The House of Burning Bras

And it begins again...

2012-02-12T04:24:00.000-08:00

It has been some time since I wrote a House of Burning Bras blog. Time slips away and before you know it a year has passed. However events over the past twenty-four hours compel me to open up the blogger template again and put fingers to keys once again. "Why?" you ask. "Why?" Well it's quite simple, you see Bear has just had her first sleepover.

And it was not pleasant.

I sit here at twenty minutes to twelve, counting the seconds until the remaining parents collect their children, eyes half shut, head pounding. I've had about three hours sleep and even that was not uninterrupted. Three hours sleep for me only occurs after a massive write off and then I can shark it up--after all it was in pursuit of art, this however... THIS!

Okay where to start. Well it began on Friday evening when young Bethan arrived at about 6 O Clock. A quiet girl, shy, studious looking. She was no trouble. Indeed I enjoyed a good few hours of editing because Bear was occupied. But then on Saturday morning when Bethan was about to leave Sarah asked if she could stay over again with the other friends that were due to arrive at six. The more the merrier thought I, of course she can. I had a little image of me getting five hours chill out time. I was thinking to do a quick clean up and then veg on the sofa in my hunnies arms. Maybe cook a light lunch, watch a bit of TV, read, whatever...after all I had five hours before the horde of twelve year olds arrived. And this is a Saturday! My day of rest, my one day of doing absolutely nothing that I do not want to do. Every other day of the week I'm at work, and I include Sunday's in that because I edit, sort the house out, wash clothes for the week coming, cook roast dinners yada yada. So yes, five perfect blissful hours.

Bethan's mom arrived at a quarter to one, taking her child home, and I gleefully skipped upstairs to wake the boyf...cuddles were had, I let out a happy sigh...and then the doorbell went. Okay, lies not the doorbell because we don't have one. This is a purposeful strategy to keep away unwanted visitors. If they can knock loud enough I'll answer, if they can't well...bad luck! Anyone who I actually want to visit knows to just come in the back door and holler up the stairs. So I sprung up and peered out of the window. Who would dare to knock my front door at this ungodly hour? Barely one in the afternoon?! Bear's voice reached me three floors up. "Taydra's here!"
Huh? Say what? Huh? Huh?! I was on the understanding that she was arriving at six! SIX!!! I had my five hours of chill didn't I? What was a child doing here already?? I raced down the stairs, all two flights of them, to see Sarah in the kitchen by her friend. Mom was already making a dash for it (I see why now), leaving me there with a twenty-four hour guest. What could I say? What could I possibly say?

Four hours later I remembered the reason I always gave a six o clock drop of time. When Vix went through her sleepover phase I instigated it, but over the years forgot why. By five I remembered, it all came back with perfect and painful clarity. Any people (girls maybe more so than boys, and my children more so than others probably) under the age of sixteen have a natural time span they can stand in the company of friends. This time span increases as the years do. So at ten it's maybe two hours, by twelve, three, by fifteen, five or six. Bear is still twelve so her time span of other twelve year old company is about two hours. This is based on the idea that there is no parental intervention of games, activities etc. Just leaving them to chill. By five Bear and her friend were already sick of one another. No that's not true, Bear was, her friend oblivious. It's different with the six o clock drop off. They spend a half hour shrieking, then dinner takes them through to eight, then a movie, followed by Wii, snacks, chatting and then it's midnight. The time is gone before you know it. But one o clock? There just aren't sufficient activities.

So by six when the other two chums arrived, Bethan (re-run) and Neve (so darn sweet), Bear was a bit run ragged, Taydra still as painfully chirpy as ever, and me ready to strangle them all. Six through to midnight followed the usual pattern of sleepover-ness. It was all good, and even really sort of funny. Because for Vix this was a total turn of the tables.
"They're so noisy," she hissed to me. "Why do they have to giggle so much?"
"You did the exact same thing," I told her. "When you were that age."
Vix shook her head. "No way were we ever that annoying, no way."
I must admit I was thinking along the same lines myself. Vix's chums weren't this hyper were they? Or maybe the years had dimmed the memories?

By midnight I told them all to hunker down to sleep. Vix stalked past them, eyes narrowed. Only Neve did not feel the force of her stare, and that is because we have popped her in favourite friend territory already. She's just so damn cute and so well behaved! Ah I know what you're thinking, there should not be a fav friend placement, but there always is, it is inescapable, so there's no point pretending otherwise. With Vix it was Freya, and I note that they're still best pals many, many years later. So Vix and I went up to bed, and I congratulated Vix on not threatening to hang one of Bear's friends out of the window by her ankles as she has done in the past aka Aunt Marge stylee. The house went quiet, I breathed a sigh of relief....

Then it began: the giggles, the chatter, the shrieks. It starts out quiet, a low murmur, then when they're not chastised it increases in volume until you have no choice but to shout down, and you can't shout, shut the fuck up, like you want to. These are other people's children, you can't really swear at them. So you have to sound reasonable. Thing is by three in the morning reasonable leaves the room to be replaced with barely controlled anger. Vix gave up the ghost about four. I heard her leap out of bed and actually threaten the children with bodily harm if they did not shut up and let her sleep. By that point I was so tired I didn't even stop her.
"She's never having a sleepover again!" Vix hissed as she passed my room.
I had to chuckle, even sleep deprived and ready to offer them all a shot of whisky. How many times had I said the exact same thing to her? Ah the synchronicity.

I think they nodded off about fiveish, result yah? No, because the boyf, the pratt, unbeknowst to me had been receiving regular texts from Bear asking him to bring her home take out when he finished work. He fucking did!!! Chips, sausages and chicken nuggets with curry sauce for them at five thirty in the fucking morning!!! It gave them a second wind. They did not go back to sleep! Instead they ran around the house, shrieking and shouting and fucking singing. Deep breath.

It's now twelve fifteen and parents have collected their offspring. I have clothes to wash, cleaning to do--because the place is shit hole and smells distinctly like a girl's locker room--food to cook, there are edits awaiting my attention, a chapter of Tasker and Glass to tweak, the list goes on. Oh and someone blocked the toilet! With poop!!!! And who is gonna clean that out huh? Me is the answer, fucking me! Cleaning some other child's shit out of the pan. God almighty!!!!!

Not now though, not now, my fingertips have expelled the worst of my pain and there is only one place that needs me. I'm going back to bed.

Bear becomes Sarah-post from the tween herself

2011-09-17T09:20:00.000-07:00

Secondary School

Hi. I'm Sarah, but Mother calls me Bear. I go to Worle Community School, and trust me, it's full of surprises

From evil teachers to love songs about classmates, Worle has a LOT of twists and turns. It begins at home, when Mother comes into the room shouting
"Get up! Time for School!"
"But Mum!" No matter how hard I fight against going to the dread that is School, Mum always wins. After being dropped off, I walk past the gate, still half asleep. Approaching my Tutor Group, I try waking myself up by singing in my head-most of the time I just drift off and think about lolling around at home, but soon I'm woken again by my friend Taydra, yelling
"Sarah! Over here!" I run, knowing the bell for Tutor Group time will go off at anytime. After it goes off, my Tutor Mr Tong walks outside, letting us into the class. It's not the biggest Tutor Base in the School (I think the Science and Maths rooms are bigger) but then again, it's not that small. Not as small as the MFL (Modern Foreign Languages) room. I usually just grab the seat nearest to Taydra, like friends do.

Lessons. The most boring (and important) part of School is lessons. Some lessons are unusual, nothing you'd ever find at Primary
School. (Well it depends which School you're on about) There's stuff like DT and Music. And for some odd reason, Citizenship. (I might be the only one in my Tutor who knows what that is without an explanation) THEN you have what every Secondary School has. Evil Teachers. Mr Titley (lol) the Science teacher said to us (on FIRST day!)
"Alright, silence, single file line. NOW" then, to make things worse, I whispered something to Taydra on the way in, Mr Titley heard this and roared
"SILENCE!" That's not it. My PE teacher made us change into our uniforms in under 4 minutes, (Which took 3 GOES!) then it turned out no PE, just information on kits and filling in our planners. There are loads more, IT teacher called me an ignorant brat, and after I broke a uniform rule (Shirt tucked into trousers-tried to hide it but got told off after being caught.) I really was scared. Geography teacher says we're all a pain in the ass, and when one back chatted to her in a test, she said
"Don't be a smart arse." Scary.

Break and Lunch-favourite part of the day. I mainly have a packed lunch, but the food at Cafe Willow is immense! Delicious sausages, mouth-watering brownies, delectable baguettes and even slushies! To make things better, I remember my best friend from year 2 Rosie (she left) is at that school! We met again at the Cafe, it was great! Not being biased! The packed lunch room is ace too! There's a TV (All it shows is the music channel-awesome because I remember when it played The Boy is Mine, Toxic and Don't Cha) and a Ping Pong table! Me and Taydra played against Sean and Kieran, two boys from my Primary School (I admit I had a little crush on Sean) and we lost 1-5. Buggar. There's also an outside part with benches, an arena-like floor, a model of a WWII Anderson Shelter and a graffiti smiley face with sunglasses on the wall. The dumb boys try to get in the Anderson Shelter, there's only one entrance, not that blocked-maybe cause it's blocked with a shoddy shovel- and they're always trying to 1) get inside, or 2) eat on top of it without getting into trouble. There's also an ant colony that's managed to eat their way threw a rotten apple and sandwich. Ew.

