K is for Kinky

Oh the slight discomfort that accompanies the moment when you’re casting around for something to write about and your boyfriend (have I not mentioned him before? See how I ever so casually slipped it in there? I can totally be cool. And breathe. I imagine I’ll get back to him as a subject when I next get completely stuck for ideas even though I told him I probably almost definitely wouldn’t. So the lies have begun, it’s definitely a proper relationship) suggests kinky. Maybe you think that I’m being terribly prudish but what you don’t know is that my dad was in the room with us at the time.

Admittedly he didn’t so much as look up from his paper, having already suggested Kent and knickers (Kentish Knickers is very much now a potential business idea and I’ve bagged it) and the moment passed in an instant (as they so often tend to do). In fact, there wasn’t really any awkwardness. I’ve just invented some so that I could write about it (although I am scribbling this in my notepad in a decidedly messier fashion than usual in the vague hope that such action will confound any prying eyes).

So… kinky. What can I possibly say? What do I want to admit to here? I am afraid to say that I’m just not particularly kinky at all. I lack even the potential for such a quality and all efforts to make me so have been thoroughly resisted so far. What? You’re giving me a funny look. What did you think I meant? Obviously I’m referring to the fact that my hair is actively, constantly, steadfastly straight and will never curl no matter what I try (that’s totally the reason why I never bother to do anything with my hair – it’s got nothing to do with laziness). No one could have ever thought I was intending any other sort of meaning by my use of the word kinky, right?


J is for Jubilation

Quick question before we get cracking on this one: do you remember that book I wrote that I won’t shut up about? No? How convenient, allow me to refresh your memory. I wrote a book, it’s excellent and available here: http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Guide-Song-Title-Challenge-ebook/dp/B00L8YGSTO/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1409320065&sr=8-1&keywords=ros+martin (subtle subtext: BUY IT).

Why do I feel the need to bring this up? Well, apart from my completely failed stab at marketing (yes, I saw you roll your eyes), I have other things to say (come on, when don’t I?). You see, according to an email Amazon kindly sent me, I was supposed to get my very first slice of royalties yesterday. Given that I have never received a single penny for anything I’ve written thus far (oh I don’t want your pity. Although, if you did feel compelled to go and purchase said word based masterpiece – I’m quoting directly from the entirely hypothetical review that no one’s written. I’m going to have to be careful, this post is beginning to go somewhere self pitying – then I won’t complain. Promise), it’s a really rather exciting prospect.

I’m hardly expecting vast riches to suddenly be mine (that’s going to be the next book), my initial estimate was somewhere in the region of a grand total of sixty pence. Now I’m over twenty four hours after when the money was supposed to come in and, greed fuelled stone heart that I am, I’m rather tired of waiting to see how many Mars Bars I can get with my earnings.

It’s not just about the money (the sweet sweet digital currency I can’t wait to get my greasy mitts on. Hmm, maybe I should have cleaned them off before I started typing. I don’t want my keyboard to get sticky), apart from my truly abysmal rank in the Kindle bestsellers list (I don’t want to tell you what it is, I really don’t), this is my only indication of how many units have sold. Fingers crossed for it being more than three.

I is for I Bet

Oh there are so many things I bet. For one, I’m absolutely certain that you’ve been dying to know just what I think about something terribly important. Especially as I spent time on more than one occasion (at least I think I probably did. Tell you what, you go back and check for me because I’m writing just now and I don’t have time to do it myself. That was a fancy writery shaped excuse trotted out as opposed to copping to what’s really going on which is obviously that I can’t be entirely bothered to do my own research) speculating as to what insights I might have down the line.

It’s Friday, I’ve kept you hanging for nearly a whole entire week (not to mention that lightly tortuous first paragraph). I bet you’re getting your very fetching knickers in a twist on the very edge of your seat wondering what I reckon as regards the new Doctor Who. I knew it, after all this time we’ve spent together you’re getting rather predictable you know. Oh no, it’s not a criticism whatsoever, I wasn’t saying that at all. It makes my job an awful lot easier after all.

So there were robots replenishing themselves out of human bits similar to the Girl in the Fireplace episode though they never came out and said so. There was the lizard woman, her lady wife and the confused Sontaran butler who happen to be a group of characters I’m frankly getting rather tired of. And then the new Doctor came into play. There’s no denying that Capaldi is a good actor (he is still Capaldi in my mind, it’s going to take a little while for me to start thinking of him as the Doctor I’m afraid) and a Scottish non flirty Doctor might well be in order. So far I do actually approve which is a relief. I wasn’t even very happy when Matt Smith phoned, it made the whole situation feel ever so slightly forced. Let Capaldi stand on his own two feet. And don’t you dare hand him a walking stick.

