Mummy & Bean's Weekend in London Town

Bean and I never get to spend time alone, so I decided to take him away to London for the weekend, just him and me, to go on adventures and see stuff.

Building his kre-o transformer.

He packed some toys in a little backpack and adding the new things I had brought; a Kre-o transformer blind pack (fantastic value at just £2 for an interchangeable figurine - a firm favourite with my boys), a new matchbox car, a little notebook, a pack of coloured dot stickers and a teenage mutant ninja turtles colouring-in book. I'd also packed a load of felt pens. He managed to entertain himself for the whole two hour train journey, though the stickers only ended up on me and he was slightly foxed because he didn't have a seat belt.

My leg :/

Watching the world whizz by.

Waiting for our very first tube train.

We got a tube to old street and a big black taxi cab (in which he happily found a seat belt, bless him) to Wellington Row because our first stop had to be the Felt Corner Shop near Bethnal Green, where I shook Miss Lucy Sparrow's hand and told her she was a genius.

She has painstakingly created all the items one would find in a corner shop, just using felt and a fair amount of wadding. It's lots of fun and I had to see it for myself, having come across it online a few weeks ago and actually squealed in delight.

Corner Shop selfie.

We then tried to get a tube into Town but the central line was closed so we had to find a bus.

My incredibly logical husband made himself useful even when we where so far apart. I rang him while Bean had a rest on a park bench to moan about how I couldn't find the right bus stop and he simply suggested going on Google maps as it would show me the bus route and everything. Love him!

While we were there I also took a moment to give Bean his pedometer (I'd forgotten, Daddy had given us a challenge to find out how much walking he did over the weekend) which led to this hilarious video;

Love his dancing!

He was trying to make as many steps as he could. Funny boy!

The pedometer didn't go to plan though. He kept taking it off his trousers to check it so it didn't count even half his steps. It also went mental on the train, so we've no idea how much walking he did. Next time, I might set my iPhone up to track us. It would use up loads of battery power but now I've got this pocket re-charger thingy, I'm not so worried.

Let me just take a moment to tell you about this awesome gadget I bought recently

The incessant map checking, photo taking and the like of a day trip wipes out my iPhone really quickly but this thing means I can recharge it on the go without too much hassle and it seems to be able to do that several times when it's fully charged.   It takes eight hours to fully load and has little lights which go out as the charge is used up, so you always know how much it has left.    I bought it on here eBay after a weekend away when I really struggled to keep my phone alive and I reckon it was really great value. Just so you all know, I'm not paid for anything (like, ever). I've borrowed this image from the eBay seller I bought it from. I'm only sharing this because I personally have tried and tested it and think it's super.

On the way to the bus stop we passed the Museum of Childhood. I've walked past a few times (usually on the way to Spa London) but never gone in. It wasn't on our itinerary because I never thought a five year old would enjoy looking at toys through glass any where near as much as he did. I loved looking at the old school transformers and star wars toys, and was enthralled by the massive train set. 

Twenty pence in the slot activated the trains and he loved watching them go through the tunnels and around the track. 

We were there so long I gave up trying to get to the aquarium, but we still got a big red double-decker bus to St Paul's as previously planned.

Top deck baby! (distracted by unwrapping a sweetie).

We had taken a bus to Bethnal Green tube station from the Corner Shop, but much to Bean's disappointment we couldn't go upstairs because we were only going a few stops to save him walking it. He was super pleased to find the front seats free and the windows are huge on these new buses! It was like a green house up there, but the view was fantastic. 

Water thingy (no idea lol)

Mary Poppins book bench.

 On the way to London, I had told him about the book bench trail I had planned. This one wasn't on our trail but Bean liked it. He especially liked sliding off it repeatedly.

"I'm the King!"

Bean was more interested in the architecture than I gave him credit for. He was always looking around, forming opinions on things. He found this windowsill (I won't tell him if you don't) which he decided was in fact a very grand throne. He loved that it even had a place to put his backpack. 

That's not my...bench.

On St. Peter's Hill there is a small play installation. Bean watched for a while before joining in with the other kids. He looked so morose as he sat there but I knew he was just working stuff out in his head.

Watching the other kids and waiting for his turn on the roundabout.

Selfie on the millennium bridge.

 As we reached the end of the bridge, there was a bigger boy sliding down one of the support beams, so Bean just had to have a go too. I was a tad terrified because it doesn't just slope downwards, but sideways too, so if he went too high he would've slid off the top. He was happy to listen to my worries and thankfully never left my arms reach. He invented a game where he had to slide down a land on a 'darlek eye' (a bolt to you and I). He couldn't come off until he'd got the high score, apparently.

While we made our way a tube station, Bean discovered he could make the lights on the floor go out by covering them up with mud. Then he did a lovely big H for Henry in one of them.

outside the Tate Modern.

We stayed at a good friend's house, you know, the kind who've been in the family for so long, they are actually family now. It's actually my Mum's best friend of twenty five years, they've watched me grow up and now they're watching my babies grow up. 

