL I have no idea what’s going on half the time.

I don’t understand their merit system, even though I went to the celebration assembly. We have requests for things that need to be made for the Christmas fundraising fayre and I don’t understand what they’re asking for. I resort to asking the mums who have older children at the school and even they don’t have much of a clue.

I know it’s a tough job being a teacher, and I’m not criticising them at all: you couldn’t pay me enough to do their job. But the school has a duty to communicate with parents if they want to engage them and get their help. Our school has the infrastructure but the content is vague and confusing. it makes me want to volunteer to review their comms, except it would be a full time job and I have zero capacity. Having been fighting off a cold all day, just the thought leaves me shivering in horror! But it might be time to add my tuppence worth to the parent feedback forum! After all, communication goes both ways!

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“Alright, Claire, I’ll bite. What happened to your face?” Conor’s tone was a mixture of amused friend and disapproving parent.

Claire looked up from her starter and grimaced. “Damn. I hoped you wouldn’t notice.”

Conor laughed, his eyes lighting up like a sunlit sea. “You look like you rode downhill on your bike with no hands on the handle bars and hit a pothole. I did that once, and my face looked something like that.”

“That’s not so far from the truth.” Claire ducked her head and let her hair cover her face completely. “I slipped, on the coastal path. I thought I was going to fall off the cliff. Thankfully I managed to stop at the edge.” She shivered at the memory. “Unfortunately I left some of my skin behind.”

“It’s not just your face?”

Claire mutely shook her head, and waited for Conor to laugh some more. When he didn’t speak, she looked up again and was surprised at his expression. His face contracted in a tight frown, reminding her of Michael for a moment. She bristled in defence, but his eyes widened and he smiled.

“Well, I’m glad you didn’t fall off the cliff. I went to too much trouble hiring you to have to find a replacement.” The lightness of his tone belied the sympathy in his gaze.

Unsure what to make of it, Claire turned her attention back to her food. She was glad he hadn’t laughed, as Josh might have done, or told her off, which would have been Michael’s reaction. This mixture of business-like detachment and compassion wrong-footed her. Her hands shook slightly as she raised a forkful of salad to her mouth, and she lowered her arm quickly, hoping Conor hadn’t noticed.

“So, aside from trying to kill yourself at Salcombe, how has your trip been so far? How is the report coming along?”

Claire inhaled and took a shaky sip of her drink. “Good, thanks. I’m beginning to get a feel for it. I had a long chat with the hostel manager, and spent some time in Torquay. It would be useful if you had a template or set of guidelines for me to work to, just so I can make sure I’m delivering what you’re expecting.”

Conor nodded. “Of course. There are some standard templates and previous reports on the laptop. I realise we haven’t given you much to work with. I’m surprised you haven’t been more demanding, to be honest.”

With a deep flush, Claire realised she wasn’t living up to her role as a consultant. Conor obviously expected her to be more proactive, to request information and guidelines. She had been so wrapped up in her drama with Kim and getting a car, she hadn’t taken the job very seriously.

As if reading her mind, Conor cleared his throat. “How is Kim?”

“I haven’t spoken to her since leaving her at her mum’s. I’m been caught up in my research.”

“Good.” Conor seemed to realise that sounded harsh, as he laughed uncomfortably. “I meant good that you’ve cleared your head to get stuck into the project. I confess I was concerned that your mind wasn’t really on the subject. It is important, you know? Your contract extension depends on the quality of the report.”

His words made Claire’s stomach constrict. As she analysed his tone, though, she realised he wasn’t telling her off. It was almost as if he was urging her to do well, so he wouldn’t have to sack her.

All the spent adrenalin from her earlier fall and the race to get to the hotel, combined with the ideas roiling in her brain, left Claire feeling dizzy and disorientated.

Why do I always feel like there are two or three different conversations going on at the same time when I talk to Conor? His face says one thing, his voice another and his words something completely different.

With a gulp of wine, Claire suppressed a sigh and hoped she would learn to read her boss soon, before she went mad.

***

Pumpkin Carving: 2013 365 Challenge #301

Getting stuck into the pumpkin

Today was hubbie’s ‘day off” so, after taking an hour in the morning to write my post, I took the children to the Farm for some Hallowe’en half term fun.

Our local farm always has some great activities on during the school holidays. This time they had a room full of craft (great, considering a huge storm is about to hit the UK, so indoor activities are essential) as well as the spooky house tour and pumpkin carving.

