S.C. Wright's Blog, page 3

How do I write?

Here’s one I’ve never really considered before and I’m gonna get pretty personal here. No, not on a gross or gory or lovey-dovey level, just on a what works for me.

Everyone has their own little quirks and way of doing things and writing is one of those things that has no definite fail-safe way of working. What works for one writer is not necessarily good for another.

When I write, I need to be in the zone. I have two moods when it comes to writing.

Bus writing.
Bedroom writing.

 

Bus writing.

I work two jobs to fund my addiction to fine writing paper and exquisite pens. Okay, I joke. I work two jobs because I can, and because if I didn’t, I would be skint and such. But a lot of my time is spent on a bus going into and out of work as I work about thirty minutes away from where I live. Double that if I’m commuting from my boyfriend’s house. So naturally, what better time to be working on my writing? I find a comfy little nook – near a bus radiator if I can help it, put on my noise reducing headphones to block out the noisy human populace and tune out of the world. I am very picky with my music and it needs to be just the right song for the chapter. (Which begs the question why I even get it to shuffle in the first place!)

2. Bedroom writing.

Bedroom writing involves curling up into my pyjamas and curling up on my bed. I have to be focused to write at home as there are fifteen million distractions out there screaming my name. Again, music is a must have. Right now I’ve been listening to a combination of Walk The Moon, and Ruelle. Both of which I recommend. (Sorely tempted to buy a Ruelle album. )

As I get in late, (after 9pm), I will sit and work on my laptop, typing up with a clacketty clack, first the scrawlings of the day’s bus journey with corrections and adaptations – mostly improved spelling, and more articulate word choice – and then I will move onto the new materials. This can be harder if I have a lot of catching up on facebook to do, but if I’m near the end of a chapter, the momentum keeps itself going. I make myself a lovely strong cup of tea (green milk! No sugar ) and I hunch over the computer till late, four am if I’m feeling particularly ambitious.

My Reptile tank sits at the bottom of the bed and, if I keep the glass open, sometimes Spike, my beardy, will crawl out and shuffle onto the bed. I often find him curled up cosy and warm around my knees as I type. I sit cross legged with my leopard print blanket wrapped around me and a cold cup of tea cradled by my ankles as I don’t have a desk. Though, if I did, I am certain it would contain fifty mugs of half drank cold tea.

There is just something so satisfying about finishing a chapter, where it’s at five pm or five am….

 

Reasons to never ever ever go skiing.

When I was in the my third year of high school, there was a school trip announced to take us to the French Alps for skiing. Naturally, I knew I had to sign up. Funnily enough, it seemed like fate was against me on that regard. The school had weekly meet ups to head up to the skiing resort outside Edinburgh for practise and yet, after missing the first two, the teachers refused to take me to the others. So, my Dad had to take me. This is how he broken his thumb… long story.

The first day of Tignes, (look it up, it’s beautiful) we all settled into our hotel rooms; girls on one floor, boys on the other. It was simple. We would spend the first night just getting used to the place, getting our ski things sorted and that would be easy! Only it wasn’t.

One of my friends, whom I’ll refer to as J, decided he needed the top bunk of his room, and fair enough. He swung his suitcase up onto the top bunk of the three bed room, and- shattered the lightbulb of the room. And that pretty much set the tone.

Day two. Skiing. Everyone was excited. Nervous, but excited. Everyone lined up to be take out to the slopes and I – despite my studious efforts – was sent to the beginner/nursery slopes. This was a good decision I feel, as I cried all the way down it. They refused to give us poles at first, so I was essentially headbutting my way down a slope with only my legs to steer, and my face as brakes if I couldn’t slow down. So…. yes. Great fun!

The only way it could get worse was if – oh, wait yup. Yellow food. Stale chicken nuggets that I couldn’t eat, and chips drier than a carpet. Thanks. Hmm, that might have been the resturant trying to cater to British school children, but that’s probably how I lost 14lbs that week.

Day Three. We were allowed our poles, and we joined up with one of the other groups and J. twisted his ankle. Well, okay, no, he bruised it. This was halfway down a mountain after me and my friend I, crashed into the sky instructor. Due to the complete uselessness of us, and my fear of sliding down mountains on wedges of wood in thick blizzards, we forgot all about J. and met him three hours later, him having walked sideways down the mountain. It gets better. Turns out, he and my other friend, S, fell out with their other roommate B. and had to break down the door of their room that night. So, that happened.

At around 5pm that night, everyone was off “I know not where.” (I have a bad perception of time and it turns out they were at dinner)  while I read in the room. All of a sudden, I had a sensation that something was “wrong.” I looked up from my book and watched as a small trickle of a puddle ebbed through under the room door like something from a goosebumps episode. I had no words. After a few seconds of watching, I scurried to the bathroom and made a barricade of towels. Once it looked like it was holding, I set about, hunting for the source – or someone whom I could complain to. I found everyone down in the lunch hall, only, as I arrived, a large chunk of foam tiles fell through the ceiling into someone’s plate with a wet slop and I fear my message may have arrived too late.

Trying no to snicker, I explained that the room were flooding and everyone ran off to their rooms to panick tidy and sort out their things. Except me. I picked at food and told my friends A and L. that our room was safe.

