Missing mousey bits and unexpected hugs…

A couple of days ago when I blogged the non-rhymey version of my rhymey story, I missed a bit out.

I forgot the mouse! How could I have forgotten the mouse, especially as towards the end of the post I included a rhymey bit about the mouse!

So here goes with the mousey-bit. It comes after the cat and before the spider…

—————–

The cat jumps back over the garden fence, and I notice a tiny face peer out from behind a plant pot. It’s a little brown mouse, and after checking the coast is clear, he scurries out and sits on the path cleaning his whiskers. I decide to ask him.

The mouse hops onto the guitar and twitches his nose at the strings. He bites one experimentally. Then he turns to me and squeaks, “No, I can’t play guitar – my tiny paws are way too small.” And he dashes off in search of a beetle for tea.

—————–

Well I wasn’t sure how I was going to end this post, but something really sweet just happened on the train! A little boy with what I think was Down Syndrome had been chatting non-stop with his dad since I’d got on. His dad obviously understood every word he was saying, and I found myself listening in, but could only pick out a word or two of what he was saying. Suddenly he appeared by my side, pointed at my bright orange rucksack, and proceeded to talk about it to me. I showed him the zips and pockets, and my train keys. He was very impressed, and showed his dad. Then as we pulled into his station, he reached over, gave me a massive hug, a kiss on each cheek, and one on the nose.

Totally unexpected and utterly wonderful!

‘Bye for now!

Do you know how to play guitar?

Well hello there!

I’m still trying to rhyme a story.

It struck me that it might be useful to write it out non-rhymily, instead of just having the pictures in my head – it might help me find some new words, or give me a bit more background to play with.

It’s written from the point of view of a little boy who is given a guitar, but doesn’t know how to play it. So he goes around trying to find someone who can play it.

Hmmm, it’s always little boys in my stuff – must be the latent tomboy in me…

So, here we go… it’s probably going to be full of notes, asides, questions and random ideas, so may not make sense…!

—————————————-

I’ve got a guitar! It was a present from… an aunt or uncle? With a silly name? It might be blue. But the only thing is, I don’t know how to play it. So I’m off to find someone who can play, and hopefully they’ll be able to show me how to play too.

Here’s our pet dog out in the garden – he’s a big, black, shaggy old dog. I wonder if he knows how to play guitar? I’ll ask him.

The dog looks at the guitar, and has a good old sniff at it. Its strings might go “twoing“. He shakes his big old shaggy head and says “No, I can’t play guitar – my paws are way too big.”

So off I go in search of someone else. Our pet cat jumps onto the garden table from the top of the fence. She’s a little stripey thing, not much more than a kitten really. I’ll ask her.

The cat twists and twines her way around the guitar, her tail looping the loop around its neck. She butts the strings gently with her nose. The strings might go “twing“. She sits down and washes a paw, and says “No, I can’t play guitar – my claws would get caught on the strings.”

I think this might be helping – ‘twing’ and ‘string’…

I decide to go back in the house and look there. High up in the corner of the bathroom, our big, fat, friendly, leggy, house spider is busy repairing a tiny tear in his web. I’ll ask him.

The spider abseils down a thread and lands on the guitar. He disappears inside it, then comes back out and walks up and down the strings. There’s not a sound. Rising silently on his thread back towards the ceiling, he whispers “No, I can’t play guitar – my legs just aren’t strong enough.” Something about sticky web? Not strong enough to pluck? Careful with the rhymes there… this is intended for children…!

Wandering into the kitchen, the resident fly is lazily tapping out a rhythm on the window with head… Or timing himself doing circuits round the light fitting? I’ll ask the fly.

The fly zooms gently round my head as I ask, then lands briefly on the body of the guitar and has a little walk round. He flies into the sound hole and buzzes echo-ley (?!) round the inside. Then he flies out suddenly and disappears out the open back door. I guess he can’t play guitar either.

I sigh, and sit down on the back door step with my guitar on my knee. I’m never going to find anyone who can play guitar.

Just then, there’s a knock at the front door, and footsteps in the hall. Someone ruffles my hair and says “Hello!”. I look up, and there’s my Uncle Jon. He asks me what’s wrong, and I tell him sadly that I have this lovely new guitar, but I don’t know how to play it, and can’t find anyone that can. I’m rather upset.

But guess what? Uncle Jon picks up the guitar, leans back against the kitchen wall and starts to play!

At last! I’ve found someone that can play guitar!

—————————————-

Well, I think that’s helped a bit! I’m probably going to keep coming back to this story version, adding bits, changing bits, and giving it a nudge here and there. But I think putting it down non-rhymily is going to be a big help with the rhymey version, hurrah!

I do have a few pre-rhymed bits so far, so I’ll jot some of them down here so you can get the rhythm and sort of see what I’m aiming for…

‘Oh no,’ she purred, ‘No, not those things,
my claws get caught up in the strings.’

….

The mouse tee tumpty tum instead,
and shook his teeny tiny head.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t play at all,
my tiny paws are way too small.’

…

It was my favourite Uncle Jon,
Who asked me what on earth was wrong.
‘I’ve searched all day both near and far
to find someone to play guitar.’

‘I’ve asked the dog, the cat, the mouse,
The spider that lives in the house.
I’ve even asked a little fly,
And now I think I’m going to cry.’