We skipped the spooky house tour – I think I’d like an extra parent with me before attempting that with under fives – but the craft room was empty when we got there, so we had great fun making paper spiders and cobwebs, Hallowe’en masks and origami cats. We played spot the difference and did spooky word searches and Mummy had lots of fun doing colouring in! 🙂

After that we ventured outside into the sunshine and wind, to see the animals. The larger beasts all look a bit sorry for themselves, covered in mud and sheltering from the incoming winter. We were lucky though – apart from a wind strong enough to blow us away, the weather was lovely. It was so nice to be able to get outside for the first time in weeks.

Which face is more scary?

The kids made sand castles, fed goats and ducks, and stroked the horses. We went to see the baby quail chicks – oh my goodness but they’re tiny (I didn’t have a camera, unfortunately): they’re a week old and still only about half the size of a kiwi fruit (you have no idea how long it took to come up with a size comparison that made sense either side of the Atlantic!)

Then came the pumpkin carving. This is the first year either of the children has been able to actually do any of the carving, although I noticed the delightful job of scooping out sticky seeds still came to Mummy. My son wanted to recreate his own face on his pumpkin, while daughter went for a cat. I have to say, they did a pretty good job! (Shame about the photos, but you get the idea).

After a lunch of chips and ice cream (The clocks went back last night, so they’d already had a decent brunch, thankfully!) we had one more trip round the animals before heading off to the supermarket. An hour of shopping and all three of us were exhausted. Unfortunately, I still had bath time to tackle when I got home. Poor daughter is ripping up her neck itching after her unwelcome visitors, so we took some Twitter advice and washed their hair in tea tree shampoo, (to much chorusing of “it stinks!” Hopefully the crawlers think so too).

An hour of Daddy tiring time and then to bed. Unfortunately, somewhere along the line I appear to have picked up a cold, so tonight’s post is a bit lacking in glamour. As it’s half term tomorrow and I get no childcare for a week, all the posts might be a little under par. I’ll do my best! 🙂 I’m off for a dinner of pumpkin soup now (shop bought, I confess) as I don’t have the energy to cook anything else and hubbie doesn’t really do cooking!

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Claire had no idea what time it was as she swung the car into the hotel car park. Her twenty-year old banger didn’t have a dashboard clock and the black rectangle of her phone had as much life as a house brick.

I really ought to invest in a watch.

Smoothing down her trousers, Claire locked the car and headed into the hotel. As she walked, she let her heavy hair fall over her face. It wasn’t going to pass close scrutiny, but she could live without the curious stares of strangers as they tried to work out if she was injured or deformed.

The hotel lobby echoed with the clipping sound of her heels as she paced to the reception desk. When she spoke to the woman behind the counter she was surprised to hear a wobble in her voice.

“Hi, I’m meeting someone for dinner. I doubt he will have made reservations, is there somewhere I can wait?”

“Are you Miss Carleton?”

Claire’s face grew hotter, and she gave a minute nod.

“I’m so glad. Mr O’Keefe said he tried to call you, to inform you that he was running late, but was unable to contact you. Please wait in the lounge, and he’ll come and find you when he arrives.”

Damn, damn, damn.

Claire nodded her acquiescence at the receptionist and followed her directions to the lounge.

I can’t believe he tried to ring me when my phone was flat. Now he really is going to think I’m incompetent.

Claire ordered a latte and chose a seat in the dark shadows at the corner of the room. She wished she’d brought a book, and vowed to replace her much-missed tablet with her first pay cheque, assuming one actually arrived and Conor didn’t sack her for ineptitude in her first week.

For want of something to do, she pulled out the notes she’d made at the library, and tried to cram the information into her beleaguered brain. The facts and figures refused to stick. Her mind buzzed with concern at her boss’s imminent arrival and her body yelled in pain every time she shifted in her seat.

She had taken to counting the bottles behind the bar by the time she heard a familiar voice calling her name.

“I’m over here,” she replied, raising a hand, and making sure her hair still hung low over her face.

“Claire, hi, I’m so sorry I’m late. Last minute hiccup. I tried to call you.” Conor strode over to where she sat, wheeling a small case behind him and carrying a suit bag over his shoulder.

“Sorry, my battery died while I was out walking today and I didn’t get a chance to charge it. You know smart phones; they only stay charged for about ten minutes.” She kept her voice light and hoped that honesty was the best policy.

“Beautiful day for a hike. Where did you go? No, wait, let me just run these things up to my room. Why don’t you go through to the restaurant and I’ll meet you there?” He waited only for her to signal her agreement, and then he was gone.

Claire felt strangely flat, as she watched him weave his way through the tables and back out towards the lifts. As he disappeared out of sight, she had to remind herself this wasn’t a date, it was business.

***