My friends are cool. At lunch Kiera's always offering grapes, and one time Libby offered our group Bacon Rashers. Everyone took one, not wanting to look like a freak, I accepted one to try. Nice, but horrible aftertaste. Most of the girls in the group are from my Primary School, so it's obvious we're friends. The only ones in the group that I didn't know before were Taydra and Bethan, two girls I never expected to be friends with, as on inspection day Taydra and I never talked, and all Bethan asked me was
"Can I borrow your pen?" (We sat next to each other in History, bur she was quiet) Oh well, they're awesome. The girls from my Primary School are Molly, Kiera, Emily, Libby and Megan. Then I've just mentioned Taydra and Bethan.

Of course, like at all Secondary School, their are the stupid teenage boys. In year 5, there was a guy in my class, (really he was in the other year 5 class) called Gabriel. (Or Gabi for short) And he was a complete douche. He got expelled and then sent to an anger management school. Gabi is at Worle, whenever he passes Kiera he calls her a midget. Probaly the reason I told Kiera to keep her head down whenever he passes.

Finally, time to talk relationships, and in 7PN, (my Tutor Group) there's love in the air. Especially that whenever we're in music, Miss Mac sings a love song about the 7PN couples. So far only two (Majenta+Jordan and Laura+Scott) but I have a crush-on TWO boys! (Is that bad?) Ryan Thomas...and Sam whatever-his-last-name-is. Ryan's funny and Sam's cute-he has the same hair as the Sam from Glee! Kiera, she either has a crush on Liam or Jarom. Taydra loves Jordan (Not Majenta's boyfriend, Jordan from another Tutor Group) and I just don't see how he's cute! (At that point, Tay's giving me the 'are you serious?' eyes)

Despite some catastrophes -such as Libby losing an earring and me getting scared by fiersome teachers-Worle's a fantastic School. Though my sister Vix, who went to Priory, can't believe I'm what, according to her, a 'Worle Sket.' It's amazing to have great teachers, and lessons in the performing arts. The best thing is having incredible friends. I was shy in Primary School, so I didn't have that many friends, but I'm better now, with seven amazing friends-five of whom I already knew. I know that Secondary School will be great, though in my five-year journey, they'll be bumps and bruises, I've got a whole experience to look forward to. That's what School's truly about.

Kids on Cash

2011-02-12T13:39:00.000-08:00

A couple of weeks ago I had a bunch of cash on my bedside table. I'd left it there for bits and bobs during the week, groceries and such. I was tending to take a tenner here and there and that was working just fine. One morning as we were rushing around getting ready for school and work I shouted up to Bear to bring me down a tenner for lunch and stuff. She did and I thought no more of it.

Until a few days later when I was off to the shops and went to grab some cash... only to find it conspicously absent. I moved the bed side table and such, searched in the drawers thinking it had dropped in one of them but nothing... where I wondered was my pile of cash? Stymied I went off to the shops and sort of forgot about it until that very night when I was tucking young Bear into bed! Yes, the plot thickens does it not, and I'm sure you know where I'm going with this. Sat on HER bedside table was a neat little pile of notes.

I realized immediately what had occured and turned to look at my little thief.

"What is this young lady?" I asked.
She tried to put on an innocent expression and replied. "Money."
"Whose money?" I asked.
She bit down on her little lip and smiled. "Mine."

Now I had to give her points for the sheer brazen-ness of it, despite a fair bit of shock.

"Did your money come from my bedroom?" I asked.
She nodded slowly.

I knew of course what had happened, upon seeing my cash pile when I asked her to get me a tenner, her little eleven year old mind decided to grab the lot for herself. However, as I have since told her, it wasn't very well thought out. Where was she going to spend it and how? I take her everywhere, she'd had to have fessed up before trying to launder it. Anyhoos a lecture followed and she was told quite clearly that money hanging around the house is not hers for the taking.

She won't try that one again I told the chap...

Skip forward a fortnight and I ask her to grab something from my bag, she does, I think no more of it. Until that night, again tucking her in, I spot a tenner on her bedside table!

"Bear!" I said. "State where you got this money from."
"Your bag," she replies.

Yes, once again my little kleptomaniac had helped herself to my money! Now Bear is the cutest little thing in the universe, despite a slightly mischevious glint in her eye (see picture above), and that allows her to get away with a fair bit. However, this was the limit. Theft I told her is theft.

"I wanted some money," she said in a perfectly reasonable tone.
"Yes, but you can't just take mine," I said.
"Why not?"

Why not indeed! I've always told the girls that everything we have belongs to all of us. I'm not precious about possessions, whoever gets to it first uses it, so I could kinda see where she was coming from. But money is another thing entirely. Again she was given a fairly stern lecture and told in no uncertain terms the meaning of stealing, or as we've since labelled it 'appropriating cash for her own purposes'. I'm not angry about it, Brip to the Brap and so on, but I am slightly put out by her lack of forward thinking.

Where did she think she was going to offload it? Where was she planning to utilise it and how? I'm always a bit annoyed when my kids show such lack of forward planning. It suggests a lack of imagination, not good for the offspring of a writer. And as I've since told her, if she wants a career as a diamond thief she's gonna have to get a bit more creative!

Emma x

The Rogue Cupcake

2010-10-10T07:27:00.000-07:00

I was down to my last slither of pink icing. So far I’d managed to ice 11 cupcakes, there were another 25 to go.
‘What shall we do mom? Do y’reckon we can get one more done?’ asked Bear.
I lent down until I was on eye level with the cupcake. ‘We have plenty of chocolate icing and frosting,’ I replied. ‘But we have to get one more done in pink, it has to be an even dozen.’
Bear shook her head and sighed – she reminded my irresistibly of a plumber eyeing up a dodgy pipe. I expected her to start sucking through her teeth and saying, Hmmm not gonna be cheap love.
‘We should just chocolate what’s left,’ Bear insisted.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I’m going to go for it, we WILL ice one more pink.’
Bear stepped a little closer, hesitant, yet eager to see what was going to happen. You see icing a cupcake is a delicate procedure. You can’t just slop the stuff on. I’d started the night armed with piping guns and had created – thus far – eleven perfectly formed treats. Now though I was working to a different set of rules entirely. I was attempting to do it minus the gun, I was going to scrape the remaining icing from inside the tube and free ride it.
I was treading the line, hanging over the precipice... I was going to ice... with a spoon!
‘Careful mom!’ Bear said as I picked up the cupcake.
I nodded slowly and gently, oh so gently, applied the spoon. The icing slowly, oh so slowly began to move onto the cupcake. I eased a relieved breath and moved the spoon away.
A significant portion of the cupcake came with me.
I gulped and gritted my teeth. ‘Bear.’
‘Yeah?’ she said (sprinkles already in her hand – awaiting the completed cupcake).
‘We’ve got ourselves a...’ I stopped unable to continue.
‘A what mom?’ she asked, gripping the sprinkle tube a little harder (I think one or two might have shot out of the topless tube up her nose but I digress). ‘A what?’
‘A...’ I paused and took a deep breath. ‘A rogue cupcake!’
Bear stepped back, shock etched on her face. ‘No mom noooo!’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It’s gone rogue.’
A rogue cupcake is a tricky thing, entirely in the hands of the cupcake fates it can go either way. It might let you salvage it, it might not. It might be present on the line up of perfect cupcakes or it might be dropped in the mixing bowl for immediate consumption.
It was entirely my own fault of course. Had I admitted defeat by the lack of pink icing and accepted the need for chocolate, the cupcake would have been fine. But I hadn’t, I’d pushed it, insisting that I’d get just one more... like a thief planning one last heist I’d pushed my luck over the line.
Now the cupcake was exerting its revenge, like that same thief I was languishing in jail and trying to plot a way out.
‘What can we do?’ Bear asked worriedly.
I shook my head and looked down at the sizeable lump of perfectious sponge attached to the last slither of pink icing.
‘There’s not enough icing to make it stick,’ I said. ‘We’re gonna have to go chocolate.’
‘Like I said in the first place, I think you’ll find,’ Bear reminded me.
She passed me the chocolate piping gun and I frowned down at it. I’m a mathematical person and I knew, I just knew, that not achieving a perfect dozen was going to annoy me for days to come.
I looked form the chocolate to the pink... plotting, planning. We’re the bars thick enough, how close was the security guard... were the cupcake fates going to be nice?
Inspiration came to me and before I knew it I was dropping the chocolate icing into the hole of the rogue cupcake. I replaced the errant sponge and pushed it into place (pink icing and spoon still attached).
‘Pass me that knife,’ I said.
Bear (the perfect cupcake assistant) was at my arm in an instant, implement poised.
I nodded slowly and gently, oh so gently, applied the knife to the last slither of pink.
The icing slowly, oh so slowly began to move off the spoon and onto the cupcake. I eased a relieved breath and once again moved the spoon away.
The errant sponge stayed in place.
The cupcake was complete.
‘Bear,’ I said. ‘The cupcake has rejoined ranks.’
She nodded and moved forward to welcome it with sprinkles.