Also, turns out M. on the third floor had been upset by damage to some of her things, so S. shimmied up the balconies to find her. Apparently someone told the teachers as the girls all had room searches to find the “missing students”.

The students weren’t the only ones shimmying around balconies, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

Day Four. Ah Day Four. One of the best. My friend A woke with a crick in her neck and we told the gym teacher this. She told us we were slacking and we should just get on with it. Now, me and A were notorious for forgetting our gym kit, and I can understand why she said it, but… she should have listened. After all, it took two of us to help her sit up.

Flash forward to 11am. My group are going down a halfpipe. The trick to a halfpipe is to slide up one side, turn and use the momentum to make slow but sharp zigzags down the slope. It is daunting, but it’s much safer to do that than slide right down. Especially when their is a what? 80, 120 foot drop at the bottom? More? I’m not sure how far it was, but the turn was sharp enough to make me flinch.

Halfway down the slope, I hear a noise akin to a pterodactyl in heat and turn just in time to see a whirr of black salopettes come tear-arsing (technical term) down this halfpipe and swing the sharpest left in the history of sharp-arse turns. There is only one human being on the planet, – I realise – who can take a turn like that. A.

A few years before, me and A. went gocarting, I remember. When we were getting set up, the guy told us, “don’t put your foot on the pedal yet”. So, when he set up A.’s go-kart…

BANG. I swear time stood still. The cry of the guy as he chased after her.

“Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.”

The screech of tires.

The brick fucking wall and A. slooooow-ly about to meet and nothing away could do  to – WHOOOOOOOSHH!!! An invisible hand came out of nowhere and yanked A. around this fucking corner and snatching her away from the jaws of death and concussion like nothing on the planet. I sat there, gaping, from my go-kart. My mum has it on video camera. Well; she has two seconds of revving and then the picture goes sideways as the momentum knocks the video-camera all from her hands. Then me fucking  laughing because A. has avoided death. Somehow.

So there was no doubt in mind who the idiot was that had carreened down the mountain like Thelma and Louise did in the movie of the same name.

Twenty minutes later, we found her. Completely vertical at the bottom of the fucking mountain. Dead.

Okay. no. Not dead. Mostly shouting.

“HELP. I CAN’T MOVE MY NECK!”

Well, didn’t I just about wet myself laughing. The teacher’s panicked. “Oh no, she’s broke her neck.” And – trying not to wet myself- I explain. “She cricked her neck this morning, we told you this.”

Regardless – and this is the funniest thing I’ve seen in my short life – while the group watched, A. was carted down the mountain in a ski ambulance. This is basically a  tobbogan with an engine and a motherfucking body bag on skis. I nearly died too.

It would be five hours before anyone saw A. again. She had been to hospital, and now sported a lovely azure neckbrace. Her neck would not see sunlight for two weeks.

So, later, chilling in the hotel bar, I spy the barman hobbling around with a cast on one foor and a crutch in one hand and I blink. There must be something in the air, I decide. So, as I order myself a diet coke, I ask him what happened. Perhaps he spent too much time with A…

Alas, no. It turns out Mr Barman, had decided to go for a leisurely walk on the balcony. And the door locked behind him. So he thinks, Oh well, fuck it, and climbs down. Only to fall and slip in the PLETHORA OF ICE SURROUNDING, I DON’T KNOW… EVERYTHING?????  And voila! Broken leg.

So, in conclussion; don’t go skiing. Don’t go skiing with teenagers. Don’t go skiing with friends. Just don’t go anywhere with skiing. Don’t do it.

 

Update on the Home Front.

Apologies for no blog post last week but I have been busy with book two of my Sanctuary series. Home Front is in the finishing stage and it will be out in ebook – with luck and perseverance! – by the end of this month! That said, I have two concerts this month with the boyfriend. We’re going to see Walk The Moon and Baroness in Edinburgh and Glasgow respectively so that will be pretty awesome! I’m rather looking forward to it. Also we are going to the pictures to see Deadpool for Valentine’s day so that will be another distraction. That said; I’m still 100% certain book two will be available on E-book by the 29th February ;).

Yes, so! No blog post last week, but I do have an image to show you all! The image for the the E-book version of Home Front, which I will be putting into it’s own page on the site at a later – undecided- date.

Book two takes place in the middle of the Yunnan prefecture of China and while I can’t give any more details (Spoilers!) I can reveal that Kana will be messing around with things and creatures she shouldn’t yet again! More details, and chapter one of the book will be up and in detail as soon as I finish the editing. Which I will be resuming once I finish this post.

On an amusing update side note: I learned this week that it is physically impossible to do 80 squats in a oner without losing the ability to go upstairs for several days, and also that if you put a boiled egg in a microwave, the egg will go bang. Isn’t life fun?

~Shan

0541 – A Cloakroom Story

I work in a nightclub.

I used to work as a glass collector, bumping into drunkard and – according to them – stealing their drinks to resell to them later. Then I moved on to the bars, pulling pints, serving jagerbombs and energy juice infused vodka to eighteen year olds who look twelve and glare at you when you ID them. How dare someone think they look young with there thirty pounds of make up hiding freckles and the contures of their noses?