They have a hot tub in the garden and after all that walking, a few warm bubbles with some familiar faces is exactly what we needed. Bean happily fell straight to sleep in the spare bed with no arguments.

Big Ben selfie.

The next day, as we headed off to the aquarium, we got the tube to Westminster so he could see Big Ben since he'd mentioned it on the train. He was so impressed by how tall it was, his little face dropped as we came up the steps onto Westminster bridge. He's obviously seen it on TV and it is much bigger than he thought. He wasn't happy with just seeing it from the bridge as we crossed the river, and insisted we walk over to the bottom and then see it from all sides-which of course isn't possible what with all that fencing and all. So he climbed along the fencing for a bit until he realised the aquarium was in the opposite direction.

Big Ben.

Big Ben selfie from the other side of the river.

We finally made it to the London Aquarium. Because we hadn't bought our tickets in advance as I had previously planned to (thank goodness we didn't though, as we didn't make it for the time slot I was going to book them for), we had to queue for about forty minutes. Thankfully Bean was ok, he's not normally great at any kind of queue, but I had a little stash of sweeties to keep him going.

It cost the two of us £38 and it took less than two hours to get round (I'd read online it should take three). It was great and Bean will remember it always I'm sure, but I think maybe there are better value aquariums around. I wouldn't bother going again.

The penguins were super fun!

Shark face/photo bomb.

Bean had been given some spending money so he bought himself this cute little shark. Talk about over loved! It is now a tad on the black side after spending the rest of the day travelling around grubby London and will be lovingly hand washed later today.

Behind the London Eye.

Yummy sausage.

We found a real food market behind the Royal Festival Hall to grab some lunch from. One of the fabulous things about Bean is he'll eat almost anything, so when we go out, I know I can always find him something. His brother isn't anywhere near as easy to please. He grabbed a hot dog from one of the first stalls we passed, a lovely sausage from a farmer who was obviously passionate about his pigs. I chose the most delicious gallette from a crepe stand, full of goats cheese, caramelised onion and rocket. This is Bean tucking into his while we waited for mine to be cooked, it was so busy he had to stay by my feet but he happily sat on the floor and chomped away. Ate the whole thing too.

Then we got the tube from Waterloo to North Greenwich so we could go on the Air Emirates Line cable car across the river. We didn't really know where we were going, which made Bean's tired legs even worse. But we worked it out and he was fine.

He might be a bit tired :(

He found a sign he liked and decided to pose for a photo for the only time in the whole trip (aside from the selfies which I only get a second to catch).

We queued forever for the cable car. We had to queue to get a ticket for Bean (I used my oyster card).
Note to all; buy online before you go! 
Then we had to queue again to get on. Thankfully there were loads of benches I could plonk my tired Bean on. And it was totally worth it! Considering how little it costs (£2.30 for a child, I think £3.30 off my oyster), it's short but very very sweet. It goes so high! Definitely doing that again!

A view over the Thames.

Air Emirates selfie.

Bean was very impressed by the O2.

We then got the DLR and tube to Embankment, where we walked over to Trafalgar Square to check out the giant lion statues.

There were loads of people climbing on them, and Bean so wanted to get up there but he misjudged just how big they were and once he'd got up he was freaked out so we checked out the water fountains instead.

"Too high Mummy"

It was time to go find our train, which was messed up by line closures. We had to run from London Euston to St Pancras, then through St Pancras twice trying to find the right platform. Poor Bean's legs! He was so tired! But we made it, with five minutes to spare. And we'd managed to get some dinner (Marks & Sparks sandwiches) on the way.

Our train left at 6:00pm, so obviously he was shattered and that involved a fair amount of messing about. We had to get four different trains to get home, but he was brilliant and it wasn't so bad. When we got off the train, he insisted on hiding the things that we had bought his big brother (a little toy stingray from the aquarium and a Big Ben keyring) behind his back so he could surprise him in the car park where Daddy and Ed were waiting for us.

We had an amazing time. It was so good spending time with my little guy, doing what interested him and going at his (very slow, very observant) pace.

We never did do the book trail or the quiz, but we did other stuff instead, so at least we were never bored or short of choice, though how anyone can be bored in London with a loaded Oyster card is beyond me.

Ed had spent the weekend with Daddy. Apparently they were practising fishing in the living room...I'm not commenting haha.

I'm looking forward to Ed's weekend which is coming up very soon - watch this space.

'Fate (Burdens)' Review & Interview with Ben Murray (Writer/Director)

This review is simply my humble opinion. I don't claim to be anything other than some regular Joe who enjoys stories and is interested in other human beings.  I only chose to write this interview because I personally am interested in what makes a person tick, and how someone as young as Ben managed to pull together such an enjoyable story and tell it so beautifully.  Though I will be honest, I certainly don't want to intentionally offend anyone, so I am sorry if I do.