If you're a bit of a mental fattie like me check out www.emmashortt.blogspot.com (my other blog) to win a free recipe book.

Super Sweet Sixteen

2010-09-12T14:38:00.000-07:00

Just under sixteen years ago something happened in my life that changed me in ways I could never have imagined. An event that shook me to my very core and would have far reaching effects that I could never have envisaged.

You see sixteen years ago this thursday my princess, Victoria Elizabeth, was born. I could fill the internet with words declaring my love for her. Telling you all how wonderous she is, how happy she makes me and how lucky I feel to have her in my life. We all think our children are perfect don't we and I'm no exception. I adore her in ways it would be impossible to describe. I love her smile, her laugh, her wit, her outrageousness, even her washing up phobia - everything about her... everything but one incy wincy little thing...

I've called her princess from the moment she was born and now, well, she expects to be treated like one. Those far reaching effects I mentioned, one of them has been the steady decline in my bank balance! She wants, she asks and I, being wrapped around her little finger, am helpless to resist.

The latest incursion on my financial stability (and there have been MANY over the last sixteen years) is the PARTY. Her Super Sweet Sixteenth birthday party. I blame MTV, they spent a whole year showing little rich girls having these ridiculously expensive parties and Vix decided she too would quite like one. This is all well and good and were I rich I'd be wholeheartedly on board. But I'm not rich, I'm happily comfortable when not faced with party bills in the many digits.

'It must be the best, it must be perfect, I can not have a substandard party MOM!' Vix said to me, mere hours ago when I questioned the need for a three tier cake.
'Yes but...' I replied.
'There are no buts mom!' she insisted, with a I-want-I-must-have-do-not-try-and-gainsay-me gleam in her eye. 'Do you want me to die of shame in front of my friends? Do you want people to say my party wasn't epic? Do you? I'm only sixteen once mom, this is the only time I'll ever be able to have a sweet sixteenth and you're moaning about money?!'
I mumble something along the lines of it doesn't grow on trees.
'Don't you want to make me happy?' she asks, her perfect brown eyes suddenly all wide and her little lip pouting. I rush to reassure her that of course I do, that she's my princess and I always want her to be happy.
'You're the bestet mom in the world,' she replied, taking my reassurance as agreement to her latest demand. And that was that.

You see Vix knows just how to get her own way, she knows I am putty in her hands and this is how a small party with her closest friends has turned in to this huge event, in a bar, with a DJ and seventy people, and food, and drinks, and decorations, and an expensive outfit and so on and on. In later life I stongly suspect that she'd make a wonderful dictator.

So I will spend the next week making decorations and baking cakes and doing a million and one things to get everything perfect for her. Perhaps I should be sterner, maybe I should put my foot down and tell my princess that she can't have the stretch limo or the hundred balloons or the custom made cupcakes. Some might indeed say that she is just a wee bit spoilt... and I might, just might be inclined to agree.

But you know what, the last sixteen years that this wonderful person has been in my life have been the bext sixteen years. My Vix has enriched me in ways it is impossible to state. She's made me laugh, made me cry, made me run the gauntlet of emotions. There isn't a day that I don't feel eternally grateful, that I don't feel shockingly blessed to have been given her as my daughter. What's a healthy bank balance compared to that?

Gleeful GaGa

2010-08-22T14:59:00.000-07:00

There are a few things sacred in The House of Burning Bras. Unlimited chocolate consumption, the freedom to wear pyjamas all day, the agreement to stack books on every clean surface. Lately though, by vote, we've added two more to the list. These two are so important to the fabric of the house that I felt a blog was neccesary, they are, of course, Glee and GaGa.

It all began a few weeks ago. We were watching the Lady GaGa episode of Glee, I should say from the off that we've been watching Glee from episode one and have all fallen in love with it, furthermore GaGa has been playing on loop in the car for months. So there we were, our fav show, our fav singer...

'It's legend, clear legend,' Vix said. 'I don't see how they can possibly beat it.'
'The Bad Romance performance was wicked, wicked,' Bear agreed.
They were right, the episode was indeed the pinnacle of gleedom. I looked across at them both and knew immediately what we had to do.
'We can do a better Bad Romance than that,' I said.
'Huh?' Bear asked, tearing her gaze from the final few minutes.
'We can beat that,' I said again.
I looked at the clock, half ten on a school night. It was possibly a smidge late, might possibly be a smite too noisy for our neighbours but this was Glee, this was GaGa - in one go - what choice did we have?

I waited until the end of the episode, as soon as the credits rolled I turned to the princesses. 'You have fifteen minutes to assemble a GaGa costume, fifteen minutes until the music starts and then we will perform Bad Romance.'
'Ohmegod Mom are you serious?' Vix asked.
'Not up for the challenge?' I said. 'Bear and I can do it alone if you're not.'
She bristled, as I knew she would. The very possibility of a show occuring anywhere within a five mile radius without Vix taking part was enough to make her swell like a bullfrog. I could see her begin racing through costume possibilities in her mind.
'Yes I wanna do it,' Bear said - her little face all excited.
'Right then,' I said. 'The fifteen minute costume creation starts... now.'
They ran faster than the last time I shouted the words cupcake and I followed desperate to get my hands on the pink tights before Vix snagged them.

It was a frantic fifteen minutes, Vix ran around the house screaming for her PVC leggings, Bear shuffled along on size 6 multi-coloured striped high heels (she's a size two) and I had to do some serious stomach sucking in order to fit into a black basque becuase the one I wanted was mysteriously absent. I was first to the livingroom where I had Bad Romance on the ready. I looked at the clock and bit my lip when I realised it was almost eleven. The neighbours were gonna moan, the kids would be late to bed...
'Don't look at me!' Vix shrieked as she entered. 'I want it to be a suprise!'
'Don't look at me either,' Bear insisted as she tottered in. I thought I heard her slip on the heels again and stiffled a giggle.
'Press play mom!' Vix shouted.
'But I can't look,' I said.
'Bloody hell mom, do it with your eyes closed.'
'Don't look at me,' Bear said again.
I, somehow made my way over to the dvd player and assumed position. 'Ready?' I asked.
'Yes, yes, press play!' they said.
So I did.
I turned round as 'RA, RA, RA, RA, RA' started to see Vix dressed in black PVC leggings and a fab lacy black basque - a basque that looked suspicously like the one I was looking for. Bear looked amazing in a pink tutu, black vest and face net. She was also perched on Vix's five inch heels and I had strong doubts about her ability to dance her way round the wooden floors without serious injury.
'Let's do it!' Vix screamed.

So we did, we danced, and we sang and we followed Bad Romance with Just Dance and then Poker Face and then Bad Romance again, it was a GaGa fest. We were probably pretty awful (in fact we've since been compared to Jahm on last nights X Factor) but we didn't care. By the time we'd finished it was going on for midnight and I thought I'd heard the neighbour stomping up the stairs more than once.
'You've got school tomoz,' I said. 'And I've got work.'
The girls grinned, they were hot and sweaty and both looked a picture. Now I suspect if we lived in any other house but The House of Burning Bras that we wouldn't do this sort of thing. If I was more of a stern-type parent I would have insisted they go to bed, hell I wouldn't have even made the suggestion in the first place. But you know what, sometimes being a parent is not just about sending the kids to bed at a certain time, it's not just about making them eat their veg and brush their teeth. It's about fun, it's about being impulsive and it's about building memories. In ten years time we'll remember this night (I've photographic proof for future blackmail purposes) and we'll remember the fun we had - the three of us together. GaGa, Glee and my Girls - it doesn't get much more perfect than that.

The Tapestry of Love

2010-08-01T05:01:00.000-07:00

I'm always astounded by how weird it is to have friends who are published authors. I often get a jolt when I walk in to Waterstones and see a friends book on the shelf or better yet when I have them sat on my own shelves to read as I wish. It also means that I have access to a whole bunch of authors who I can tap up for various publications like MUSE, my newsletter and this blog. Last week saw David Bridger guest blogging on To Stalk a Publisher and this week I have really hit the ball out of the park. Rosy Thornton is my guest today and I am absolutely delighted to have her take part. So delighted in fact that I've popped her on The House of Burning Bras as well!

It all began on wednesday when a package came through my door, you'll recall that I wrote a brief blog about it just to whet your appetite. Well it was a book (I love receiving literature through my letterbox) and not just any book but a review copy of Rosy's latest novel, The Tapestry of Love.

I started it on wednesday night and by the early hours of Thursday I'd finished. It really is one of those books that just flows through you and urges you to keep going until the end. I love books like that, it feels like the author has done you a favour in some way.