You learn several things about people working in a club.  Drunks can be funny, horny, violent, or, in some situations, catatonic. But mostly, unreasonably stupid if I’m brutally honest.

Nowadays I work in the cloakroom where there is a barrier between me and the drunken masses. It looks like a horse gate and the bottom half is locked with a sliding bolt that an idiot – or a drunk – could easily unlock from the outside, but I digress…

We work by a simple system, it’s very easy to understand. You give me your coat and articles of clothing you wish to put in, add £1.50 per coat/jacket, – We’re nice, we don’t charge for shoes and bags. You’d been surprised how many women hand their shoes in regretting those six inch heels in a three story nightclub. – and voila! I give you a little ticket to hide in your pocket, shoes, bra, – I’ve had moist ones returned. – I don’t care where you stick it. (Within reason.) But if you want your things back, you’d damned well better have that ticket.

We work in rows up to 50 hangers and there are 7 rows. So row one would be ” 1 1″ up to “1 50” and row two “2 1” to “2 50” and so on. I’ve worked on cloakroom for a while now. I like it. I know the routine, I have my wee radio, and I get on great with the doorman and the night passes mostly without event. To the extent that I can sit with a book for the first half of the night while people drib and drab in. That’s cool. By two o clock, we’re getting busy so I put the book down, pay more attention, mind my please and thank yous, and focus on making small talk.  Cool beans.

Until he comes up. I say he, because it’s usually he. He is usually the first on the night. He comes up, he pats his pockets. Front ones, back ones, front again. He looks from side to side, sometimes staggers in a full circle. I can tell them a mile off; they have the glazed look of someone who drank to forget; and forgot they were drinking.  He staggers up to the gate and he says.

“I’ve lost my ticket.”

This is where I would once clutch my radio in horror, but now a lazy smile curls onto my face. Eyes lighting with wicked glee.

“Oh no.” I say, with barely concealed amusement. “How awful.”

No. I don’t actually say it, but this is my entertainment for the next few minutes and it can go one of two ways.

Way one: You get your coat back. Way two: You don’t.

It’s late, or early in the night and you’re polite. You listen to reason when I explain that no, you cannot get your coat back because, if it’s not your coat and someone returns with that ticket; I get it in the neck. I have to pay for someone elses jacket. And when you’re dealing with £130 jackets at times, and I make £30 a shift, so, you know what? No jacket for you.

But, you’re nice to me, you don’t call me a “cunt” or a “bitch” or any other horrible word you can think of. So I explain, “come back at the end of the night and I’ll see what I can do.”

It’s hard to reason with drunk people but if they nod, they’re usually back ten to fifteen minutes later, arguing with me.

“Oh, but please. It’s cold outside and I have work in the morning. It might be raining.” These words make me laugh louder. Why are you drinking if you have work. A coat – which is safe and sound for that matter – is the least of your worries, mate. With that stagger, you’re gonna be lucky if you can crawl to work tomorrow. So, nope, that one won’t cut it. Try again.

“My friend has the ticket.”

Well done. Go get your friend. Bring her here, show me the ticket – I am not looking through two hundred jackets for a black, leather one with a zip, or in winter, a green furry thing with a hood. Do you know how many people own green furry things with hoods? Apparently everyone except me.

I love it when they argue because I have an excuse to send a doorman on their sorry ass and the doorman all think I’m adorable. Sorry guys, I’m a drunk person’s worst nightmare. Don’t pretend you wouldn’t in my place; you would.

Sometimes they find their tickets, stuck in their bra, or wedged in between a five pound note, and voila! Jacket back. They stumble up all contrite and apologetic.

“Oh, so you did give me a ticket.”

Or

“I found it. Sorry.”

And I get to grin smugly and pray I don’t get punched in the face for my gloatiness.

But the kicker, the best one happened last saturday.

It must have been about half two(am), and things were winding to a close. This guy with a small blonde beard stumbles towards the cloakroom. I’ve never seen him before but many people pass by me in a night. I don’t remember every face. No-one would. He grins and me, points and says.

“0541!”

I nod, pull a confused face, and return my dead eyes to the dancefloor where a girl in red see-through mesh is conducting a symphony. Cute girl; good dancer.

“0541!” He insists. This is where I desist leaning on the door/hatch/thing and stand upright. Drunks are unpredictable and thus far I’ve only been punched in the face once, and I’d like to keep that number down. (Accident tbh. The guy didn’t see me.)  So, at a slight distance, I inquire.

“What?”

“Lost my ticket, but that’s my number.”

I glance to the rails. We’re only on rail three, and if you remember the system, this means rail five is untouched. It cannot be 0541 as we operate on a system of three numbers, and I haven’t got to four never mind five. I try to explain this to him, but it’s like explaining algebra to a carrot. He shakes his head.

“No, 0541. Get it.”

I really don’t. I steeple my hands and buckle down for the long run. The doorman across the way has folded his hands and is peering over.

“Tell you what,” I barter. “Bring me your ticket, and I’ll get you your coat.”

“NO! 0541! It’s my new pin number.”

Pin number being the four digit code one used with their bank card to access money. I blink, trying to process the sheer level of stupidity before me. I can’t. It’s too much. I’m stunned. I can’t deal with this and I can feel the laughter about to erupt. Again; dangerous, as he could react badly.