About Me and How I Met Mr. Murray.

I was born in London and when we moved away, the Londoner in my Mother's soul ensured that even as children, we were no stranger to the stage, the ballet and concerts. 

But I'm these days I'm not as cultured as I'd like to be. 
There's a pile of unread books by my bed. 
I haven't seen a ballet in over a decade.
I don't even watch movies until they come out on DVD. 

Such is life.

There is nothing quite like live theatre. 
Nothing quite like someone telling you a story from a few yards away, able to look directly into your eyes. It's level of intimacy that can never be achieved by TV or cinema, no matter how hot Brad Pitt is.

Being a creative kind of person, I often find myself drawn to other creative minded people, whatever kind of business they're in. I quite recently made new friends with a particularly lovely couple, who I originally met through the local home-educating network.
They are the kind of people I immediately clicked with. 
The kind of people who you visit to pick something up and two hours later your husband is texting you wondering why on earth you haven't come home yet. I could talk with them for hours. 
My favourite bit about them both is that, like me, they have a giant list of projects. 
I get that. 
Totally. 

So, when I discovered my new friends were part of a theatre company, I got tickets. I went to see the first play with my family, but when it came to the second and third, I just fancied going alone so I didn't push for anyone to join me.

Fate (Burdens); Review.

The only thing I knew about the play was it's name.

I had no idea what I was in for.

It was exciting to sit down, alone, awaiting a story, some one's story, with only the general hope I'd enjoy it.

The play began with a plunge into absolute darkness, which I found unnerving. Not because I fear the dark, because I don't, I just don't like not being able to see. I also worry about what I will see when the lights come back on. 
Throughout the play, between each scene, the lights went off again. I don't mean to be over dramatic, but it was a bit like being plunged into a pool of black water, not knowing how long I'd be held under, listening to tables being moved across the floor, waiting for the noise to stop because that's when the lights will come back. I'd emerge, squinty eyed, my senses completely overloaded. Truth be told, I am very light sensitive, so this may not have been the desired effect, and although it may have only been so the stage crew could move stuff, it actually added to the plot for me. It added a darkness, and insecurity, and loneliness that made me relate to the main characters more.

I honestly didn't expect to enjoy this play quite so much.
I love that it was written by a 17 year old, and if nothing else, I hope it teaches us to never underestimate our teenagers.

There are a few things I can pin point which made it so enjoyable.
Firstly, Charlotte Pedley (Elita) and Curtis Ledsham (Ruben) are delightfully awkward. They have a very natural insecurity to the way they hold themselves which expresses the ineptitude of teenage love marvellously. I'm sure we all remember living in a body which was changing too fast for us to get used to, being so unsure of who we were and whether or not we were even like-able.

There is a background story left untold; Lex (played by Sean Goss) knows Ruben because he was his big brother's guardian, and that he is just as cut up about Luke's death as Ruben is. I wonder if Reuben should have known, if it would have made him feel less alone...?

The death scene was done perfectly, both unexpected and not over played. I'm not going to ruin it for anyone by telling you who died. Amateur dramatics obviously has a horrible habit of over acting and I always find myself annoyed by it. Over acting has its place in slapstick comedy moments but not in the death of a loved one.

And lastly, I loved the ongoing joke about sex being gross and disgusting to angels, as I imagine any androgynous being would.

Now, I don't know much about these things, but I'd say it was a brilliantly written play, with perfect timing and wit. 
There were two moments I thought I'd sob; during the death scene and during Ruben's very moving monologue when his face was cracking. I felt it too. 
And if I gasp out loud, in a room full of strangers, the way I did during the death scene, you know you've got my attention.

Introducing Mr Ben Murray.
I first saw Ben when he played Benedict in 'Much Ado About Nothing'. My family and I were really struck by his obvious talent. Maybe I need to be more familiar with the Shakespearean language, but sometimes he got a bit overexcited and spoke his lines so fast I couldn't keep up. Regardless, it was noticeable how comfortable he is on the stage.

Ben is a sprightly little thing, with a cheeky grin and bundles of talent, both as an actor and a writer. His stage presence is natural and he doesn't come across like he's over thinking it all, yet you won't see him slip out of his role for a second when he's anywhere near the stage. The simplest of gestures finishes each line with such finesse. He is simply, a joy to watch and obviously has a bright future ahead of him.

I asked him to sign my programme, not just because Laura, the producer, egged me on, but because I think Ben is special and he'll go far if he chooses to.

Taken by Terasa Newton

My Chat With Mr. Murray.

Ben is the kind of person, who if he was stuck on a desert island, would miss his guitar much more than his phone. He loves his tattered black converse pumps, which may disintegrate before he lets them go. In his spare time, he writes. He write music, plays, stories, everything. Just writes. If he wasn’t allowed a pen and paper on that island, he’d be writing songs in the sand with a twig.

His family are originally from Manchester, but moved to Tattenhall when his Mum got a new job in Chester. Nothing happens there apparently, but it's very green. Sounds idyllic to me.