So what's it about? Well first off I thought ToL (as I now think of it) was a romance, I expected romance to be the dominating theme, how wrong I was. This book is much, much more than a romance it's a journey of finding oneself, at a point in life where you imagine to already have done so.

The book starts with our heronie Catherine, a divorcee with grown up children on her way to her new home in rural France, the Cevennes mountains in fact. She's starting over, beginning a new life, a different life. I always enjoy reading about new starts, they speak, I think to somethng inside each of us that yearns to run off to the mountains or the beach or the jungle and begin again. Catherine is doing just that and from the very opening chapter Rosy sets the scene splendidly. Chapter two keeps you exactly where you want to be, her first interaction with a native is wonderfully written and this is the bar (a high one) that the rest of the book follows. There's one part in the last but one chapter that I'm desperate to copy here for you because it is so beautifully written and it's one of those bits that you'd imagine working perfectly in film. Alas I can't, it would spoil the story for you, I'll ask instead that readers tell me if they can spot it once they've read the book and drop me a comment letting me know what you think it is.

Again in the intrests of not spoiling the story I'm not going to tell you the plot - I'll say only that it deals with family ties, the pangs of absence and the wonderfully tentative beginnings of new love - because I'm imagining that after reading this and Rosy's interview below that you are going to click here and go buy it.

It's a perfect book to take with you on holiday, forget the trashy romances that'll be forgotten the next day. Rosy's book, Catherine's story will stay with you long after the holiday has finished. Also as a side note the cover is lush and the book will look cracking on your shelf.

So Rosy is here to answer a few of my questions... here goes...

Hi Rosy, thanks fo joining us today let's start the ball rolling by asking how long have you been writing for and what got you started?
I only began writing fiction six years ago. It came completely out of the blue, after watching a television programme! I loved the BBC’s adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell’s ‘North and South’ in 2004; I went online to discuss the serial, discovered Gaskell fanfic, and thought I’d have a go at writing some. Three months later, I found I’d written a full-length pastiche sequel to ‘North and South’! It was utter drivel, of course – but by then I’d been bitten by the writing bug, and I carried straight on to write my own first ‘proper’ novel, ‘More Than Love Letters’ – which, Gaskell geeks will spot, contains more than a few nods to ‘North and South’.

How tough was the journey for publication for you?
It took just over a year, in all. I did find an agent to represent my Gaskell pastiche, but it didn’t attract a publisher, and that agent didn’t like ‘More Than Love Letters’ at all and gave me leave to try to find another agent for it. That was a slog. I think I approached every fiction agent in the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook, and was rejected by all of them! Then, by mistake, I wrote to an agent (Robert Dudley) who, at the time, was listed only as representing non-fiction. By pure luck, he happened to be looking to move into fiction, and liked the manuscript, so he and I set out as fiction virgins together. I worked through two major edits under his guidance (he is a fabulous editor!) and then he sent out the book – which was eventually taken, a few months later, by Headline.

Tapestry of Love is book number four for you, how does it feel to have those four books sat on your shelf and know that they're all yours?
It’s very unreal, to be honest. Mainly, I think, because I reached my forties without ever thinking of writing fiction. For my day job I am a legal academic, and have published a lot of extremely dull things about law. Lawyers are such pedantic analytical thinkers, famed for lacking imagination or creativity. I could define and classify things, make distinctions, split hairs – but I had no idea at all that I might be able to invent a story. I still have no idea where it came from.

An unusual question but... do you have all the covers blown up and adorn your walls with them (I'd be strongly tempted to and the cover of ToL is lovely).
LOL! No – I must admit I hadn’t thought of this! Though I did have a mug made for a friend of mine with her book cover on it when her first novel came out. You’re right, though – the cover visual for ‘The Tapestry of Love’ is utterly gorgeous. (Even if it is clearly a doorway in Provence and not in the Cévennes.)

You've picked quite an unusual setting for the book, how did that come about?
I had a fortnight’s family holiday in the Cévennes twenty years ago and have never been back, but for some reason the region just found its way under my skin. Maybe because it is the most beautiful place on earth!

Catherine comes across very much as a woman opening a new chapter to her life and setting in to the unknown, have you drawn on your own experiences for this, if not how did you convey the trepidation and the alieness of the situation?
I suppose on one level we all know what it’s like to take a step into the unfamiliar and be an outsider: every time we move house, begin a new job. But for the specifics of moving to France I had good examples to draw on, because my family have all made the same journey. My brother married a Frenchwoman and lives in the Rhône-Alpes; he runs his own small business and I pumped him for information about the nightmares of French bureaucracy. My parents moved to Loire Atlantique when they retired, to a crumbling old stone house, so I have also stolen some of their experiences, mainly in the realms of plumbing and electrics.

At first I took this book for a romance but it is much more than that, how central was the romance aspect to you - the writer - in the story?
I suppose the inclusion of a romance gives a story shape. I am a confirmed ‘pantser’ – that is, I don’t plan my novels, I just write them by the seat of my pants – and knowing that there is a love story to develop does give me a sense of at least one direction in which the book will move. But for me – as for Catherine – the romance did not become the central preoccupation of her new, emerging life. The book is as much about isolation and loneliness, but also about family and friendship, belonging and community and how we out down roots in a place, and about the relationship of man to landscape, as it is about romantic love.

You convey a real sense of emotion, the book really makes the reader feel the situation, it's a skill few writers posses. Has that developed over time with each book?
I think perhaps, with increased confidence, I’ve become less afraid to have a go at conveying emotion. My earlier books were funnier, I’ve noticed – as if somehow I had to be at least partly sending myself up all the time. ‘The Tapestry of Love’ has some elements of humour but they are now far lower in the mix. Maybe I’ve become less afraid to take myself seriously now and then.

The family ties, the absence and the worry it produces in Catherine, again was that drawn from personal experience?
None of the specifics of Catherine’s situation are drawn from my own life. But I’m a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister, a friend. Anxiety for loved ones, the pain of absence, bereavement and loss - these are things familiar to all of us.

What's next in the pipeline?
I don’t want to say too much for fear of jinxing things, but I have one completed manuscript currently with my agent (rather more sad and serious than any I’ve tried before), and am half way through a new novel, which has gone back in the other direction: lighter and funnier, a retro ‘rom com’ set in 1980.

I'm giving you that link again lovely blog readers just in case you missed it, click here to buy and if after you've read ToL you fancy reading a bit more of Rosy then I would suggest Crossed Wires.

Oh, how could I forget! Rosy also featured in issue one of MUSE, so skip over here to read more about her or better yet visit her website.

The Return of the Bear

2010-06-02T12:09:00.001-07:00

So I resisted the overwhelming urge to drive down and get Bear, I waited it out with what I think was quite admirable restraint. On Friday morning, the day I named 'The Return of the Bear' I woke up feeling all excited and brimming full of anticipation. The princess was coming home and god damn I'd missed her.

I had booked the day off work and I had it all planned out. I would be there way before she arrived but I would not act like a Smother (mother who smothers), I would be all calm and collected. I would resist the urge to sniff her hair and squidge her little belly. I would NOT be embarrassing, I would be you know... all cool.

So 12 o clock arrived and Vix and I (who was off school for the afternoon and yeah... ummm... she had permission...) were ready and waiting outside the school. It was blazing hot and we were both struggling with the heat. Neither of us can do heat, we both shrivel like vampires. In fact the girls have been known (on a Saturday afternoon when they've been up for less than an hour - a practice I thoroughly encourage) to scream it burns it burns if I dare open the curtains.

I digress, so there we were cringing from the sun when Vix gives me the LOOK.

'I'm hungry,' she says.
'Yes,' I agree. 'Me too.'
'There's a Subway round the corner.'
'We might miss your sister, we have to be here when she arrives,'
Vix fidgeted, 'Yeah I suppose... they've got steak and cheese on though and cookies.'
I fidget a bit too and give her the LOOK back. The LOOK is our way of saying yeah we shouldn't but let's argue a bit to pretend we're not gonna and then do it anyway.
'We have to be really quick,' I say.
'Of course.'

Two foot long steak and cheeses later, two chocolate chip cookies and a pint of diet coke and we're still waiting. The coach is stuck on the motorway - typical eh? The sun continues to torment us and I can't even have a crafty smoke seeing as we're on school grounds. A half hour later we hear a rumbling and there it is!! Haha she arrives. The coach drives right past me and I can see her little face in the window. Vix and I rush up to the coach and... wait. Unsurprisingly she is the last off the coach.

'Hi mom,' she says as I wrap my arms around her. I wait until her air supply is nearly gone before letting her free. The be cool don't smother resolution has disappeared. I sniff her and hug her and kiss her and though she pulls a face I can see she loves it.
'How was it babe?' I ask.
'Fine,' she replies, 'it was fine.'
I notice that her hair may not have seen the brush all week and her skin has the slightly greased up look which suggests an extreme lack of showering.
'I had a good time, there was chips and burgers and pasta and peas.'
Clearly my worries were unfounded, clearly there were no coded messages in the postcard - I was fretting over nothing at all... I look down and notice her socks. They look strangely familiar.
'Bare when did you last change your socks?' I ask.
She gives me her I will be a diamond thief when I'm older and there's nothing you can do about it mom look and smiles.
'I haven't.'