Nope. Can’t help it. I’m laughing.

“NO!” He insists. “It’s not funny. Get my fucking jacket.”

The doorman is on him. Grasps his shoulder and says, “Is there a problem mate.”

“No no.” He goes. “No. My number is 0541.”

I’m shaking with laughter as I explain myself and the drunken man holds up a piece of paper – official bank documents – with the number on it. Even the doorman break down, face in palm, trying to process this.

It’s at that moment, the doorman realised.

“Wait a minute, pal. You’re wearing a jacket.”

“Naw, naw. This is my other jacket.”

“You wore two jackets?”

I’m done. I’m gone. I have to walk behind the coats into the room where the lights are controlled before I die laughing. It’s too much. I chuckled at the walls for a good ten minutes before I can return. He’s still there.

“Superdry.” He says, nodding. “Superdry.”

I nod, noting the word “Superdry” across his jacket on the breast pocket.

“Leather.” He continued to describe the jacket upon his person. “Black, and it has a hood.”

“Mate.” I say, calmly. I have descended to casual sarcasm and dry patronisation. “Mate, you’re wearing it.”

“Nah. 0541, Superdry.”

I’ve had about as much as a rational sane person can take and by this point there in a voice in my head explaining why murder can be a good thing. So, to pacify this voice, I point to the giant red writing on the top, open hatch of the black door.

“NO TICKET

MEANS

NO JACKET”

I mean, really. It doesn’t get clearer than that.

“Let’s play a game.” This is where I’ve lost all ability to be calm and polite. The sarcasm has won. “Let’s see if you can read this to me.”

He sniggered, it can’t just be alcohol this guy is on, stepped back, stepped forward and pointed to his cheek.

“Give me a kiss.”

“I’m gonna go with no.”

“Go’an.”

“Still no.”

“You know you want to.”

“Mm, I really don’t.”

I’ve only closed the hatch on two people. He was the third. They say that third time’s a charm but…. I big to differ.

Still. Working in a nightclub has it’s amusing tales…

 

 

 

Little catch up

It’s been a busy start to 2016 for me I think.  As of the wee, early hours of Morning morning, I finished book two of the Sanctuary series! Yesterday I set in progress the production of the cover for book one and the trailer has just been finished tonight.

After looking at the finalised version of the trailer the excitement has finally hit me.

I wrote a book. I’m getting a book published. And it’s going to be amazing.

I’m finally going to be a published author, and see my writing in print in a book.

I didn’t think it would be published when I wrote it. Only that writing would be a good way to pass 2015, so this acheivement has really made me excited. As I mentioned, book two has just started the editting processs and will be being sent of to publishers as soon as. I’m going to take a wee break for a little nip of Jack Daniels and (Diet) Coke! And then come next monday, Kana’s final book will have begun.

2016 is going to be a great year for the Montigo hotel. :)

Chapter One: Bad Reception: Available on Youtube!

So I bet you guys were wondering why no blog post this week, huh?

Well, don’t panic, I haven’t forgotten about you! I have been busy working on cover details, and book trailers and all that other stuff, including a youtube reading of the first chapter which you can find here!

 

 

Read by me! Please enjoy! h

Scissors, Greeks, Suitcases and Trains

On the theme of travelling abroad and visiting other countries, I thought this week I’d mention the time my Dad and I travelled to Greece…

A beautiful country, I remember on the way down from the Parthenon we found olive bushes in the street that anyone could pick and, just outside our hotel we found a lovely Greek restaurant that sold purple olives and a Greek salad that both tasted amazing. That possibly started off my obsession with olives. I absolutely love them now!

It must have been ten years ago, eight at the lowest, and we were waiting for my Dad’s friend to pick us up and drive us to Edinburgh airport. When we heard him arrive – in his van as he was heading to work after he dropped us off – we all shot to the van and told him to step on it, as we were running a little late.

I remember being exhausted because our flight took off at eleven (11) am and we needed to start up early. I had been up all night, unable to sleep for excitement. My Dad, too, hadn’t slept much, so we didn’t talk much on the road to the airport.

We arrived, thanked my dad’s friend for the lift, and rushed in to check in. This is where the fun started. Turns out, our flight, had taken off an hour ago. My Dad checked the tickets. Yup. 10Am check in. After some yelling, screaming and pleading, and a very nice check in personel manager, we managed to move to another flight – at half past eleven – in Glasgow Airport. My Dad phoned back his friend – who had almost made it to the bridge at this point – who did a u-turn and returned faster than a boomerang with racing stripes. He then managed to get us, and god knows how he did it, to Edinburgh Airport for 11.34am. I have honestly no idea how… well, speeding obviously, but even so…

We boarded the plane with relative ease – as much as one can expect pre-shampoo and liquid escapades – and flew off to Greece no problem. The problems arose again when we got on a train to our hotel. Luckily it was still early and the plane had barely taken two hours including time zone differences so we had plenty of time to kill. Sadly, a train that broke down in the middle of nowhere under a massive bridge was not in my to-do list. We sat there, sitting ducks for train bandits – I had visions of Dick Turpentine or the Greek Robin Hood purloining my bright pink case. Mum had found a lovely lurid hot-pink suitcase that she decreed perfect for me… It sufficed put it that way.