I was very surprised to hear that Ben has just finished his first year of A levels in very academic, rather than creative subjects; Maths, Chemistry and Biology. He’s studying what he’s good at rather than what he enjoys, which is a story we are probably all familiar with. Young people so often have no idea what they want to do so when it comes to subject choice, they often chose what they’re most likely to succeed at rather than what really stirs their hearts. Seventeen year old Ben’s been part of the Boaty Theatre Company since he was about thirteen and playing guitar since he was fourteen. He's been writing music since he starting playing, writing plays for two years and he really wants to carve himself a career from these creative pursuits, but felt like he was encouraged to have an academic ‘back up plan’. At his show, his Step-Dad was on the front row, taking photos all the way through. He looked like the proudest Dad in the land, and he was certainly gave the loudest cheer at the end. His Mum is his biggest fan, he reckons if he suggested setting up a world class trapeze act and tour the world with the circus, she'd be there cheering him on.

Until a few years ago, the Boaty Theatre Company, now called Chalice Productions, used to be quite different. Someone once described it to me as more like a youth club, meeting for just an hour a week. When Laura began helping out, things started moving for the young members there. She turned around to them one day and said “Let's do a steam-punk version of the Tempest!” and they were like “OK!”  For the first time, no one was being brought in the play the main roles, they were carrying the whole play.
Now they all meet every week, for at least two hours, and now Chalice have their own official space, the opportunities are endless.

Ben originally wrote the script for ‘Fate’, his first attempt at a play, as part of a GCSE exam piece, which he of course received full marks for. It was supposed to be just five or six minutes long, but when he and his friends played it out, it was more like twenty. However, because all the people who had parts each had a five minute monologue, they got much better grades than if they’d worked with a smaller script.

When Chalice Media got some funding, Ben asked Laura (the founder) if he could write a full length version so they could show it and although she was really supportive, he presumed there was a part of her that suspected he wouldn’t manage to do it.

Knowing Laura, I doubt this myself. She remembers him as this shy little emo kid, and she has enjoyed watching grow into the young man he is now. He knows her better now, and knows how enthusiastic she is about everyone who wants to have a bash at anything.

Because he’d known the group for so long, as he wrote it, he pretty much knew who’d play what. The only parts which could have been played by any of them were the two baddie angels, but he chose Alice and Charlotte because they are great friends and have a very natural chemistry between them.

Laura read one of the later drafts, provided a location and a techie to do the lights, then left him to his own devices. Ben did the sound, wrote some of the music and played a part, pushing himself to see just how much he could do.

“Can I do all this? Let’s try! So I did.”

Laura purposefully never watched any of the rehearsals, she wanted to give him the space to discover what he’s capable of.

During the play, he’d have to throw on a barista shirt over the top of a shirt & tie, run up to the stage, perform lines, and then run back to the sound desk. And he did it, without fault.

Ben’s role in the play was left rather open ended. When I asked him if he was God or just some fallen angel playing tricks, he simply asked me what I thought. He wanted to leave it open to the viewers to decide for themselves.

There was one scene on the first night it showed, that went a little flat and at the end I overheard the actors say they had improvised. Apparently one of them had forgotten their lines, but Ben was pleased with how they dealt with it. They just got on with it and no one seemed to notice. “It happens” Ben said simply. 

Since he wrote a play about God, I had to ask if he believes in some higher power watching over us, but no, he doesn’t and he was worried there would people coming up to him afterwards complaining of blasphemous intentions, but he never meant to offend anyone.

“Religion just doesn’t appeal to me, but I find it interesting the way people attach ‘fate’ and ‘God’ to the same things. That’s why I wanted to write about it.”

Ben feels really fortunate that he knew people who could help him achieve what he’d set out to do. The lesson to be learnt here, is that if you keep meeting people, letting them know what you can do, what you’d like to do, eventually someone will to come to you with a great idea.

Just keep putting yourself out there.

“I only got ‘Fate’ shown because I asked.”

If you want to write, keep writing. Just get it down on paper! Show it to your friends, and then redraft it. Keep doing that until you're happy with it.

And lastly, if Mr. Ben Murray was forced to sing one song on X factor, it would be This Modern Love by Bloc Party.

A bit about Chalice Media.

Chalice was set up by Laura Harris (author of Splintered) as she worked alongside the Boaty Theatre Company who are based at the Boat Museum in Ellesmere Port, so that local talent could be supported in their creative pursuits. Having an official company means that funding could be sourced and Ben's play, along with another, was aided by the Arts Council.

Chalice are able to help people in so many ways, from acting classes to getting books published. The future is very bright for them, Laura is infectiously positive and proactive, and if you're local to the Ellesmere Port/North West area, get in touch with them if you're interested in any of the things they do.

You can follow Chalice on Facebook here and you can check out their website chalicemediagroup.com.