Coded Postcard Messages

2010-05-26T10:10:00.000-07:00

'I'm having a good time... but I want to come home...'

So said the words on the postcard that dropped through my letter box this morning. The postcard was from Bear and clearly it was a cry for help. I read it through again slowly.

'Hi Mum and Vicci,' she began and I could easily imagine her little freckled face crumpled up in grief as she wrote those words.

'I'm having a good time...' she continued and I could clearly tell that she felt compelled to say that, it was obvious that she didn't mean it. The teacher was probably standing over her insiting that she write something cheerful.

'I miss you loads,' she added, 'and I want to come home.' My heart crumpled as I imagined her little hand shaking to keep the pencil steady. Was that a tear stain I could see in the corner, right next to the stamp?

'Please write me a letter back,' she finished. That clinched it, this was obviously code for 'please come and get me'.

I looked out of the window and wondered how long it would take me to get to Oxford, clearly the princess needed me to assist in her escape. She was missing me, needing her Mommy... two hours maybe three if I set off immediately...

'Don't even think about it,' the boyf said following my line of vision.
'Bear wants to come home!' I replied edging towards my car keys.
'No,' he said . 'You want her to come home. Leave her be.'
See now that is the exact response I would expect from a man with no kids, he obviously doesn't understand. He thinks she'll be fine, he doesn't pick up on the subtle naunces in her postcard, the coded messages only her mom can understand...
'She's probably starving,' I said.
'Well that'll teach her to eat what she's given,' the boyf replied.
I glared.
'It's your fault she's a fuusy eater, you've babied her for too long,' he added.
Now that is so not true, Bear eats at least ten different food types. I imagined her now being faced with some awful concoction across the dinner table... something with a sauce on (she doesn't eat wet food).
'She needs me to rescue her!' I insisted.

Maybe I should give some context here before your imagination runs away with you, Bear has not been abducted by aliens or sold to a mining company up t'north. No what actually happened is that three days ago she was cruely snatched from my bosom to take part in the coming of age ritual known as school camp.

She's gone to spend an ENTIRE week in Oxford. She left Monday morning, it's now wednesday and it's another two whole days before she comes home. Five days in total pulled from my side, wrenched from my bosom! The last two and a half days have been awful...

On monday night Vix, sick of my whining over Bears absence dressed her Minnie Mouse teddy in Bear's clothes and propped her on the sofa with a pokemon book... it didn't work - I could clearly tell it wasn't Bear, the ears were too big. Plus the Minnie/Bear did not sing along to Glee

Then on Tuesday night, having lost my voice to some awful virus and therefore being unable to bemaon Bear's absence I took to dotting her books about the place as if they were mid-read, sniffing her t-shirt and arranging her bed so it looked as though she was in there asleep.

Wednesday AKA today the postcard arrived and I realised that she was suffering as much as I...

Now at the time when I signed her up I was thinking it would be good for her, that she'd enjoy being away from me and that it would be a chance for her to become a bit more independent. We had fun packing her suitcase and matching all her little outfits up.

Now though, I see the error of my ways. What was I thinking? Five days is far too long for a ten year old to be away from her mom - it's just too many hours.

'Mom, she'd die of shame if you actually turned up,' Vix insisted. 'I was fine when I went, she'll be fine as well.'
'You phoned me in tears on the second day even though you weren't allowed to use the phone!' I replied.
'Yes, well...'

See that's another thing Bear wasn't even allowed to take her phone, if she had it I could text her and reassure myself that she's being fed, that she's bothered showering, that her clothes match. But no, the only contact permitted is via letter or postcard. I look over the postcard again... yes the cry for help was clear... should I respond?

Beautiful blogger - lol

2010-04-19T10:58:00.001-07:00

Thanks to Kate for the beautiful blogger award, instead of nominating others what I'll say is click on over to Stumbledupon and let's start adding each others blogs on there.

I'm down as emmashortt, Kate? What's your username?

I don't mind if you dry your bras on the oven...

2010-04-09T15:29:00.000-07:00

The end of Feb 2010 marked the end of one, if not the best years of my life. A whole year of me and my girls alone in the newly created house of burning bras. A year of steadily declining domestication into something resembling girls-only-feminist living, it's been bloody brilliant.

Now don't get me wrong we started off with good intentions, at least I did. The house was all shiny and new and exactly the way I wanted it. I hung my paintings everywhere (even the baaadddd ones), I strategically piled books on every available surface, I kept the chess pieces polished and I made the beds every darn day. I even kept the washing low enough to shut the laundry basket lid. But as the months passed by and my time was squeezed in so many directions it occured to me that the house did not have to be perfect, if anything it kept a certain charm when it was a bit messy.

So we let it all fall into a state of neglected bliss. I felt that washing up could wait a few days, no need to iron - I never have and there was no need to stress the washing machine out more than twice a week. The girls loved the new relaxed attutude which allowed them to leave their rooms as messy as they liked so long as they shut their doors and I loved the fact it was my house and I could do whatever the hell I wanted because there was no one to gainsay me. I could starfish on the bed all night, leave the sheets on until they walked by themselves from the room begging to meet some soap and water. When the girls were at their dads I could eat crisp sarnies for dinner and watch sex and the city for hours at a time and not leave the house for days if I didn't want to. I had no one to answer to.

And then in the midst of all this relaxed living the three of us found a new sort of girly solidarity together. A solidarity we would never have found with a man around. We dragged the matresses downstairs and camped in the livingroom for entire weekends - leaving only for food and toilet breaks. On half terms we stayed in bed till the afternoons, reading and watching Disney movies, we felt it was reasonable to spend a significant chunk of our food budget on chocolate and cakes, we left our hair stuff wherever we felt like, we left shoes in piles everywhere and flung clothes wherever we darn wanted... and we painted all the walls pink. It was us girls against the world, a year of perfect girly bliss that I wouldn't swap for anything.

Now despite being a grown up and therefore knowing that all things must change at some point I found myself insisting right up until a month ago that no way, no never would I EVER live with anyone else i.e. a MAN again. No way would I allow someone to come in a criticise my new system of girly squalor... no bloody way...

Hmm famous last words and all that. Whilst I was insisting that all was well with me and the boyf living in our own houses (i.e. me continuing to do exactly as I darn pleased) he, unbeknownst to me was mounting his own offensive to get us under the same roof. He thinks that now, after the fact I don't realise how he planned it all and put it in place, but I'm wise to his plotting.

It went kind of like this... firstly he charmed the children with gourmet jelly beans and Haribos, then he started washing up constantly (I loathe washing up), then he started cooking dinner for me and the girls night after night (I hate cooking and so do the girls - mine at least). He made sure the heating was on when I got home from work (I really dislike coming home to a cold house), he went shopping for all the boring stuff I forget, like shower gel and black bags and he never once complained.

He took our girly living in his stride.

He complimented the pink walls, encouraged the mess, helped us drag the matresses downstairs, got us slankets to snuggle up in for our disney movies, made us smoothies and didn't even suggest we should own an iron.

And throughout all this slowly but surely something started to dawn on me. It's not the living with someone that's the problem, it's WHO you end up living with. The boyf, strange as it still is for me to accept fits into our girls-only house. He fits becuase he does not try and change who or what the house of burning bras has become. He accepts it as it is, shrugs his shoulders, picks up our pants, washes up our chocolate crusted plates and leaves our hairbrushes, trailing hair and all wherever he finds them.

I still do exactly as I darn please, the girls still leave their rooms as messy as they like, we still have five hour Glee sessions and I still forget the washing up liquid - he just buys more.

You can't ask for any more in a man than that can you?

Valentine Woes

2010-02-14T13:19:00.000-08:00

'Me and my mates are going to Pizza Hut of Valentine's,' Vix announced on wednesday night.
I grunted a reply and went back to my book.
'All us singletons together,' she continued.
I looked up to see her hands on hips, face set in woeful lines awaiting a reply. What she wanted me to say I didn't know.
'That's nice princess,' was wrong as soon as it left my lips.
Her face crumpled a little bit more.
'Well it will be nice,' I insisted.
Finally she glared. 'Don't patronise me mom!'
It's a tricky tricky thing when you have a daughter old enough to feel the Valentine's day pangs when your only just over them yourself. At fifteen Vix has reached the point where Valentine's day means something to her. Skip back ten years and we had a different story altogether. A card and a little chocolate heart from her mom, AKA me was enough to put a smile on her pretty little face. Now I daren't even consider sending her a card, she'd think I was taking the piss.
'Babe you shouldn't be worrying about boys,' I said. 'Valentine's is such a crock, a total rip off, don't be pulled into it. You're only fifteen, footloose and fancy free - enjoy it!'
She flopped down on the sofa and sighed. 'That's alright for you to say mom you have a boyfriend and even if you didn't it wouldn't matter your life's almost over.'
'Er Vix...'
'Whilst I'm going to be single forever. I'll come back from Uni move into the basement and die of obesity.'
'Eh? You're a size six!'
'Yeah but my metabolism will slow down, I'll just end up fat and alone and pathetic.'
Now what, I ask you do you say to such a declaration?
Vix sighed again and opened a pack of Wotsits.
'That's you third pack of crisps today,' I said.
'Oh that's right rub it in Mom, rub it in!'
I picked my book up again and shook my head. This is why over the years I've come to hate Valentine's day. The first Valentine's present I ever got was last year, before that? Nothing and I had a boyfriend from the age of seventeen! How well I remember the pangs when I checked the letterbox, how well I remember pretending I didn't care and now Vix, my precious little Vix was feeling exactly the same way.
'We don't have a basement,' I said, trying to lighten the mood.
It didn't work, with one death-kill-immediately stare she flounced from the room (Wotsits and a twirl - where did that come from - still in hand).