For two and a half hours we sat there – we should have walked – in God know’s where – waiting for a replacement train. Amidst a carriage-wide game of I spy – well, me and my Dad played it and the bored others listened in – a foghorn of noise announced the cavalry had arrived and we shuffled onto the other train like the dead marching off to war. Keep in mind, I still had not slept.

Four pm. We reached our hotel and died. Our hotel manager, Mr Old Greek Stereotype, was the loviest guy you could ever meet. Strong Greek accent and white whispy hair, Greek nose, jolly and sandals, he was the sweetest old man. I think it was him, the barlady and Mr-I-don’t-speak-English, that worked the small hotel between them. We got our room key, and shuffled up in the lift, carrying three million pounds of luggage between us.

Exhausted, we slumped into our beds, twin room, and set about to open our cases….

“Hold on.” My Dad said, patting down his pockets. “Let me just get my keys.”

I waited.

“They must be in my holdall.”

Of course. Makes sense. There’s been a lot of chaos today, and my Dad has a lot pockets and such, no worries. He emptied his holdall and frowned at the contents. Passports, tickets, return tickets, underpants, socks, deoderant, books, documents….

I waited still.

…t-shirts, jeans, shorts, more socks….

I frowned.

“Dad, I can’t see them.”

“Ah, they’ll be there….”

Long story short; they weren’t.

“Right. Stay there.” My Dad said and disappeared for fifteen minutes. He returned with a pair of scissors. I could feel my will to live slowly slide out of the patio door and leap from the second floor balcony onto its face.

“You don’t want me to-”

He did. We cut out cases open. Farewell bright pink suitcase. The scissors survived the ordeal, despite the blades bending. Apparently the manager was worried for their wellbeing when he returned them as he had to fetch them from the shop across the street – the hotel did not have any.

We decided to grab a bite to eat and sleep. Luckily, aside from slipping down a set of marble stairs in my flip-flops, the rest of the holiday didn’t go quite so chaotic.

We eventually found the keys. We had left them in the front door and some kind neighbour had locked my Dad’s door and looked after them till we returned, so that was just as well….

Damp Socks; In France!

When I was a bit younger, my Dad and I used to go abroad on holidays once a year. It used to be a good talking point. I’ll never forget the times we used to go abroad because there is always a good story or two to tell about them.

Our first trip took place to Paris. A beautiful country with so much history, we tried to cram as much as we could into five days. Before we went, my mother, against her better judgement, bought me a pair of beautiful blue and white converse with red laces that I refused to take off. I paid for it.

On the first morning of our trip we decided to go to the Louvre. On the way, we stopped off at small – but expensive – Café just outside it in order to get some breakfast and something to drink. I didn’t feel too hungry that early so I decided to wait till later on and just grab myself a small drink of lemonade. My dad, who had already been up for some time as an early riser, decided to get himself a small lager. He doesn’t drink fizzy juice so I didn’t question it. Until the drinks came out. I realised at that point why the drinks were so expensive at 7 EUROS each. The waiter returned with two glasses; two pints of lemonade, and two pints of lager. At eight in the morning. At the time I didn’t question it, though it did equate to an active bladder for the next three hours, but my Dad surely must have been walking around the Louvre rather pissed at eight to twelve o clock. Great way to start a day!

We wandered on, my Dad slowly sobering, and heading off to the Champs Elysées and the Arc Du Triumph where I watched a man on a tiny pink motorcycle tilt so far to the left, as he circled around it, that he tumbled off into the pavement. Creased, I watched on to see two French gendarme (they are kinda like policeman soldiers) walk over to him and assert his stability. From the top of the Arc I tried not to wet myself laughing.

On the second day, and much more sober than before, my Dad and I headed to the Eiffel Tower. We, being smart people who hate queues, toddled up the stairs instead of the lift. However, in order to get to the next part of the tower, a lift is mandatory, so me and my Dad slid into the next lift to sneak up without paying. It worked! But, as we did so, another man tried to slide in. The lift doors shut. On his head.

The eight other people stared in confusion and panic as this man screamed “Let me out!” My Dad and I, being horrible people, and realising he was okay and mostly annoyed, burst into laughter. We earned many a look of horror and disgust. Twisted sense of humour yes. But it was funny. Once we composed ourselves and the schadenfreude had settled, the list open to the next part of the tower and I turned around to earn my bearings. My eyes landed on a bald man with a British accent who exclaimed “Aw for fuck’s sake!” as a seagull flew passed him and- well… liberally coated him in something that might have passed for ice cream.

After I died laughing, it was time to head back down. This was when the “fun” started. Converse, as one knows, are the worst shoes to wear if you need a pair of walking shoes. After we headed down the tower, with thoughts of never eating ice cream ever again, I needed to rest my feet. We sat down on a low wall and I regretted all my life choices – but mostly converse – to the date. My Dad urged me on and we took a slow walk back to the hotel and the metro and all the other important things one must encounter in Paris.

The next day, we went to Pont Neuf. The furthest point of the Metro and, if I remember correctly, the tallest building on the planet. Apparently it was where the bombs went off at World War something. I am bad at history and slightly ashamed at just how bad. If anyone knows, please feel free to correct me in the comments.