Terasa Newton, who took that fabulous photo of Ben is also on Facebook here and linkedin here.

Finding Happiness in Being Grateful

If I was to be very, very honest with you, I would tell you that for me, the last few weeks have been shrouded by a dark cloud. It’s not that there has been anything in particular ‘wrong’ per say, I’ve just been very fed up. It has seemed like the simplest of things have been difficult to cope with. I’ve found my temper with the boys become shorter (much shorter) and I’ve been spending most evenings sobbing. Simply sobbing. My poor husband has tried his best to be loving and supportive, which must be hard given that he has only got soggy cuddles in return and not much else.

I’m trying to cheer up.

In my heart of hearts I know I’ve simply got a case of the blues and I just need to look after myself better, relax a little more, get more sleep and try to be a little bit more positive about things.

I’ll be right as rain soon, so don’t worry peeps.

In the meantime, I’ve noticed that lately, while listening to people around me talking about their lives and general events, I keep hearing versions of what seem to be pretty much the same thing, like some kind of theme is coming through;

Being grateful.

One of my friends recently spoke of how when she found a moment to ‘thank the universe’ for something good in her life, something else fabulous immediately happened. Then when she thanked the universe for that, two more happy events occurred.

Last week my Mum even had a book published (her first finished piece) on Kindle and paperback, which you can purchase here, all about being grateful.

I haven’t read it, it being a ‘religious text’ and all, but from the blurb I’d say if one was that way inclined, it’s a very inspiring read. It's all about prayer and trying not to come to God with a list but rather to be thankful for what he has already provided.

It seems to me that whoever you are, however you see the world, whomever you feel is ‘in charge of things’, as it were, if we take a moment to be grateful and to dwell on the good things, the happier and more successful (however you might measure that) we become.

There’s a great Ted Talk about being grateful.

And there is some excellent advice here about learning to be more grateful.

It makes perfect sense to me that the more time we spend thinking about the great things in our lives, the happier we would be.

Of course, in doing so we have less time to dwell on the crappier side of things, so we naturally become less miserable.

Even cynical old me has watched miserable people grow sick and weary under the pressure of their bitterness. Like their own bodies couldn’t cope with the negativity and literally gave out under the weight.

If only they could’ve just cheered the hell up!

Being angry and miserable will never do us any good, but happiness, smiling, laughter and hugs are all things that have proven healing powers (Google it if your not sure there's scientific proof).

oh dear, I've quoted Oprah :/

Also, I feel I should add, that I spend a lot of time looking to the future. It drives me to distraction and I so wish I could live in the moment more. I know I'll never be happy while most of my efforts are spent thinking things will be vastly improved in a few months, when the house is done, when the garden is finished, when we've saved up for that, when we've paid that debt off, etc, etc. The moments I feel actual happiness are the moments when I stop. When I stop thinking and just be in the moment, usually with my boys, just playing or simply watching them play. I feel like if I carried on like this, moping about the things that aren't good enough yet and waiting for certain things to improve, I'd look back to find grown men. I'd miss it. Children really do grow too fast. My littlest guy was five last week. Ridiculous! How did that happen? I definitely need to spend less time sulking and more time just enjoying the day to day stuff.

I love this idea.

So this is what I’m grateful for;

My two little boys, their enquiring minds and ceaseless zest for life.

That my children, my husband and I, are all healthy.

My loving & supportive husband.

That we can afford to pay the bills.

Family.

Great friends.

A small breeze on a warm day.

Birdsong.

Warm sunshine on my skin.

My driving license.

That little sign my dog makes when she’s comfy.

The sound of rain.

Silence.

My body.

My mind.

My creative fingers.

Clean water and electricity in our home.

Music.

Books.

Other people’s stories.

This was surprisingly difficult to write, so I ended up just trying to write a list of everyday things which make me happy. I didn’t want to get all sentimental on you, but it appears that it’s impossible to avoid when it comes to things like this.

So let’s be soppy together!

What makes you happy?

What are you grateful for?

Write in the comments below x 

If you need some inspiration for writing your own list, this might be of use;

If you fancy it, maybe join in with a #thankfulthursday or follow thankful thursday on facebook. Or maybe make a photo diary, a little like the #100happydays (which I got through almost 70 days of before I got annoyed with it - oops. I just kept having days that ended in such personal darkness that I couldn't see any light), but weekly might be more do-able.
Wishing you all the happiness in the world my lovelies xxx

Driving with Miss Muffet

Let me tell you about my morning. It’s horrendous.

As we drove to our friend M’s house this morning, the boys were laughing and telling me there was a spider above my head. That it was going to jump on my head and poison me.

To be fair, this is quite normal.

I try to concentrate on my driving and leave them to it. We often play silly tricks on each other, well, they often play pretend games with me and usually it involves things they love but I can’t stand, like scorpions, spiders and other creepy crawly yucky things.