Bear is just as bad but in a different way. Bear was with her 'boyfriend' Luke from the age of five, now at ten they are no longer together (he left her a couple of months back for a girl whose name we must not say).
'I don't even have a boyfriend!' Bear wails.
'You're ten,' I reply.
'Lukey-pukey! I hate him,' Bear moans.
'You're ten,' I say again.
'With no boyfriend on Valentine's!!!'
'You're ten.'

It's now Valentine's night and Bear is still whining whilst Vix, after returning from Pizza Hut has shut herself in her room. She tells me she's planning to watch rom-coms all night, I'm not sure it's such a good idea - one Jennifer Aniston film alone is enough to make me feel suicidal.
'Stay down here with us,' I say.
'No, I want to be alone...'
She's now writing in her journal, pouring her heart onto the pages. This is a good thing, a chance for her to pour her tender feelings out to someone who won't try to patronise or comfort her. The page has no view either way - it will soak up her misery without a murmur.
I, alas am no comfort to her or Bear. Were I single we could moan together but I play for the other side now (i.e. have a boyfriend) and 'don't understand' 'can't sympathise'. And of course being nearly thirty means my life is almost over anyway... :)

My girls have got me thinking though, what use does Valentine's day even serve? What is the point of a day that makes huge swathes of the population (mainly those below thirty) feel wretched? If you love someone and they you surely that should be expressed every day not just once a year? And if you don't surely it's just cruel or stupid to be reminded of the fact?

I say next year we all agree to boycott Valentine's day. Let us all dress in the brightest colour we have and spend some time with everyone we love -our friends, our family and if we do have one, our partner.
Because love comes in all shapes and sizes. Being in love is a damn wonderful thing but you know what, it is not everything. Next Valentine's day we should remember that.

Oooo an award... thanks Kate!

2010-02-10T11:55:00.000-08:00

Over the Top Blog award

The House of Burning Bras hasn't been around long but is already receiving some ahem... attention... my pal Kate aka the Scribbling Seaserpent has gone and tagged me with this wonderful award - thanks Kate!

Your Cell Phone? Blackberry 8520 curve
Your Hair? Curly and wild
Your Mother? Annoying
Your Father? Deceased
Your Favorite Food? Cupcakes
Your Dream Last Night? I was asleep, I love sleep far too much to ruin it with dreams!
Your Favorite Drink? Diet Coke or Cranberry Juice with ice
Your Dream/Goal? To get to the point where I can pause and think, 'You did good kid.'
What Room Are You In? Livingroom with Bear curled up next to me.
Your Hobby? Writing
Your Fear? The boyfs snoring - it's something to fear indeed.
Where Do You See Yourself In Six Years? Maybe grown up at last.
Where Were You Last Night? At home eating cupcakes and wanting to go to bed.
Something That You Aren't? Boring
Muffins? Duh chocolate
Wish List Item? Black uggs
Where Did You Grow Up? I havn't yet
Last Thing You Did? Posted on Litopia
What Are You Wearing? Polka dot PJs and a skanky tshirt
Your TV? Sky - though I don't know why, I never get to watch the wretched thing.
Your Pets? None, the stick insects commited suicide
Friends? Are wicked, especially my best friends, the girls.
Your Life? All about living
Your Mood? Happy, blissed out and sleepy.
Missing Someone? Yes, love you bro x x
Vehicle? 206, she's almsot dead.
Something You Aren't Wearing? Pants
Your Favorite Store? Waterstones
Your Favorite Color? Black or pink
When Was The Last Time You Laughed? Mere moments ago
Last Time You Cried? Not so long back... yeah you know who you are...
Your Best Friend? My Vix and my Bear - love you babies x x x
One Place You Go To Over And Over Again? Ermmmm the fridge
Facebook? Daily, so sad.
Favorite Place To Eat? I quite like to put the food in my mouth - but a nose will do at a pinch.

And in turn I think I'll nominate my boyf and his pal:

Tales from the frontline http://www.steliosdiakou.blogspot.com/
Fun, food and tales from the fatman http://sihodrien.blogspot.com/

Have fun x

To baby or not to baby... that is the question.

2010-01-30T09:43:00.000-08:00

I have reached THAT point in a womans life, the point when reason leaves the room and insanity enters. The point where all sound decisions have ceased to make sense and a strange sort of compulsion starts to take over. The point does not arrive gradually, oh no it's bold, unafraid to charge in. One day it's not there and the next - well the next it is. Smiling and laughing it has sneaked up behind you like a desperate date you're trying to escape and before you even know it... it has you.

The point, the victory filled point is caused by a whole myriad of reasons. A huge splash of hormones, a sprinkling of chemicals and an extremely large dash of stupidity all combine to turn even the smartest of women into whimsical idiots.
It is powerless to resist, pointless to deny. You can hear it, actually hear it as a strange sort of background music in your life.

Tick, tick, tick. Tock, tock, tock. Tick bloody tock.

It is, of course the biological clock.

For an average sort of woman it starts around thirty, some get it a bit earlier and some insist it never arrives. It is I have to say a massively unfair device. It takes no account of previous circumstances, gives no leeway for events that might already have occured. Take me for instance, I have Vix and Bear, have had them for years so you might suppose that the clock would bypass me, leave me be based on the fact I'm all mothered up. But no, oh no... like next doors cat that wont leave my bin bags alone (I'll get you you little f**&&&), it's snuck in and grabbed me and now like many a woman the world over I can hear it.

Tickety tickety bleeding tock.

Now there are three possible responses to the clock.

1, You ignore it and pretend it isn't there. You convince yourself that you can't hear its relentless beat. You busy yourself with other things, work, friends, fun, freedom - whatever it takes. After a while (when you're too old to conceive) it ceases it's noise and leave you in peace - maybe you'll have a few regrets, maybe you wont.

2, You accept the fact it has arrived, that biology has once again taken hold of you and unlike last time i.e. puberty you can take a bit of control back. You can choose whether or not to follow it's dictates and you can acknowledge the fact that it's all about the hormones nothing more.

3, You can turn into an idiot and convince yourself that you want a baby, you can tell yourself it's because you're in love, that you want to create new life with the man of your dreams. You pretend it is nothing at all to do with the clock. It's just coincidence.

Option 1 means no baby, options 2 and 3 means there probably will be. So where am I in terms of these? I'll tell you where, I unsuprisingly have gone down another route entirely. I have decided to ignore 1, 2 and 3 and create a 4.

I have created Pandora.

Basically I have accepted the clock, I have accepted that the little bugger has struck me down and taken ahold. I'm fully aware that my body is saying, 'Right Em this is it, let's be honest love times a ticking and if we're gonna do it now is the time.' I have realised a man is available who also wants 2 or 3 and that the girls are gagging for another sister... this has all added up in my head like a perfectly balanced equation and the result is Pandora.

Pan is my next child. She's out there at the moment waiting for me to get some backbone and bring her in. She's drifting around scoffing at the tick tock for me and waiting patiently until I'm ready to make her. Once I have Pan the clock will be silenced and I will have the fourth recruit to the house of burning bras.

Biology will have won once more but as is always the way when the ticking begins we'll both be victors.

What's this all a-bloody-bout...?

2010-01-24T12:21:00.000-08:00

So I'm in twenty nine... slowly approaching thirty, and it is slowly, I'm holding on by my fingertips refusing to give in gracefully. My twenties will soon be a distant memory and I will be at the point where I'll have lived about a third of my life (barring accidents that result in premature death or drastic surgery which means I can lie).

The reason for this age update you ask? Well it seems I've reached a very odd stage in my life and am compelled to share the oddness around. Let's set the scene shall we - most normal twenty nine year olds are at the point in their lives where their finding someone to settle down with. Generally at twenty nine someone will have established a career and will now be looking to meet Mr or Mrs Right. If they're lucky (or unlucky depending on your viewpoint) they might get married and then if they're very very lucky they'll pop out a few babies. Settling down happily, giving in - either/or... it seems now i.e. thirty is the time.

