I just consumed a particularly pungent ham and mustard sandwhich and now keep sneezing frantically, lucky i'm not in a social situation.
So, I know it's really really sad to blog sartorial purchases.. but i'm going to anyway.
Judy and the Dream of Horses?
I'm going to be too scared to wear them outside the flat.. maybe I should frame them..ahh.
Anyway, I've just written up my week one ICW prose assignment. The task- a conversation between two people, focused around a terrible secret that one of them possesses, incoporating the idea of dominance and subservience. Sadly, I couldn't think of suitable a secret of my own, so i've invented one (which will remain unknown for the purposes of this exercise, mainly as it's a bit grim).
I haven't edited this yet, so may rapidly grow to hate it.
A. I’ll just light the fire.
B. Oh how comforting, when did you have it fitted?
A. Only a few weeks ago, a friend of mine recently learnt how to install them so he very kindly offered to do it for a reduced..
B. Ah excellent! They’re so useful, aren’t they?
A. …Other than buying the wood, yes.
B. Oh but you could make him do that!
A. Yes that’s true, a suitable task for him.
B. Just so handy! Whenever I’m eating yoghurt on the sofa I wish I could just toss the pot into flames and be done with it, rather than forgetting and finding it all congealed in the morning.
A. No, that’s never a pleasant surprise.
B. I find just watching the flames so relaxing, it’s as if they’re dancing. When I was young I imagined each flame was a person.
A. Instantly affected by the others around them..
B. I’m sorry? The sound is soothing too isn’t it? All those little cracks and pops, like that!
A. Mmmm, it startles me from time to time.
B. I suppose you have to watch out for the carpet..that looks new, too?
A. No, no.. it’s always been that way. We have a fireguard, quite an ornate one from..
B. Really? It just looks so.. untarnished! How do you keep it in such good condition?
A. Well, the odd hoover, I suppose. How’s the new car..
B. I wish mine could be made so perfect again, not a chance with all those little feet scampering around.
A. Mmm. Would you like another cup of tea, I have peppermint?
B. Oh, yes, that would be lovely, so good for the digestion!
Here is the prose version:
Annette showed Jean into the living room, and began thinking of ways to distract herself from the horrific situation in which she now found herself. How had she managed to wangle her way in here?! A quick, relatively pain-free chat outside yoga had evolved into fully-fledged and inescapable torture. How ever could this be endured… the new fire seemed to present itself as an obvious distraction motif, so she knelt down and began fiddling with old newspapers, making firelighters as she remembered her father teaching her. Jean was typically enthused by the spectacle, a magpie for the trivial, her head waving about like some over-energised, if not positively caffeinated meercat. She started rattling on about burning yoghurt pots until Annette felt like burning herself on the fire to escape from the incessant whining of her discourse. I’ll escape through tea, she’ll be wanting tea, thought Annette. In a breath, however, Jean practised the unthinkable and freed herself from the social chains perhaps mistakenly imposed upon her, playing a move completely unpredicted. Before Annette could utter the words ‘Earl Grey’, Jean had steered her words toward the, almost poetic, mundanities of life, and observed something in the fire Annette had long noticed herself. How can she be capable, there must be a motive.. her mind whirred, struggling to discern this newly mediated tack. Yet, being so unprepared, an incredulous Annette found herself launched unwillingly into the deepest vaults of her memory, even remembering childhood evenings at her Grandfather’s in front of a similar fireplace. How she’d loved to stir the logs until they glowed, exercising all her might on the bronzed bellows that hung upon the chimney before falling asleep on her mother’s knee. Back then, the flames had been people to her, people darting around in a group, ducking and diving like those in some exquisite country dance. She was brave, in those days. Carried by her own wonder for the world. A loud crack brought her back to her senses, to the unfavourable situation in which she was still very-much captive. Jean quickly shattered the contemplative mood by wielding her favourite weapon, the new carpet. Now, this was something Annette had budgeted for, unlike the poeticisms. And she responded, as planned, with tea. A well-timed peppermint could avert any disaster, thought Annette as she hurried for the kettle.
I'll now return to the joys of Milton's 1671 poems (which actually appeared in 1670, according to Knoppers - what a name - so a contraversial week already!).