There’s also a back story you need to know about this morning’s situation;

I recently blew up my car, so the boys and I are using Daddy’s estate car which he uses on weekends. On Sunday, he used it to clear his Mum’s garden and he came home with a delightful story about seeing a giant tarantula sized spider crawling across the dash at some point during the day.

Great.

He said he’d tried his hardest to find it for me, he even came across as quite stressed about the fact that he couldn’t help.

“There’s nothing I can do!” he yelled at me, in (sorry to say it but its true) typical ‘Man from Mars: I need to fix things’ speech.

Great.

On Monday we needed to go on a very long journey. The boys and I swept out the whole car, finding all sorts of little bugs, but no massive beast. We couldn’t not go just because Mummy is a big wuss, so off we set. Two minutes into the journey the boys started yelling that there was a spider on the roof, coming to get us. I looked in my rearview to spot a tiny little, inoffensive thing dangling down from the roof, so I drove on. During the whole trip I drove slowly, checking the dash the entire time, nerves on tenterhooks. Not great for one’s stress levels at all.

I freakin hate spiders.

But the thing never turned up.

When we got to our destination, I did everything I could think of to scare it out; I put the blowers on, bashed the dash, I even put Katy Perry on really loudly.

Nothing.

Since I'm quite stressed out these days as it is, there are certain things I refuse to stress about and certain things I have to consciously let go of.

We have a lot of places to go this week.

I had to let go of the tarantula.

We used the car yesterday, and though it was kind of in the back of my mind, I didn’t let it bother me as much as it did on Monday.

Which brings us back to this morning.

So, the boys are giggling excitedly, yelling about a massive spider above my head. I disregard it as another money spider and drive onto the motorway.

Big mistake.

When they finally persuade me to have a look, I glance to my right, just above my window, and there, indeed, is the biggest spider I have ever seen in my entire life. Its about two inches away from my head.

I stare back at the road.

…………………………..(insert about 4 swearwords) what the hell am I gonna do?

I can’t pull over.

Katy Perry’s CD case is sat next to me, A-AH!

I slam it over the beast. I hold it there a while, not brave enough to move it and so I can squeeze in a glance at the road in front of me. I have no idea how fast I’m going at this point, which is very unusual and unnerving for me.

When I glance back up I realize the bastards legs are coming out the other side…the fucking roof isn’t flat! I have to maneuver the spider and the CD case to a flat part to make sure it’s squished. Spider innards smudge on the roof. Yuk. Breathe again, only look back at the road….I’m riding the middle of a two lane motorway, with a boy racer in a lurid lime green thing bombing towards me. A mirror check, a small swerve to the left, and thankfully the boy racer times his swerve nicely and misses us, just. Not sure anyone except a hyped up boy racer would have missed us so for that I’m grateful. It all happened so quickly he didn’t even have time to honk his horn at me.

About 30 seconds later, the corpse lands with a thud in my lap, which resulted in another squeal and a small swerve to where I didn’t belong. I can only imagine the words coming out of my fellow drivers on the motorway this morning, and I don’t blame them.

I was glad to finally arrive at M’s and spent a few minutes brushing myself down, oogling at the massive corpse and spraying rescue remedy on my tongue.

By the time we actually got to M’s door, you would’ve never guessed we nearly just died.

Just because I’m a pathetic.

But then who else would have been able to continue as normal with that beast looming overhead?

It could’ve jumped onto my head at any point, climbed into my eye and eaten my brain.

Ugh. I hate spiders.

I’m trying not to be angry with my husband. He did do his best after all. But I think, if I was my husband, and I knew how bad my reaction would be, I would’ve taken the whole damn car apart. I wouldn’t have risked my wife and my darling (cue emotional guilt trip) children. I know how badly I react to these things. I knew it would be this bad, although, to be fair I thought there would be more arm waving and screaming. As it happened, I just tried to stay focused on killing the bloody thing and not the boys in a horrible spider related car crash.

And FYI, I don’t always kill spiders. I try to leave them to it and go back to their hidey hole. But the car, well that’s a different matter.

My Very First Short Story

I've been doing a few online FutureLearn courses lately.
It's been super! I'm always interested in learning something new, so having all this information available for free and in my own time is awesome. At the moment I'm currently doing two courses, one in kitchen chemistry and one in writing fiction.
I've always wanted to write, but I guess I didn't really know where to start. Keeping this blog was initially to get me writing more often. I figured the more time I spent constructing sentences, the more likely it would eventually come to me.
One of the tasks set by my course this week was to write a paragraph on a character using notes we'd collated from people watching. I'll be honest in saying I haven't found any time to people watch this week, but the course included a short video to start us off with, so I used that.
I started writing one morning while the boys were still asleep, and didn't stop until we were officially running late for group.
I thought I'd post it here for your perusal.
I really enjoyed writing it, so if you don't like it, it doesn't particularly matter to me ;) 
but constructive criticism is of course very welcome :)
Go gentle though, it's my first time.

Screen shots taken from FutureLearn's video.