Regardless, we turned to leave as we did. My foot exploded.

Well, not literally. But, as my Dad and I are fond of walking a lot, I had earned a lovely collection of blisters on my feet at this point so for the best part of three hours I had been walking on my tiptoes. Until the blisters on my big toes popped. My feet were soaking. I could not walk. I remember the exact point; at Pont Neuf there is a little bronze(?) statue of a planet/sphere with a plant with one leaf growing out of it (also in bronze(?)) and as we reached it, my shoes flooded.

In sheer agony, I fell to the ground clutching her feet in horror and peeled my converse off, screaming in horror. I amassed a small group of onlookers – from a distance of course – and investigated. I had to. I had honestly thought my feet were bleeding.

The result was me hobbling back to the metro in my mismatched socks with my shoes in my bag.

But, because I am a smart packer, and a light one at that, I had no other shoes to wear and thus, several days later. I returned to Scotland with purple, bruised feet.

Ah fun days.

~

Next week. I’ll tell you about Greece. Or Italy.

I Saw Three Ships a Sailing By…

Merry Christmas everyone, from me, Kana, and the rest of the house! As such, have a cute wee holiday short from everyone at the house ;)

 

I Saw Three Ships a Sailing By…

Kana gazed upon the Christmas tree with an almost wistful smile and flicked the tip of a pine needle. It instantly relinquished its grip upon the branch and fell to the floor. Instantly, a hard smack of something skelped Kana across the skull.

“No! I spent all morning cleaning the floor. Do not make things worse.” Gabriella snarled as Kana recoiled from her swipe with the root vegetables and gave a cackle. She ducked away from the frantic Spanish woman, who continued her path into the kitchen. Even now, the Christmas feast for the following day had been half prepared and Gabriella busied herself with carting in fresh parsnips from the garden. Kana could hardly wait.

It would be her first Christmas at the Montigo household and, while the gifts were sparse, Kana found that it didn’t really matter. Perhaps a sign of her growing up, she mused, or perhaps it simply felt enough to share it with Vincent, Lola, Gabriella and- yes, even Barney. She glanced towards the shade as she thought on it as he busied himself with a red bauble he had surely plucked from the tree. Kana opened her mouth, unable to help herself.

“If you don’t know where it goes,” Kana bit her lip for a moment to quell the amusement in her voice, “I can think of somewhere else it can go that will bring many a person in this household amusement.”

“I’m not adverse to murder on Christmas Eve.” Barney drawled, his eyes narrowing, before replacing the bauble on a high branch. “But Gabriella has prepared a great deal for tomorrow and I cannot deal with her complaining if any of it goes to waste.” He stuck his tongue out at Kana, a twinkle in his eye that Kana could be certain she had never seen directed at her before.

Could it be that the misery guts enjoyed Christmas? Could it be that the festive period brought out the softness in the old shade? Glancing around, Kana took in the tree that lit up the corner of the room. Atlas had pulled it in especially, using magic to squeeze it in through the door with minimal mess. Lola and Shaun had spent hours decorating it almost a week ago and once they headed to bed, Gabriella had “fixed it” vis-a-vis stripping the whole thing done and redoing it. Gabriella had seemed so lenient to all but the tree.

The fireplace roared warm with an unneeded fire. The soft chill it gave off no doubt the work of Luca and Kana wondered if the fire even burned there. Perhaps another one of his illusions, she pondered.

Everyone had done something exciting for the house, Kana noted now watching Barney twirl the bauble, and for a moment, she debated winding him up about it. Instead, she turned, heading to follow Gabriella into the kitchen. Trays covered in foil covered every available surface, and clingfilm wrapped parcels overloaded the fridge. Gabriella at present, rinsed her homegrown parsnips in the sink. For someone so rough and ready, domestic life did seem to bring out her caring side.

“Bit much…” Kana commented, raising her eyebrows at the mountain of food. “There is no way we’re gonna manage all this.”

“Bueno.” Gabriella did not look up from her task. “Leftovers will last till we are sick of them.” The muscular woman gave a sneaky chuckle and headed to the chopping board. She ripped the greens from the end of the parsnips and headed out the backdoor to feed them to the goats before returning to chop the vegetables into small, roastable sizes. Kana’s mouth watered in anticipation.

Vincent followed her back inside, stinking to high heaven of what Kana could only describe as “medicinal tobacco”. After sniffing hard, she doubted that it even contained any tobacco at all. Dishevelled, his hair almost greasy, he looking a little worse for wear, but at least he looked happy. He beamed at the sight before him.

“Aye lass, that”s it.” He nodded his approval, chin jutting out in a wide grin that split his maw. “But is no-one else eating tonight?”

“You touch nothing Cabrón.” Gabriella threatened, waving the large black handled knife at him in warning. “Or tomorrow we eat wolf.”

Vincent scoffed and bent low, pressing his lips to Kana’s forehead before pulling her closer. Kana grinned and took in a closer look at him.

“Full moon tonight. You going to be okay for Christmas day?” She asked, watching the stress fueled bags beneath his eyes. The lines on his forehead crinkled for a few seconds and then straightened.

