Crazy hair and sheds…

24 02 2010

Good evening.  As the other half is stuck somewhere between here and Milton Keynes waiting for the AA, I thought I’d pop a little blog.

Er, now what?

Ah yes…

Braving the low shelves and book-bins (book-bins? Is that what they’re called? You know, the bits in your local library that aren’t shelves where all the bigger books for little people are kept…)… lost my thread…

Braving the low shelves and book-bins (see above) in the library yesterday I found a corker: ‘Crazy Hair’ by Neil Gaiman. Had me snorting out loud – bonkers illustrations too, sort of funny and a tiny bit scarey. Actually, I’ve just found a YouTube clip of the man himself reading it – check it out, it’s very funny!

Then I bought some kindling from the hardware store, where I overheard a rather smartly-dressed lady say (rather poshly) to her friend,

‘My shed’s so full of rubbish.  I’m going to convert it into a chicken-house.’

And that was that.

The seed for the next one has been planted, and suddenly the current one is writing itself. Hurrah! Do love the way that you get to a certain point… pause… wait… then suddenly something happens (usually when you’re just beginning to get a bit worried that you’re seriously stuck) and you’re off

Checked Twitter a bit later to find that Neil Gaiman had been giving readings of ‘Crazy Hair’ in schools probably at about the same time I read it in the library – spook…

And now… dinner.

Sadly, cake is not involved. But that’s probably for the best. Had a cheeky cream bun yesterday – don’t tell anyone.


Wigs, sharks and sheds…

23 02 2010

Just a quick one.

Be careful with your Icelandic pronunciation.  If you’re swimming in the sea and suddenly find yourself attracting the attention of a shark, be aware that in attempting to alert nearby Icelanders to your plight, a slight mis-pronunciation could result in them laughing at you and saying things like, ‘Haha! That woman/bloke says she/he is being chased by a wig!’.

Or you could inadvertently compliment a hair-sensitive Icelander on their new shark.

Change of subject.

The eagle-eyed amonst you will notice there’s a new page called ‘THE SHED’. Look, it’s just up there – no, not there, up there. See it? Good.

And now, much as I’d like to get back to the shed, I have a day and half to submit an assignment for a web-design course.  And I’m very, very behind.

Bye then.

Names and pants…

20 02 2010

Most amusing time on Facebook yesterday – I asked for suggestions for a boy’s name, and got some corking responses! Oh, and just to set the record straight, no, I’m not pregnant, I was looking for a name for a character…

Only two of you suggested your own names (cheeky!), and I particularly liked the way one of you tried to hide your own name in a list of four others…

The award for the oddest real name that came up has to go to ‘Amazing’! And apologies to the teacher who suggested it for causing her to abandon her lesson-planning to search through her pupil lists… [snigger!]

I don’t think the right name has come up yet, but there was one odd suggestion that I’ve had to google a bit.  Turns out it’s a Chinese girl’s name, and it may well be perfect for another character who’s quite new and as yet nameless.  Or maybe not now… She’s Ellis’ unwilling side-kick in the Granny Battle stories, and is the most unpopular girl in school, mainly because she’s clever, boring, scruffy, and has a nightmare temper when roused.  She may now end up being Chinese, and called Pancey – and, of course, her nickname would just have to be Pants.

And now back to the shed…

Odour eaters and ploughmen…

19 02 2010

Ooops, been a while. Long overdue a blog, so here we go…

Firstly, a snippet from Granny Battle… bits and bobs have been coming together lately on this, so here’s a first rough of Ellis’ first experience of meeting Granny Battle (this is very rough!)… he’s just walked into her house…


Ellis backed away and stepped in something that just felt… wrong.

‘Now then,’ said the daft old lady, ‘don’t move. You’ve just trodden in the Odour Eater I was making.  Stupid dragon made me drop it out the pan.  Just hold still – once it works out that your feet don’t smell, it’ll loosen its grip.  Er – your feet don’t smell, do they?’

Ellis shut his eyes tight and said ‘No!’ very quietly.  Whatever he’d stepped in was slithering around his ankles, exploring inside his trainers and investigating between his toes.  Suddenly it stopped slithering and started to quiver.

‘Oh dear,’ the old lady said, ‘I thought you said you didn’t have smelly feet?’

‘I don’t!’ squeaked Ellis.  The quivering got faster and faster, then suddenly it stopped, and whatever it was slithered off his feet.  Ellis opened his eyes and looked down.  He was standing in the middle of a splat of gloopy brown goo. He looked up at the old lady in horror.

‘Come on, come on,’ she said, ‘You’re all right now, obviously just a borderline case.  I’d do something about that though, before it gets any worse.  Step off it, quick now!’

Ellis stepped out the splat as quickly as he could and followed the old lady into the kitchen.  She put the frying pan down on the table, crossed her arms, and stared hard at him.  ‘You’re the boy from number 23, aren’t you?’ she asked, ‘Ellis, isn’t it? Likes drawing dragons? Close your mouth and just answer.’

Ellis closed his mouth and nodded.  What was going on, he thought?

‘I thought so,’ said the old lady smuggly.  ‘I’m Granny Battle.’ She stuck her hand out and Ellis jumped.  She seemed to expect him to shake it, so he did, carefully.

‘I’m a slooth,’ said Granny.

‘Don’t you mean a sleuth?’ asked Ellis, hearing the spelling mistake.

‘No,’ said Granny, ‘Not a sleuth, a slooth.  There’s a very big difference.’


So, that’s that then.

And what’s with the ploughmen, you’re thinking? Well. Whilst spending a rather crazy evening in Bradford recently, I was introduced to a poet who nonchalantly ate a ploughman’s-in-a-bag in front of me.  Having never seen such a snack before, and being very impressed with it’s bizarreness, and it being my birthday the following day, he presented me with a couple of bags of the said snack, then wrote me a birthday poem. I won’t mention Colin Firth.

If you don’t believe that ploughman’s-in-a-bag exists, here’s the proof:

Isn’t that just the daftest thing ever?! I saved that last one for my other half, but unfortunately he had one of those cracker-eating moments, and lost half of it – and one pickle – on the floor.

The Ploughman’s Poet blogs at There is mention of the Ploughman’s incident. And he called me lovely!

Strange things in bags – and dog-sticks – may well be working themselves into a story in some manner…

So, enough for now… back to my shed…

Bring me sunshine…

8 02 2010
Look what I got!
Isn’t that nice? Haiku Master The Existential Poet ( very kindly gave it to me and I’m most chuffed!
I now have to nominate 12 blogs for this award myself… and I’m not allowed to nominate The Existential Poet, so I may struggle here. Apart from him, there’s only one other blog I read regularly and it’s this one…
Can I do that? Well I just have, so now I somehow have to tell him.  Oh dear.
Anyway, all that sunshine yesterday prompted me to listen to an old Morcambe & Wise CD (boom-OO-yata-ta-ta…), which was nicely followed by a documentary-type thing on telly about the Goon Show (‘I’m not a spy, I’m a shepherd!’ ‘Aha! You’re a shepherd’s spy!’). Oh, the belly-laughs…
And that’s about all, really. Back to some words, and to trying to decide if Peter should find George in the boot before they leave for the shops, or after… hmmm…

Over and out for now…