The Girl at the Bus Stop.

The early Saturday morning commuters are mostly on their way to work.

But not Sally.

She sits at the bus stop clutching her sleeping bag on her lap, like some lost remnant of a life lost, of days gone by. Her bag beside her.

Oh, how she regrets going last night.

She’d bought this sleeping bag, choosing a luscious purple, especially for the girl’s slumber party, because her old one is still back home.

She awkwardly shifts her weight on the uncomfortable steel, her fingers fiddle with the sleeping bag toggle. She feels so out of place among the commuters. She can’t work out how to hold herself, where to put her hands. Do they know? Can they tell where she was last night? She feels dirty in last night’s clothes. Her teeth feel furry; her tongue tastes the same as the smell of a passing London bin truck. That smell which fills her street every Monday morning, as the truck dawdles through the early streets, gorging itself on the overcrowded houses’ rubbish, only to regurgitate it up a few small miles away.

She longs to be invisible.

At least she’s not in that house anymore. At least she’s free from those prying eyes.

Oh, she shouldn’t have gone last night.

She was expecting a proper girly slumber party, like the ones her and her friends had back home.

She’d been invited by the girls from work. The same girls who sniggered behind her back everyday. They were nice to her face of course, but she knew they thought she was just a simple country bumpkin and mocked her 22 year old virginity. She thought she’d go anyway. She hadn’t made many friends since moving here, so she wasn’t exactly in the position to turn down an invite. And if they only got the chance to get to know her better, surely things would be better at work.

The night started ok. They congregated at Lisa’s house, which she apparently shared with some other people. Lisa’s housemates were out for the night, so they had the place to themselves. The house was the end of an old Victorian terrace, with giant bay windows, all stone and cold looking. All three stories, with their black windows, loomed down on Sally as she passed the threshold.

As everyone settled in, handbags and coats taken to Lisa’s room upstairs, party donations presented, Sally wondered if she should worry that she had brought homemade chocolate biscuits but everyone else had brought wine.

No one had brought a sleeping bag.

She tries to fit in, to laugh along with their jokes, despite most of them being aimed at her.

They laugh at her when she asks when they’ll all be putting their PJs on.

“Well” says Lisa “if it’s an old fashioned sleep over she wants, lets do a makeover!”

She grabs her make-up bag and the girls sit Sally down on a stool, setting to work on her untainted face. But they won’t let her check the result in a mirror and hand her a mug of white wine.

She has a few drinks which make her cheeks feel hot and her legs unsure.

The girl’s jokes get ruder and start to baffle her completely. Her sheltered upbringing rearing its innocent head.

All the time, their eyes are on her, sideways glances to each other and small sniggers.

She continues to smile and nod. She so wants to fit in. At work the girls natter at their desks & go off for lunch together, while she sits alone all day, longing to be part of something. Part of anything. She knows she’s a massive prude, and she won’t sell her soul for a job, but some friends would be nice. They weren’t wrong when they said London can be lonely place. When she moved here, her poor Ma was so worried London would change her. She promised it wouldn’t.

As the evening wears on, the flow of wine grows faster and the air grows thick with cigarette smoke. Shaz goes out for more wine.

Oh, she should’ve left then! Why did she stay?

Instead she finds herself a seat in the dusty living room, a huge armchair in the corner of the darkened room, lit by a few lamps in the corners. There she sits, waiting for the nausea to subside. She tries to get herself a drink of water, but Sam won’t let her and pours her another glass of wine instead. So she sips it gently, trying to appease her thirst but only making it worse with the sickly sweet white wine.

Shaz returns, clanking all the way to the kitchen at the back of the house. Then her, Sam & Ally come into the living room giggling to themselves & sit together on the sofa. They don’t even notice Sally sat in the dark. Sally didn’t realize until they were arguing over the butt that they had been smoking a joint.

Oh, she should have left then. But it was too late. Her senses were dulled.

It was almost like time stood still and yet when she next looked at the clock on the wall, it was past 11pm and she’d missed her last bus home.

She sits in the armchair, her thoughts spinning, too nauseous to move. She feels trapped, trapped in her body. Trapped in this house.

A burst of raucous laughter jolts her from her day dream state. She looks through the doorway into the hall, where Shaz, Ally and Leah were cackling together, each clutching their phone, making drunken phone calls and sending texts.

Another hour slips by, Sally hasn’t moved from the armchair. Her head feels woozy, her eyes cloudy, like she’s lost her peripheral vision.

All of a sudden the front door crashed open, squeals of delights run from the kitchen and the living room is filled with the smell of stale lager and body odour, tinged with the smell of fresh rain. She didn’t know it had been raining outside.

They were so loud. Their deep bass voices rumble through Sally’s bones, raising the sense of nausea from the pit of her stomach. Not wanting to puke here, in front of everyone, she drags herself out of her seat, avoiding eye contact with all, fumbling her way to the stairs, heading for the bathroom.