…

Right, back to rhyming!

Crazy hair and sheds…

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.

Odour eaters and ploughmen…

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 http://bradwan.wordpress.com/. 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…

Old sketches…

Morning! Well, its all kicking off in the Archers this week… Even Stephen Fry was twittering about it!

Been going through old notebooks the last few days, trying to organise my random scribblings and remember the ideas behind them (if there were any!). Here’s a couple…

Quite like Wirey-Haired-Bloke – I think he’s Peter’s dad (from ‘Definitely No Elephants’).  Not sure who the little chubby dude is, or why he appears to have a deformed rabbit by his side…

Here’s a self portrait from my plaited-baggy-jumper days (lordy!)…

…and here’s a rough scribble of Granny Battle (the mental-private-investigatory-too-many-cats-big-motorbike-character)…

Oh blimey, it’s just struck me that perhaps the sketch of Granny B is a prediction of what I’ll end up looking like, haha! Actually, maybe I shouldn’t laugh… maybe I will end up looking like that… maybe I already do, oh no!

Prime scribbling time used to be on the tube on the way too and from work in London… ooh, that reminds me… where’s Beardy-Bloke? Saw a fab bloke on Golders Green station once and sketched him… now where’s that… hang on… aha!

He had such an impressive beard and belly I had to sneakily get him down on paper.

Right, that’s all for now… time for a soak in the bath with Radio 4, then pop out for a paper (possibly nip into the local to read it with a Deuchars) then home to write.  Happy Sunday!

 

ps – Ooops, how rude of me! Forgot to thank all those of you that were following The Frog Prince, had some lovely feedback, cheers! x

The Frog Prince – Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The new paving stones in the town gleamed, the tailor had been brought out of retirement, and bakers had been drafted in from all over the country to make the biggest, jammiest, creamiest cake every.

Norris Nuggins and Gran had been moved into a lovely stone cottage by the palace, the Royal Town Crier had a new gold bell, and everyone cheered and waved as Prince Jack and Princess Nesta rode through the town in an open top carriage, on their way to the seaside for their honeymoon.

Gran’s eyes twinkled, and she said,

‘Oooh, now isn’t that nice?’

THE END

The Frog Prince – Chapter 10

Chapter 10

The town tailor had taken early retirement on all the money he had made from making bigger clothes for everyone, so people were rather pleased that this wedding was a rather quiet affair, and the cake – although delicious – had been a lot smaller.  Nesta hadn’t wanted too much fuss, and had said that the money would be better spent paving the roads in the town.

Now she sat on the royal bed and smoothed out the tiny pyjamas.

‘Come on then Jack,’ she said, ‘Let’s see how they look,’ and picking him up carefully she put on the little trousers, then the jacket.  As soon as she did up the last button, there was a loud spang, a sparkly noise, and a lovely twinkly cloud of silver glitter.

Nesta looked up in surprise.  The frog had gone, and standing in front of her in a very smart pair of blue stripy pyjamas was the most handsome Prince she’d ever seen!

The Frog Prince – Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Gran sat in her rocking chair slurping a cup of tea while Nesta arranged the flowers she’d picked on the way in a little vase.

‘So you’ll be marrying the Prince then, will you deary?’ quavered Gran.  Nesta smiled at her.

‘Yes, Gran’ she answered.

‘Oooh, that is nice,’ said Gran.  ‘And tell me, what will you do on your wedding night?’  Nesta sat down at the table and cut them both a slice of cake.

‘Well,’ she said, handing a piece to Gran, ‘I suppose I’ll kiss the prince on top his head, and say goodnight!’ She sipped her tea.

‘Oooh, that’s nice deary,’ said Gran, ‘Look, here’s a tiny pair of pyjamas for him.  Make sure you do up all of the buttons now, won’t you?’

The Frog Prince – Chapter 8

Chapter 8

The Royal Town Crier paced nervously up and down the squeaky floorboards in Norris’ shack and mopped his brow.

‘I know it’s a lot to ask, Sir,’ he said, ‘But no-one else came forward! I don’t know what I’ll do if I go back without a name!’

Norris swilled his drink round in his mug and looked down at Nesta who was cleaning out the fire.

‘Waaaaaaarl, I don’t know…’ he said, ‘to be honest, I’m quite fond of this one.’

The Royal Town Crier whimpered.

‘It’s all right dad,’ said Nesta, ‘I don’t mind.  I’ll do it.’  The Royal Town Crier heaved a sigh of relief and took out his quill and ink.  Nesta stood up and wiped her hands on her apron.

‘I’ll go and tell Gran,’ she said.

The Frog Prince – Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Everyone agreed that this wedding had been even more magnificent that the last one.  Most of the people had had to have bigger trousers and skirts made, and despite this were now having to undo buttons and loosen belts yet again – the cake had been tremendous!

Nelly sat on the royal bed sneering at the Prince, who was on the bedside table.  Then she reached for the woolly cardie Gran had given her.

As soon as she pulled on the last sleeve, there was a fizzling noise, a pop, and cloud of choky black smoke.  Nelly disappeared.  In her place, a fat black beetle scuttled angrily over the bedspread.  The prince raised his eyebrows, then – THLUP! – his long tongue shot out, caught the beetle, and he swallowed it with a froggy gulp.