Category Archives: Creative Writing

Merry MishMash!!!!

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R

emember when I said that I would publish this old post every Christmas Eve to herald the festivities? No, I forgot as well, and didn’t bother with it last year – but this year I will! How thrilling for you!

I really am spoiling you…

Here we see Darren. He is hoping to be selected as an ambassador for the Littlehampton Confectionery Display Team. He is submitting one of the finest examples of his work in their annual ‘Exposure’ competition. It’s a rather grand affair held in a disused caravan park close to Southend pier, where display enthusiasts come from far and wide to exhibit their elaborate confection. For example, competitor Annie has flown in from Amsterdam and has done something gratuitous with a fudge finger fan, whilst Gavin from Gateshead [the winner in 2006] has been imaginative with a Toffee Crisp and an artfully adapted 12 inch Twirl; Maggie, a mother of three [the winner in 1908, but never since] has chosen a minimalist/conceptual approach – her piece is entitled ‘Red Smartie with Toothpick’.

So far the judges have been less than impressed with the entrées, but Darren is confident that he can lick his rivals. Darren has a secret, he has big balls, golden balls, and he knows how to use them. He waits in the wings as poor Simon, a professional kitchen fitter from Stevenage, sobs and stumbles from the judging panel after his Sherbert Fountain fails to font whilst his Lion Bar goes limp.

Darren feels the tension rising – his moment has arrived, he takes a deep breath and walks into the spotlight. His golden balls are piled high upon a silver platter creating a sophisticated yet captivating display that brings the essence of Egypt to Essex. Darren stands proud. It has only taken a smidgeon of superglue to keep everything erect.

Alas, Darren is unaware of the envious Maggie who will do anything to win, and from the wings she gives Darren an almighty shove sending his nutty nibbles into orbit to splatter down upon the judges heads. Horrified, Judge Erica picks golden nuts from her hair, and exclaims, ‘With your display you are soiling us!’.

Darren hangs his head in shame, but he is not downhearted. There is always next year when he is planning an ambitious assemblage with Annie, they are hoping to cause an extravagance of good taste with 16 Curly Wurlys, several Walnut Whips, and a discounted New York Cheesecake from Aldi.

First published on the Scarlet Blue Archive 8th January 2010 12:45 BST

Part 7 of the Epic Collaboration – A Revelation of Sorts

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Continued from HERE

“With this epic collaboration you are spoiling us,” whispered Aidan Turner into my ear.
We had left the throng of the Mogwash Manor ballroom and had retired to the balcony for some privacy as I was feeling a little peculiar after eating far too many Ferrero Rocher chocolates. I squinted at Aidan, and then in a fit of bravado I whipped away the flannel that was covering a suspiciously saggy pair of greying Y fronts.
“You’re not Aidan Turner!” I screamed, “You are Mago, the German archeologist from a post I wrote on April 15th 2015 that obviously EVERYONE remembers!”
Mago’s shoulders slumped in shame, and he slid the black nylon wig from his head.
“‘ee made me do it,” said Mago, “‘ee made me pretend.”
“Who?”
“That Device person, ‘ee is witch.”
“I thought you were German, not Spanish? Never mind, we will work on that later…. but why, Why??? Why would he do that????? WHY?????” I said, becoming somewhat hysterical.
“‘ee is after the Bottle of Greed! ‘Ee think Aidan could seduce you into revealing its location; ‘ee say ‘ee would share profits with me.”
I smiled my special enigmatic smile, kept for such occasions.
“This is all getting very silly,” I muttered.
“Bit like British Government,” chuckled Mago.
I glared at him and continued, “do you have my left wellington boot?”
“Mais oui, it is ‘ere,” replied Mago, relieving a passing butler of one muddy boot and handing it to me.
“Thank you, that’s the Cinderella thread of this epic tale sewn up then.”
“What ‘appens next?”
“Well that depends on you, do you want to stay in a narrative where you are forced to fly around half naked on an ancient octopus sucker bathmat? Or, would you like to be in a narrative where you wear warm clothes and have the status of historian/professor/archeologist?”
I felt my stomach grumble and regretted my overindulgence with the Ferrero Rocher – I had terrible indigestion. My chest tightened and my Bettina gown felt as though it was shrinking, whilst Mago appeared to be getting larger and larger.

“Damn that witch!” I squeaked.

“Vair did she go? She ‘as vanished! I want nice narrative, with the clothes! I want to dig up carparks! Wo ist she????” Despaired Mago, almost getting the gist of a German accent.

