Thursday, 27 February 2014

A Story And A Song

After reading Sometimes Sweet's blog post on 'Journal Days' I decided there might be a few prompts that would spark some creativity/ideas. I kept my eyes peeled and to my luck the second prompt was a winner.

Robbie Williams - Mr Bojangles.

This song was the one that lead to a change in taste of music, swing, jazz and blues soon became a firm favourite after this. It hurls me back to when I was a lot younger - mostly reminding me of mini road trips with Pap and taking every Monday morning off to go for coffee and a toasted croissant.

Things have changed a lot since then but there are times when we both still listen to this song. I think the familiar whistling entertains the feeling of nostalgia we share. He longs for a time when I was small enough to sit on his knee and I long for a time when I didn't have to be in school on a Monday .

However nostalgia isn't the only feeling that surrounds Robbie Williams' rendition of this swing classic. Happiness, serenity, ambition and desire for a further utopia all remind me of those car journeys with my best friend, even silence was a welcomed feeling.

One of the first things I think of when I hear this song is the long haul trip we take to Italy every year. It would be around 3am and I'd wake from a slumber to find the car still going at a steady pace, everyone asleep but Dad - not once did he make a fuss about being alone at 3am driving through Switzerland, I admire him for that. 
After a long discussion about the food we couldn't wait to eat and the faces we longed to see, Pap would instinctively put our song on and I'd slowly but surely drift back to sleep.

There have been times when we've sang it, whistled it, cried to it, sat in silence to it, (probably even) bickered over it but it will be a constant and vivid memory of mine. One so vivid I can almost close my eyes and be transported to the same surroundings, weather and emotions that the mellow tune so often linked to.

Wednesday, 19 February 2014

The Birthday Girl

'If you don't understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child.'

Monday, 17 February 2014


This is one of my own fiction pieces, the first I've posted. I'm hoping to do more posts like this with time.

Yesterday, she handed in her notice. The next day she considered jacking in school too - how many times did she need to be told she'd never make it far with only Art under her belt?
"I never wear belts." Was her first thought when her mother began to preach.

After constructing a tower of pancakes - closely resembling that leaning one in Pisa - she drenched them in jam, apricot; the only one she thought a good home needed. If finishing her pancakes made her two hours late for school then hell, she'd be two hours late. In fact, Margo considered not going at all. It was only Art, right?

Opening the back door, juice in hand, she perched on the back door step and it wasn't long before Franco was by her side - a stubborn and fickle cat at best. He lovingly pushed his head into her arm, instinctively Margot complied with a tickle on the chin.  
She necked the last of her juice, hoping to find a little solidarity at the bottom of her mug. Admiring the sky, she thought about how lately she hadn't been sure if she had enough focus to control her passion, but it wasn't long before the rolling clouds captured her remaining attention.

What she was sure of was that she'd fallen in loving with waking up late and devouring a stack of pancakes. Even surer was the idea that she would bring her chalk set outside where the broken roof slates that scattered the garden would be her canvas.

Alas, with a pancake filled stomach, a miserable cat, and several hours of art her Thursday was nothing but faultless.