“I’ll be ‘right, lass. Jes’ gotta get it out of my system, ‘fore Christ is born and all that.”

“Wait…” His words gave Kana pause. “You actually believe in Jesus?”

“Hah!” Vincent barked out a laugh. “Aye lass! I met him once.”

Kana glowered and folded her arms. “You did not. You’re pulling my leg. Gabriella, he did not.”

Gabriella twisted the point of the knife into her chopping board and sighed.

“He did?” Kana blinked.

“Only for a minute or two.” Vincent chuckled and ruffled Kana’s fringe. She wriggled free in frustation to sort it. “Busy man. And crowds ain’t my thing…”

“You are full of it!” Kana insisted, wondering if Gabriella was in on the joke. “You did not meet Jesus.”

Vincent’s grin could not be read. If he was joking, she couldn’t tell.

“Mum!” Lola burst into the kitchen, interupting Kana’s skepticism. Shawn tailed behind her as always. “Mum!”

Gabriella growled, imbedded the knife into the chopping board and turned to smile at her daughter. “Si, Lola.”

“Can Vincent tell us a story before bedtime again? Like always?” The thin preteen shot her mother a look of pure innocence. A look Kana knew to be a lie.

“I do not know, Lola.” Gabriella eyed Vincent up and down. “La luna calls him tonight.”

Lola redirected those large blue innocent eyes. Vincent recoiled.

“Well-” He sighed, shrugged at Gabriella and gave a nod. “Alright, c’mon. All of ye, Kana, Lola, Shawn. We’ll sit down. Ah’ll tell you ’bout one of the christmas’s I spent with yer mum on the sea, eh? Gabs, get the kettle on. Hot chocolate for everyone.”

Gabriella’s hand gripped tight around the knife and in one hard tug, ripped the blade from the wooden board. Her eyes remained glued on Vincent as she did so, but with the back of the knife she slammed down the switch of the kettle to let it boil.

“So where were we?” Vincent grinned, lounging back into one of the leather chairs. It creaked pleasantly beneath his weight and that of Kana and Lola’s as he held the pair on his massive lap while they sipped at their hot chocolate. Shawn curled up beneath them on a small red cushion. Gabriella took her place in the doorway between the kitchen and living room waiting like a furious harpy to pluck his story from the gutter if need be. Chloe sat on the other chair, listening eagerly. Kana hoped her mug of steaming red liquid might be mulled wine of sorts, but she knew the vampire well enough to guess it couldn’t be. Still, without clarification, she could pretend.

“You were gonna tell us about you and Mum.” Lola answered, taking another long sip of her drink. Vincent grinned.

“Aye. Must have been December 18th, 1708 if I recall it right.Large ship, name of “Las bragas rojas” was heading out from mainland Spain to England with somewhere in the region of twenty seven thousand in Spanish gold. Gabs thought it’d be a great-”

 “lo siento? Quién?” Gabriella’s golden eyes flared.

“Okay, okay. I thought it’d be a great early Christmas present if we could take her down, spend the entire Christmas holidays boozing it up. Drown ourselves in drink as it were. We didn’t use Le Fenix, our ship, since just recently been seen to, so she were in good enough nick to take her down but we wanted to surprise this big’un. We took down a smaller prise on the coast of France and we’d use this’n quick, ‘fore all got word it’d disappeard. we had the cannon ammunition restocked, even got new crew out to take her on. Now, this – this ship, she were a beast. Fully manned, she put ours to shame. ‘Cept, on account of Christmas creeping up, only a few men were still about. Wanted to head home fir Christmas. So-”

“For shame, Vincent.” Kana interupted, glaring. “Did you kill these men?”

“Shush woman.” Vincent growled and pressed a finger to her lip. “Wolfy’s talking. So, aye. Christmas. They wanted to head home, so, about two days into the journey or so, the ship takes stock of us, starts veering off to the side, so we take to her left side. This massive sea ship, we planned to head her off before she hit the open ocean, and she’d already noticed us. So I shout out, raise the flag, we’ll use our size to turn her about, bring her back and outmanuevrer her, sending her flailing about. Cept this ship, she starts lurching. Twice, she nearly crashes into us.”

Gabriella smirked.

“We should have use cannons,” she interjects, head tilting. “But we see no-one on board. We think, is ghost ship? Have they not seen us? Perhaps not, so-”

“I’m telling the story, Gabs! Aye, maybe they didn’t see us. So we take out the ropes and draw in close, set anchor and hook our ships together. Me, Gabs and a few others take to the other ship and explore. Maybe grab the treasure.”

Kana nodded, listening. She took another sip of her hot chocolate and drank deep. The hot warmth rippled through her and she curled her legs up tighter, listening.

“On deck, we look, we see no-one.” Gabriella leant against the doorframe, her head against her arms. “No crew, no Capitan, not even a rat. I think, is the right ship? We bring more aboard, thinking ambush for sure, but nothing. So Vincent, and I, we head into the cabin and look around. Empty. Nothing.”

“Until I look out a bloody window.” Vincent’s jaw set and he snarled, nodding at the three younger housemates sat around him. “Whole bloody skeleton crew’s set off in two life boats, heading back to shore, and just as we notice, we run out and glance over the gunwales. Three large ships – Spanish navy – heading our way.