It appeared that I had neglected to tie up the Alice in Wonderland thread in a timely fashion, and this neglect would cost me dear….

strange-bottles-uk
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To be continued over the Cusp….
Although there may be an interlude around the Garden Event and Halloween.

PART 5 of The Epic Collaboration

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Continued from HERE and also from HERE

Charmaine glared at me, and then started speaking louder than necessary.
“Are you going to write part 5 of the epic collaboration with Mr Devine, which YOU instigated, or are you going to drift off into hibernation for the rest of the Autumn?”
I squinted at her, and even through my narrowed eyes she was still the size of a bus. I had grown comfortable lodged on the sofa, eating chocolate and watching TV, and to be honest, I hadn’t a clue what the epic tale was about.
“Remind me, what is the story about?” I asked.
Charmaine’s face reddened like an overripe tomato aloft a lump of lard.
“Oh for God’s sake, Aunt Scarlet, it’s not rocket science! To bring you up to speed it’s kind of a mash up of Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty, with a dollop of Alice in Wonderland. All you need to know right now is that Mr Devine and Dinah are travelling on a flying Bathmat to Franconia to turn Mr Mags into Aidan Turner, they will then return in time for the ball at Mogwash Manor. Aidan Turner will then give you your lost wellington boot and you will both live happily ever after, though obviously not together.
“I’m sure you’re missing some detail, surely it can’t be that simple?”
“It has to be simple, there have been complaints,” said Charmaine, stoney faced, “for starters Mistress Maddie is so confused that she’s drinking even more gin than usual, and she’s rather upset because she hasn’t been given a starring role. Dinah is perturbed because she has TOO MUCH of a starring role and feels overexposed, whilst Melanie is politely bemused but is trying her hardest to keep up. Mistress MJ wants to throw cake over the whole sorry affair, though Jon is surprisingly engaged – this is because his award winning back passage has been a major feature in part 3 and part 4. Mitzi is keeping her head down and is studying fractions, whilst Mr Mags is neutral as he would rather sleep. Mr Batarde, Savvy, Kylie, Eryl, Nick, Bill, Looby, and Lulu, are threatening you with legal action should you have any ideas about writing them into any subsequent parts.
So, what does happen in part 5????”

“You want to know what happened up Jon’s award winning back passage in Sarf London?”
“YES!!! I do!!!”
“Well, it was lovely. We sat on his smoking bench surrounded by glorious blooms, whilst sycamore seeds descended from the skies. We listened to Liza Tarbuck on Radio 2 and we had tea and muffins. He gave me two bags of empty wine bottles, I thanked him, and assured him that nothing awful would happen to him in part 5. All was going splendidly until Sid cocked his leg over his Lilium candidum – Jon wasn’t best pleased – there was a lot of hosing down, mopping up, and muttering about acidic soiling, then he threw us out on the street.”

“AND???” Said Charmaine, somewhat exasperated.
“And what?”
“You need to give Mr Devine something to bounce off!”
“He’s fine! He’s floating on a bathmat over Franconia with Dinah – the next time I see either of them will be at the Mogwash Ball when they bring me Aidan Turner. All I can do now is wait patiently on the sofa, and perhaps ask Mistress Maddie, or Jon, to find me a jaw dropping gown.”
“No, that’s not good enough.”
“Okay, okay….. how about… he threw us out on the street just as a large octopus sucker bathmat carrying three people crash landed up his back passage….”

“How does this all end?” Asked Charmaine.
“Badly, I imagine.”
“You’ll never make it as a novelist.”
“I know that,” I replied, “but I can still take nice photographs of Sid.”

To be continued over the cusp.

A Realm Beyond Comprehension and a Shortish List

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Iawoke realising that I had failed. Not only had I failed in my mission to become an internationally acclaimed artist with medals and an OBE, but I had also failed in my attempt to achieve world peace.

‘There is still time.’ Whispered a distant voice from a realm beyond comprehension.
‘You’re optimistic,’ I replied, strangely unperturbed by this new aural phenomenon, ‘my deadline is 21st November 2045, I only have 23 years and a bit and then the crowds will descend on Mogwash village hall expecting some kind of spectacle/experience/miracle/wonderment/world peace/artistic extravaganza [delete as applicable].’

The distant voice offered no further advice so I heaved myself out of bed and decided that today would be the day that I would start to get things done. I had to be positive, I had been dribbling stupor for long enough, and maybe the distant voice had a point – there was time – so I washed, dressed, ate a bowl of gruel, and hauled myself up to my garret at the bottom of the garden.

