Isle of Wight

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside



Oh I do like to be beside the sea



I do like to stroll upon the cliffs and take pictures of things



And then play silly machines until I win, win, win



So let me be beside the sepia seaside



I’ll be beside myself with glee!

Resolutions, of sorts

And so she’s back!
From Lanzarote!
She swam in the sea
And it really wasn’t grotty
I should have packed my second sun-dress
I should have drank Sangria 'til I was sick
If I’d known for just one second
I’d be back so very quick!

My word. Holidays just fly, don’t they? I managed to read two books from my enormous pile (okay, that was a tad ambitious) and made the mistake of starting the whopper book breezeblock, Stephen King’s Under The Dome, on the last day. This meant I have been glued to it ever since – folks, it is a good one. I barely noticed the plane ride. This is the book I wanted Duma Key to be. Anyway, there shall be more of it in a review when I get my act together (looks under chocolate wrappers for Act; finds it cowering away with mahoosive To Do list).

Mahoosive. Anyone remember that word from school? A cross between massive and...hm. Moose? Yes, that was it. Our school had such a way with words. I remember one of our teachers, a youngish chap but not young enough to be down with all the slang, flying into our classroom to ask us what ‘chief’ meant when aimed as a verbal arrow. We laughed, told him it wasn’t complimentary, and he went flying out of the classroom again in a rage.

Where was I? Ah yes. Act. I made a list (and I am checking it twice) full of things I need to crack on with, and most of it involves actually writing something. I feel like I have reverted into being a person with ideas for stories without actually committing them to paper/screen/software programme. This makes me a very sad girl indeed, so I am full of new resolutions to widen the cracks of space around full-time work so I can drip-feed in some stories. That is, if I can stay out from Under the Dome long enough.

What was the last book you fell into?

The Sound of Silence

Last night I looked up at the sky and heard the silence. Thanks to the erupting Icelandic volcano, all the aeroplanes have been grounded, and it is a strange thing to look into the sky and see not a single plane. No jumbo jets taking passengers on an exotic holiday, no private planes zipping its wealthy occupants across the counties, no gliders, no helicopters, no nothing. The skies are once again a domain for feathered friends. They must wonder what has happened to the strange metallic objects that usually tear loudly across the blue. Jubilant birds – take back your heritage!

It is strange not to see a plane, but stranger still not to hear them. We’ve become attuned to that distant rumble of displaced air, a sound so commonplace that we barely notice its vibrations anymore (unless you live under a flight path of course). Maybe when air travel starts again the noise will be over-whelming, and people will protest and write to their local newspaper (as that does wonders, Disgruntled of Dorset.)

My first experience of air travel was a holiday to Spanish island Majorca with my parents when I was eight years old. We flew at night, so I’d be shaken awake, blinking, at some yawn-inducing hour, and we’d sing in the car on the way to the airport. It was incredibly exciting to go somewhere ‘exotic’ that wasn’t an English holiday camp, even though the minute we landed (or so it would seem) I’d be shunted off into the children’s prison (the dreaded mini-club for 7 – 11 year olds) and realise that no matter whether we were in England or Spain, my days would be grimly filled with organised 'fun'. I’d still be required to find a pebble with a hole through it, fill a matchbox with a number of objects beginning with ‘s’, make some sort of tutu, and at some point have to wear a slightly sweaty crepe paper fancy dress costume and do a 'turn' on stage.

When was your first aeroplane trip and where did you go?

Picture by danielweir.esq