Of course no one is the house of burning bras can lay claim to normality, least of all me - my thirties will, alas not follow the usual path. You see unbelievable though I still find it, I already have a daughter who is now old enough to date and has just gone on her first one! Can I even begin to explain how weird that is? Helping MY daughter to get ready for a date, choosing outfits with her and straightening her hair... never before have I felt the strangeness of my life so keenly and that's without even considering the fact that my youngest will be following suit pretty soon. It was only the other day they were babies and then skipping off to school and now... now... well by the time I'm thirty five I'll have one child at university and one about to go off to college. This basically means as my friends marry and produce offspring for the first time I'll be in a kind of strange little world all of my own.

Now don't get me wrong, I adore my princesses - the idea of being without them is unbearable, I daren't even imagine it. To lose them would destroy me - utterly. But you see what this means - yes? I've always had them, all my adult life has been spent with my children... so what the bloody hell am I going to do when they leave?

As those around me settle down and double up it is seeming increasingly likely that I'm going to turn into the crazy cat lady (the girl's words, not mine). I'll wear tweed jumpers that smell slightly of mould and I'll collect carrier bags and talk to my myriad of feline companions. It is a depressing prospect.

Of course there are alternatives. I could turn into a sort of travelling woman of mystery. Hacking my way through jungles and traversing mountains - though with my luck I'd probably pick up some godforsaken tropical disease and end up being eaten by a jaguar. I could devote my life to charity work and build hospitals and orphanages from scratch or I could go for all those fabulous jobs that I can't now because of the commute - like a six month stint in the Anartic station or writing my way around the world on the back of a motorbike. Yes, there are many alternatives and I'm sure that in a few years when many of my friends are covered in baby sick and are knackered from the extreme lack of baby sleep they'll look enviously at my freedom. But you know what? I'd give just about anything to turn the clock back fifteen years and experience my girls all over again.

The neccesary evil

2010-01-15T19:33:00.000-08:00

Cleaning is boring, yes boring.
I feel like a petulant child when I say that, I want to stamp my foot and whine a bit - just, you know to really get the sentiment across. But really - I mean can anyone else think of something that takes up some much time and provides so little a reward..? (Except maybe make-up and hair do's and such)

Now I didn't always feel this way. Let's skip back a year before the house of burning bras even existed. I lived back then with the Ex. He was I have to say (and still is) a bit of a clean freak. He liked everything all tidy and in its place 'everything belongs somewhere Emma' Grrrr. Washing up left in the sink? Oh the horror. Floor not swept? A disaster. Clothes not washed??!!!! The world may actually have ended... you see where I'm going with this.

So seeing as how I spent pretty much all my adult life with him up until a year ago he somehow managed to turn me into a bit of a clean freak too. I was happy enough to spend a fair bit of time cleaning and organising and such. I didn't even realise back then how much of my time I spent on household maintenance or how much I hated it. I did it because it was expected and to be honest the arguments over mess just weren't worth having - yeah I wimped out but on the plus side, damn did my bathroom sparkle.

When the house of burning bras was born I just sort of carried on, washing and scrubbing and polishing and all that nonsense. A sort of pre-programmed compliance... until one day it dawned on me - clear and obvious and wonderful. I realised I don't actually have to clean if I don't want to. Oh the Eureka moment, the dawning understanding - it was wonderous.

I sat down and really considered it and came to the following conclusion. There is no reason at all that I can't leave a sink full of washing up for a week. No problem with not doing the washing until we run out of clothes. No issue at all with ever cleaning the fridge (they're self cleaning aren't they...?). Polishing seems pointless. Scrubbing is senseless - it just gets messy again. Now don't get me wrong I'm not saying I'm never cleaning again, I'm just saying that it's perfectly acceptable to leave it until the point of neccesity. I have back-up here in the form of my princesses. The girls have NO interest in cleaning at all and they heartily encourage me not to either. Vix has some sort of weird phobia about washing up (I can't, the water, the bits of food... ewwww Mom no, it's disgusting). Her feeling is that we should simply have paper utensils that we can dispose of once used. Bear gives me a blank 'eh what' look whenever I even say the word 'clean'.
'It's boring mom who cares if there's washing up.'
'We've got enough clothes to last at least another week.'
'Weirdos clean ovens.'
'Just clean the bits we can see mom.'
Etc etc.

It is so liberating. I love it. Yes, ok as I said - eventually I give in and do it (for health reasons) but it's just the fact that if I don't want to I don't have to - the girls are right. it's boring and a total waste to time. I could be writing or reading or playing connect4 or chess or any number of fantastic things that don't involve a sponge and a broom.

What's that saying, show me a clean house and I'll show you a boring womam... spot on.

woMAN flu

2010-01-09T19:08:00.000-08:00

'Ahhh I need a tissue!'
'Rub more vaseline on me.'
'It's too hot.'
'It's too cold.'
'I need a blanket.'
'I need a drink.'
'You're not rubbing the vaseline in right!'
'I'm dyyyyiiiinnnnnggggg.'

A very, very small selection of the mumblings, moans and whines I've heard over the last week. You see Bear has been ill and to be fair she has actually had an honest to god illness. Some sort of ear infection coupled with a monster snot session and a fluctuating temperature. She's lolled around on the settee, remote in hand looking all cute and dishevelled. She's also taken to walking round the house in just her pants (or to my American readers her underwear), because apparently she needs to be 'free'. She looks like some sort of hippy child and I take a certain pride in the fact that I've brought her up to be completely comfortable with her own nudity... of course if she starts leaving the house naked we'll have to have words...

Still I digress - this blog is about illness and the fact that in our all female house I have no shame in admitting that we are a complete and utter bunch of hypochondriacs. It seems to be some sort of 'general knowledge' that women bear up well under illness, they may sneeze and snuffle a bit but they get on with things. The washing still gets done and the house is still tided. The cupboards don't fall empty and they make it into work with an ironed suit and co-ordinated shoes/bag/earrings etc. Women don't get the 'MAN flu', women can take an illness on the chin and come out fighting... or so I'm told.

Well I reckon rather than 'general knowledge' this must be some sort of urban myth, either that or the female-fight-the-illness-gene has completely bypassed my offspring and I. We all get woMAN FLU, often - at least once a month or so and whether it's a cold, a cough, a headache, a few aches or even a full on virus we all have the same reaction.

1, First we'll ask each other whether we look pale. 'Mom,' Vix will say, 'Do I look pale?' Well that's almost a trick question - look at our photo here on the homepage we're all pale anyway. We all look like we've been living in the cupboard under the stairs for a decade or are secret vampires. It's genetic, none of us tan - we go out in the sun (something I should add we all avoid) and we turn lobster pink. No browned, toasty, honey looking sun kissedness for us. Still once the woMAN flu hits we'll start agreeing with each other that we look paler than usual. 'Look in the mirror mom,' Vix will say. 'I'm a shade paler than you at the moment.' 'Yes,' I'll reply. 'I can see it, you're paler than normal.' She'll then nod vigorously and decide she's suffering from some sort of rare bacterial strain of illness.

2, We'll be convinced our temperatures are outside the bounds of normality. 'I'm burning up moooommmm,' Bear will say. 'Feel me, FEEL ME!!!' I'll place a hand on her forehead and give the only response that she will accept, 'Yes there is a slight temperature.' She'll look at me both vindicated and horrified. 'I need a cold flannel mom NOWWWWWWW!' I'll nip downstairs to get it and when I come back up she'll have stripped off to her hippy state.

3, If a headache hits we'll all insist our headache is the worst one yet. 'It's like someone is banging inside my brain.' 'It's like zombies are eating me from the inside.' 'It's like I've been forced to watch celebrity big brother all day.'

4, If any of us vomit or have to errr... hit the loo for extended periods we give each other a sort of awe filled respect. Vix has got this one covered to some extent because whatever virus she picks up she vomits. Bear and I have runny noses, Vix vomits. Bear and I cough, Vix vomits. Bear and I spend a week in bed with swine flu, Vix just vomits it all out and tucks into a bacon sarnie.

5, Lastly we'll all agree that it can't possibly be a cold, no no no - nothing as minor as a simple cold could have hit us. Whatever the illness may be we all insist it is some form of horrific virus that is going to keep us bedridden for a week. 'It's just a cold,' a friend/family member/evil boss might say. I'll look at them agasp. It's never just a simple cold. If anything it would be the queen cold, the president of colds - it maybe even... the holy grail of the hypochondriac.. the actual flu!

And then there's the self diagnosis. I love the Internet but as a certified self-diagnoser it's a dangerous tool for me to have. I've diagnosed myself with diabetes, tinnitus and optical migraines to name just a few. One time I diagnosed myself as pregnant despite the fact it would have to have been an immaculate conception. I've banned the girls from self-diagnosing after the last bout of dual illness where they double googled and terrified themselves. Now only I have the secret joy that familydoctor or yourdiagnosis can bring.