On her way through, she sees glimpses of strange men, having thrown off their wet coats, making a bee line for the girls. They must all know each other, thinks Sally as she heads up the stairs.

The bathroom is like a tiny sanctuary. All white and clean and bright. With the door locked, she can pretend she isn’t even here. She could stay here for the rest of time, but it’s inevitable that someone will need the toilet soon. In the mirror, her reflection is not her own. She looks like a whore. Thank God Ma can’t see me now, she thinks.

She rinses her face with cold water. It feels so good, she does it again. The nausea eases. She’s starting to sober up, but her head feels clouded, like the smoke got in there and fogged everything up. Like the mirrors when you have a long hot shower.

Mascara has dripped down her face. She finds some eye make up remover and manages to get most it all off. She’s relieved to see her old face staring back at her as she leans over the sink.

Not wanting to bump into anyone on the stairs, she decides to leave the sanctuary and find somewhere out of the way to spend the last few hours before the sun rises and the buses start running again. This kind of house always has nooks and crannies to hide in, as she knows from the childhood games she used to play back home. She’ll be able to find somewhere where no one will bother her.

As she opens the door, a figure looms out of the darkness. She screams a small scream, then decides she won’t be scared.

A big, sweaty man stands there with a stupid grin on his badly shaven face.

“So you’re little Miss Frigid are you? You’re quite pretty. Why have you not found anyone who’ll shag ya, eh?”

Stunned by his question, she tries to shove him aside, but he’s huge compared to her slight frame and he doesn’t budge.

He grabs her around the shoulders; she can feel his sticky palms on her skin. He smells like lager and ashtrays and something oddly spicy she can’t place. His clothes are covered in wet patches and stains, like a young boy who’s been out playing and ate his tea in a messy rush, eager to go back out.

He pushes her back into the small bathroom, holding her against the sink. The porcelain digging into the small of her back.

“It’s alright darlin’, chill out will ya, I only wanna chat” he tries to reassure her, but the way he’s leering at her tells another story. His eyes wander up and down her slender body, taking in her pale lemon blouse, thigh length skirt, black tights and comfortable work shoes. Stale from a day at work. He smirks.

“Maybe you should let the side down for once darlin’, let’s ‘ave some fun”

She’s afraid, just when she’d decided she wouldn’t be.

He leans in to kiss her. His grizzly wet lips aiming for her neck.

She reaches her breaking point.

Her whole self has taken such a bashing this evening.

She’s had enough.

There’s no way she’s letting this disgusting excuse of man touch her.

Yes, she’s a virgin but she’s not desperate, she’s saving herself. She doesn’t give a damn what the girls downstairs think. Not anymore.

She grabs a giant seashell which was sat on the windowsill and brings it crashing down onto the back of his head.

The look in his eyes goes dead. Stunned, he falls, his heaving weight tumbles sideways toward the toilet. His head smashes on the cistern before coming to rest on the toilet seat. She calmly places the shell back in its place. Stepping over his legs, she heads for the door. She glances back. He looks like he’s just passed out with his head over the toilet. There’s no blood. She wonders if he’s dead or just knocked out.

Her skin starts to crawl, her legs threatening to give way. She goes to Lisa’s bedroom where her overnight bag and her sleeping bag are stored and wanders around the first floor landing until she finds a window on the stairwell with a large sill. Shaking, she lightly tosses her bags up, then clambers carefully up, pulling the heavy curtains shut behind her.

Resting her head on the wall behind her, she waits for sunrise, so she can leave this Hell hole and get the first bus home.

Her thoughts are in turmoil. Is he dead? She should never have come tonight. Will someone find him like that? Will they think he’s just fallen asleep there? Will they think he’s dead? Will they scream? She should never have moved here. What made her think she could make a life for herself here? She promises herself she’ll get the first train home tomorrow. That’s where her heart belongs. She should just give up and go home. Coming here was Dad’s dream, not hers. She knows where she belongs. She thinks about Billy, the guy she left behind. She can’t hear the sounds coming from downstairs well enough to make any sense of them over the noise in her own head.

There’s a bright light in her eyes. As she opens them, memories fill her head and she wonders which ones are real. She realizes she’s perched on a window sill. The window is frosted so she can’t see through it but the light fills her head.

Oh god. It was real.

She carefully peeps around the curtain, but there is just silence. She lowers herself and her bags down onto the stairs. She glances at the bathroom, the door is wide open. The corpse is gone. She tiptoes down the stairs. As she descends she can hear voices in the kitchen; there’s a man and a woman talking. The man is nursing a sore hangover and a black eye which he can’t remember getting. They laugh together.

No one hears her open or close the front door.

She walks as fast as she can to the nearest bus stop, only realizing half way there that she hasn’t even checked her disheveled hair.

She’s already planning what to pack, what to leave behind and who she needs to tell she’s leaving. How easily would the police find her if she just left without a word?

She hopes the man she hit was the one she’d heard in the kitchen.