My garret was much as I left it, though a bit more dusty. On my desk was a list [please see exhibit A]

After removing a pile of books from my chair, I sat, and tried to gaze out the window – I couldn’t, it was far too grubby so I added ‘clean window’ to the list.
It appeared that I had my work cut out, or at least written down. But there was something I’d forgotten – something very important, and I swear I could hear the words: Did I win yet? being typed on a keyboard. My reverie was interrupted when I felt a cool presence brush against my left elbow, and from the sound of glass bottles rattling in a cardboard crate. This was all rather startling, but even more so because of the Blackbird  standing on the bottles with its wings outstretched in a cormorant pose, as if perched on a groyne. There was only one thing I could do in the face of such terrorism, I passed out, hitting my head on my desk as I slowly slumped to the floor.

To be continued over the cusp.

All Because the Lady Loves…. [2022 Edition]

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Some women have it all. They spend their days reclining on plush sofas wearing silk pyjamas, taking selfies for their Instagram feeds, and testing a limitless supply of premium anti-ageing products sent to them by marketing departments in high end stores. If that isn’t enough, they also have gentleman callers dropping at their feet. One such woman is Debbie Von Arlington-Grange who lives in six bedroom neo-Georgian barn conversion, known as ‘Rose Cottage’, just down wind of the Dartford tunnel. She also has a luxury yacht called ‘Hello Dolly’ moored at Dover with obvious Russian connections.
Here we see gentleman caller, Kevoff, desperately trying to keep Debbie sweet. He fearlessly dives off the white cliffs into the shark infested waters of the English Channel. He swims to Debbie’s yacht, climbs aboard, and delivers a perfectly wrapped box of Cadbury’s Milk Tray. Then, without so much as a nibble on a coffee cream, Debbie sends him packing.
Why? Because firstly he didn’t text to inform her of his impending arrival, and furthermore, because he forgot the Champagne, flowers, and the 65″ widescreen TV she wanted; he also forgot her dairy intolerance; and that she prefers Black Magic. To add insult to grievance, he then proceeded to make a soggy mess all over her pink shag pile carpet, AND, quite frankly, she is weary of him trying to convince people that there are sharks in the English Channel.
You’ll be pleased to know that I’m not as high maintenance as Debbie. I enjoy the simple pleasures in life; I don’t have a yacht – I’m quite at home on a lilo, and after a Moscow Mule or two, I might be persuaded to share my strawberry creams, and soft centres, so long as the ironing’s done.

Actually, I am probably more high maintenance than Debbie. Please bring me Lindt chocolate [don’t expect me to share it], and a bottle of whiskey. And what is all this nonsense about a lilo??? AND ironing???

First published on The Scarlet Blue Archive 12th February 2009
Revised and heavily edited in 2022.

Next week: Debbie does Dymchurch.

A Trail of Splinters….

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Charmaine glared up at me, her eyes glowing from a small dark hole in the floor, which we referred to as the cellar, but was actually just a small dark hole in the floor capable of concealing two bodies, or Charmaine.

‘Why have you stopped writing The Sunday Ketchup?’ She hissed.

I shrugged. It was a fair question.

‘Am bored with it; nothing has happened; and I don’t like the word ‘Ketchup’,’ I replied, ‘it’s so Daily Mail.’

Charmaine heaved her way up through the floor and stood in front of my desk dusting herself down.

‘That’s ridiculous, Aunt Scarlet! Just post some pictures! Any pictures!’

And then she stomped off, leaving a trail of splinters in her wake and forgetting to lay the rug back over the hole.

It was true, I did have pictures, but I had no words. The best I could find from my very secret journal was: I think Estee Lauder discontinued Double Wear Light foundation because a little went a long way, hence it wasn’t generating enough repeat buys often enough – that’s my theory. Bastards.

I had written few emails, and the best line I could find was: My walks are fairly long for someone with short legs.

By comparison my calligraphy practice had taken an inventive turn:-

I had also thought ahead regarding The Great Gardening Blogging Event 2022, and had taken a photograph of some Snowdrops:-

AND, I had been sorting through my mother’s old knitting patterns in view of using them for future collages, and I’d found this:-

Maybe Charmaine was right, I did have enough content to make a post. All I had to do now was to spin it together and make some sense of it all….without using the word ‘ketchup’.

Next week: Will Aunt Scarlet write something more interesting? Will her calligraphy become legible? Will she trip on a misplaced rug and fall down a hole? Or will she see sense, stop trying to write sentences, and simply slap up pictures from knitting patterns instead? All will be revealed in the next enthralling post on Wonky Words! Bet you can’t wait.