What will it be like I wonder if we ever allow a man into the house of burning bras? Would he get MAN flu as often as us or as is the case with most men in our lives would he have to take the role reversal and be the stoical illness resistant one? It's an intriguing question and one I'll have to consider later... Bear's just googled 'exploding ears'... ...

The Saturday Morning Goblin

2009-12-11T09:42:00.000-08:00

‘I think it’s really unfair that you get a bigger bed than me,’ Bear declared one Saturday morning.
I pulled the duvet from my head and looked blearily up at her. She was sat astride me wearing only her pants. With her hands on her hips, her hair in fuzzy disaray and a suspicious smudge of brown goo around her mouth I thought she looked like some sort of Saturday morning goblin sent by a cruel goblin king to restrict my lying in hours.
‘Have you been eating chocolate?’ I asked.
Her tongue darted out to the corner of her mouth, scooping a bit of chocolate from her lip. ‘Mom, don’t try and change the subject,’ she replied.
I took that to mean yes.
‘Now princess...’ I began but she frowned down at me.
No one has a frown like Bear’s. It makes you feel immediately guilty, like you’ve done something wrong; she knows it and you’d damn well better admit it. I’ve never been able to work out how she’s pulls it off; I mean I am the mother aren’t I? The grown up, the adult – the person who is in charge...?
‘So how come you get a bigger bed then mom?’ Bear asked.
‘Well...’ I began but was saved from an immediate answer by Vicci wandering into the room with a king size box of frosted wheat in one hand and a spoon in the other.
‘Did you eat the last Dairy Milk?' she demanded of her sister.
Bear wiped a hand slowly across her mouth and dived under the duvet next to me. 'Noooo...'
'Girls you shouldn't be eating chocolate for breakfast,' I said sternly.
Vics gave me an incredulous look. 'You eat chocolate for breakfast all the time!'
'Well...'
See this is one of those 'parental grey areas', you are, of course supposed to set a good example for your children. I constantly strive to be like one of those parents you think you should be. Eat your fruit, drink lots of water, brush your teeth, bed by seven. In reality though it rarely happens. I DO eat chocolate for breakfast, I rarely drink lots of water and I'm never in bed early. I hate hypocrisy so how can you tell my kids not to eat chocolate for breakfast when I do?
'See I can spread right out in mom's much bigger than my bed,' Bear said, starfishing under the duvet.
'Mom's got a bigger bed cause she's well... bigger,' Vicci said plonking herself down on my foot.
'Thanks for that Vic!'
'Plus mom’s the parental responsibility,’ Vics added.
‘What does that mean Vicci?’ Bear asked. ‘Do you even know?’
‘Bear how old are you?’ Vicci asked.
I rolled my eyes and pulled the duvet around me, here-they-go-again.
‘Ten.’
‘And how old am I your older sister?’
‘Fifteen.’
‘Then of course I know, I know everything that you don’t and you should always listen to me cause I’m always right and after ten years living with me you should know that by now.’
Bear furrowed her little brow for a moment and I paused waiting to see what she would retort with. 'You're a div Vicci.'
'You're a bigger div.'
'You've got fat feet!'
'Girls...' I said giving them THE look.
They glowered at one another for a moment before Vicci shrugged her shoulders, sneaked a quick peek at her fluffy socked foot and scooped a spoonful of dry forsted wheat. 'Whatever, mom's in charge so she gets a big bed.'
I smiled at my oldest.
'Although...' Vics added. 'It's not like she needs a double bed she is single after all.'
The smile faded.
'Grown ups have doubles, kids have singles,' I insisted. 'Single or not.'
'It's not fair,' Bear insisted.
I nodded slowly, Bear was right - it wasn't fair but I'd had a double bed since the day I left home and could actually buy my own sleeping area. I still remember how chuffed I was to have a double bed with big plumped up pillows and an actual duvet opposed to a scratchy layer of blankets.
'I want a big bed!' Bear declared.
'When you're older.'
'Mom that's your standard response when you're not gonna do something,' Vics said climbing in next to me.
I smiled, pulled them in closer and sniffed their hair. I could hear the rain beating against the window and the boiler creaking as it tried vainly to pump some heat around the house. The duvet was all snuggly around us and I realised that this was another of those perfect moments where life is just as good as it could be.
'This is why I have a double bed - so we can all fit in it,' I said.
'No it's cause you've got fat feet,' Bear declared.

The beginning

2009-11-24T09:41:00.001-08:00

We stood in our new kitchen and looked around; it was all very clean, very sparkly and very alien.
‘You’re a spinster now mom.’ Vicci said in a serious, it’s all over for you sort of tone.
‘What’s a spinster?’ Bear asked.
‘It’s a sad, lonely old woman who can’t keep a man,’ Vicci replied with a judicious nod of her head.
‘Errr Vics...’ I said.
‘Is mom one then?’ Bear interrupted.
‘No I’m bloody not,’ I replied, glaring at them both. ‘I’m not even thirty yet!’
Vicci cast me a pitying glance. ‘Mom’s single now Bear, single with two kids, a really boring job and not a man in sight.’
‘Excuse me...’ I spluttered but Vicci, clearly warming to her theme ignored me. She sat herself down, cracked open a box of family sized maltesers – didn’t offer any - and faced me across the table.
‘Mom’s gonna end up with even wilder hair, fifty cats, a million tweed jumpers and no bras,’ she said.
Bear joined her sister at the table and nodded in support. ‘Yes and you’ll have wrinkles.’
I sat down opposite them and gave them my best mom-is-stern sort of glare. ‘Girls, I’m still in my prime,’ I insisted.
‘No mom, you need to face facts,’ Vicci said around a mouthful of chocolate. ‘You’ll end up all lonely and desperate and asking us to visit every weekend.’
‘We won’t though,’ Sarah declared. ‘’Cause the house will smell of cat wee and books.’
‘No we’ll have to,’ Vicci corrected in the tone of someone making a big sacrifice. ‘Or she’ll die and be eaten by Alsatians.’
‘I don’t even like cats and tweed,’ I replied, stung. ‘And I’ve got plenty of time to get a boyfriend and stuff if I want to and where I ask you did the Alsatian come from? I haven’t seen one since the eighties.’
‘Yes but there’s bound to be one about mom,’ Vicci replied, as if this should have been obvious to me. ‘And the fact you can even remember the eighties sums up my entire point.’
‘Vics...’ I began, ready to acquaint my overly dramatic daughter with some facts.
‘It’s not looking good mom,’ Vicci insisted. ‘You’re gonna be hard pressed to find someone to marry you.’
I frowned and considered her words. It was hard to admit but she did have a point. I have no great pretensions to beauty but people don’t generally shriek in the street when they spot me... unless it’s the morning and I haven’t tied up my hair. I am what the Victorians would have called ‘commonly held to be well to pass’ i.e. she’ll do. The trouble is, third eye aside, I have this tendency to want to be in charge. You know the whole who wears the trousers thing? Well that’s me but I like to wear the t-shirt, the jumper and the trainers too.
I think this comes from growing up on ‘the estate’. A place where men were men (insert assholes) and women were (and apologies in advance for the sweeping generalisation but it’s necessary and probably true) pathetic and downtrodden.
‘I don’t even want to get married,’ I said.
‘That’s beside the point mom,’ Vicci replied.
‘Yeah mom,’ Bear chipped in.
I sighed and considered my two children, perfect though they are in my eyes I am not blinded to the fact that in reality they’re both a tad too opinionated for comfort.
‘A woman does not need a man to be happy girls,’ I told them, for probably the millionth time.
Vicci looked at my hair, currently twisted up into a messy top knot, travelled down to my combats, wrinkled and dirty from the unpacking. Up again to my shapeless t-shirt and settled on my makeupless face. I knew she was dying to say something about the state of my clothes, probably even restraining herself from whipping out her little makeup bag and covering me in gunk, but for once my fourteen year old held her tongue. Instead she smiled at me in a sympathetic sort of way reached across the table and patted my hand. .
‘You better hope not mom,’ she said.

The House of Burning Bras

2009-11-23T13:07:00.001-08:00

Many of you have been following my blog To Stalk a Publisher. My motivation for starting that blog was to document my journey to becoming a published writer.

Over the last year I have achieved that ambition in a very small way.

I've published two short stories and a handful of articles.
I've finished my first young adult novel Immune and ran the gauntlet of publishers and agents with it.
I have two well known and respected agents asking to see my next complete novel.
I'm now sitting on the editorial panel for the Litopia e-zine Muse, a fab new magazine that I've interviewed both Bernard Cornwell and Charlaine Harris for.
I've been a guest speaker on the worlds biggest literary podcast and hope to become a regular.
I've seen over 10,000 visitors on my website since August 2008.

All in all it's been a pretty damn good year for me. So no book deal yet... but it's only a matter of time :)

Where now? Well I'll keep To Stalk a Publisher going, keep updating those of you who read my blog and enjoy it but I want to go in another direction. Instead of just updating you with writing news I want to write some pieces that will make you giggle and smile.

So.... here it is, The House of Burning Bras.

Enjoy!