“Back to ship, I shout.” Gabriella gave her own growl. “Back now. We get other bounty, heading to edge-”

“But some Bastard had cut the bloody ropes… The vessel heading off without us.”

Kana gaped, stuck somewhere between laughter and shock. “Oh my God, did you swim after it?”

“Woulda.” Vincent grumbled. “But Gabs can’t swim. And I wasn’t sinking down to the bottom of the ocean after her.”

“Only you did.” Gabriella chuckled.

“Shu’p woman.”

“What did you do Mum?” Lola waggled her legs.

“Only thing we could do.” Vincent elbowed Lola gently, answering for Gabriella. “We headed down into the cargo hold – mostly empty – I’ll add, and cocked our pistols. No way we coulda took on three ships worth of Navy, but they didn’t even board the ship. Stayed there till night fall, waiting for it.Nada. No show.

“Next morning, pair of us head up to weigh anchor. Guess what?”

“No anchor?” Chloe offered, giggling. She didn’t even try to hide the hilarity in her voice.

“No bloody anchor.” Vincent nodded. “They’d cut after they ran off with our bounty. We’d drifted in the night, and they’d knackered the rudder too. Miles from absolutely everywhere. Hungry, thirsty, we did what any daft bugger’d do.”

Kana grinned. She had a feeling she knew exactly what they’d done.

“You got drunk.”

Vincent’s rows of teeth flashed wide and white. His nostril flared in amusement.

“Course we got drunk. Gabs and I drank the rum left over. Piss-water, but good enough to pass the time, not that we knew what time was by the end of that bender.” He chuckled on. “Lost track of everything til we crashed into port.”

“What port?”

“Well, we didn’t have a clue either. Hangover like a brick to the head. Didn’t know what country we were in till they pointed their guns at us and scream that we’re trespassing or something. Hah. Spent the next two nights wasting in prison.”

“Two nights?”

“Well, we broke free. Not gonna stick around till they hanged us, were we?” Vincent chuckled. “Best thing was though. We got to spend Christmas drunk.”

“Sí. But I had to spend it with you.”

“Aw, Gabs. You loved it. Mind you saying that you were glad you had me-”

“I did not say that. I never say that.”

Kana folded her arms and glared at Vincent. He eyed her suspiciously.

“What?”

“You’re a liar.”

“Eh? How’s that?”

“Two things. One; I don’t think anyone really celebrated Christmas properly till somewhere in the eighteen hundreds. Not properly. Two, La bragas rojas? Really Vincent? The red knickers? You made that up… also, I don’t think I recall any history lesson about ships crashing into docks with two drunken pirates on it- though that’s probably something that happened often-.”

Gabriella smirked, turned on her heels and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Kana, you must be awful at parties.”

“So you admit it.”

“No, I bloody well do not. An’ if yer don’t believe me… well, you ain’t getting yer present from me.”

“What is it?”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re not getting it.”

“…It’s rum, isn’t it?”

“Kana, I swear to God, lass.”

 

Bus Ettiquette

One of my favourite things is watching grumpy old men learn that the world does not revolve solely around them. Take today for instance…

I had spent the day in town buying some last minute gifts for Christmas presents and had sat down on the bus for the haul back home. A women and her kid got on and the kid seemed upset because his Dad didn’t get on the bus or something. I’m not sure of the full details as I had my mp3 player on and had tuned everyone out. Antisocial for the most part, I find busses to be rather overwhelming on a social level so I try to always bring my headphones for that situation.

Regardless, the kid pretty quickly escalated into a full scale tantrum. I think the bus pretty much expected it as it a “19”. The nineteen bus round my way has a reputation for certain things; screaming children, general smell of urine (or weed!), and grumpy people are a standard. It’s just the rule of it. No other bus; just the nineteen.

You could tell that the entire bus had begun to grow bored of the noise and I had thumbed the volume up past seventeen. As a general rule of courtesy, I try never to do that because it means you can hear my music outside the headphones and I find that both rude and embarrassing – depending on what I’m listening to – but on this case I felt it was a worthy cause to avoid a headache.

Still. Mr grumpy old man at the front of the bus had clearly had enough, and, in true old man style, shouted “Shut up!” at the kid.

Well, didn’t the mother explode, and rightly so. She screamed that he was “Her kid.” She is “the mother” and “she’ll deal with it.” And rightly so. Granted, no-one wants to hear a child scream on a bus for twenty minutes, but if you don’t like it, get a taxi, walk, or learn to drive. Failing that; buy headphones. I understand he is old, but there is no justifying screaming at a distraught three year old kid. Sometimes, even as an adult, you just need to cry. We’ve all been there, and if you say you haven’t, you’re a liar.

At the next stop, the bus driver got out of his booth and told Mr grumpy that he could apologise or he could get the next bus. Good. The old man juggled the choices for a bit and then decided to get the next bus. Grumpy git. Like I said, I love when people who think the world revolves around them get a telling. I mean, sure, no-one on that bus wanted to listen to it, but there is a thing called common courtesy. I imagine even the kid isn’t too happy about it. The mother has to deal with it too, and deal with grumpy people on top of it.

Anyway, rant over.