H is for Haystack

I really ought to have known so much better than this shouldn’t I? They don’t make up sayings for nothing now do they? Or maybe they do. Whoever they are, they probably don’t have all that much to occupy themselves if they’ve got all this free time to invent random sayings for bored writers to muse over. Anyway, perhaps I should put it this way, when I decided to get my sewing out (as I so very often do) in order to darn some sadly mournful socks to bring an element of rejuvenation into their pathetic little lives I probably should have attempted it anywhere other than that farm I just so happened to be passing.

I don’t know what got into me. All I can say is that I was suddenly seized by a sudden whim of an impulse to perch atop a haystack and watch the world go by as I applied myself so diligently to my needle and thread based task. You can tell where this is going can’t you? Looking back, with hindsight and all the smugness that accompanies it, it was entirely inevitable what happened next. I’m hardly the most graceful of individuals and with a delicate and not at all butterfingery (totally a word) fumble after an entirely accidental stab of the needle into my thumb, said object slipped from my hand.

And now I’m left with just the one option. I have to burrow my way through this mountainous stack of hay in order to locate my needle so that I can ensure that my socks (which are cheap and nasty so probably ought to be thrown away) are no longer holey. Yes, alright, I did bring more than just the one with me and there is for some reason a terribly conveniently located haberdashers just a few metres away but that one was my favourite. I want it back. So would you mind bringing me a cup of tea and a blanket? I get the feeling that I might be here a while.

G is for Getting Harder

Oh you dirty perverted thing. Is that really all you ever think about? I make an entirely innocent if ever so slightly ambiguous reference to things whatever they may be getting harder and that’s where your mind goes? Why would you choose to hold it against me? Alright now, stop it. This smuttiness is definitely saying a lot more about you than the words I choose to use.

I suppose that now I’ve said all that, even if you weren’t thinking it in the first place (you, my youthfully clean and innocent little flower, are my favourite. Mainly because it means that I get to have the chance to be the one doing the corrupting which is always a lot of fun. Not that I have any previous experience in that particular area of course…), it’s probably becoming more difficult to read this post any other way. The situation may well have escalated in its factor of trouble if you know what I mean. Even if you don’t, well, it’s my blog and I can come out with pretty much anything I feel like. Now you’re just being silly, you can’t possibly have read any level of entendre into that. Yes I am telling you what you should be thinking, it makes everything a hell of a lot simpler for you.

After going on that completely mental (in so many ways) journey of discovery, I’ve forgotten entirely what my initial thought was when I said that something was getting harder. It could well be just about anything, I might have been waiting for a jelly to set (if only) or have left some bread or cheese out and felt the need to lament its spoilage. Probably not though, it would be a rather weird thing to decide to share with a hoard of strangers on the internet. As opposed to all those completely normal things I come out with usually.

F is for Fertility

At the grand and frankly rather ancient age of twenty one, I am a dried out and withered husk of womanhood because I have thus far entirely failed to procreate. I know, you really don’t have to gasp in abject horror like that, you’ll pull something. According to my former genetics professor, I’ve completely missed the optimum window for child bearing. Rather than messing around with that whole school and university business during the ages of eighteen and nineteen in order to finish off my A levels and begin my degree, from a strictly biological standpoint, I really ought to have popped out a kid or two. Right?

Mercifully, it’s not quite that simple. I have plenty of excuses I can trot out to the eggs I’ve previously flushed down the toilet (because it would be weird to hang on to them or something). Children are really terribly needy (this isn’t sounding overly apologetic is it? It’s not like its their fault or anything) and, by all accounts, you’re supposed to be able to afford to feed and clothe them before you bring them into this world. Details, they have the potential to be rather pesky. This keeps me in the clear for a while, take that nature, I don’t have to listen to you any more (this is where I get struck down by a particularly nasty strain of flu or something to teach me for spouting such blatant examples of a thoroughly cavalier attitude).

So when is the best time for this flavour of malarkey? Well, if there was an easy or obvious answer to that question don’t you think that you would have heard it by now? Basically, if you can sneak them in under the wire before you hit thirty five you’re less likely to run into problems but if you don’t then more power to you. Yeah, I’m a bit disappointed by how mundane that was too.

E is for Exposure to the Elements

I’m sitting in a field. Wait, there’s more, I promise. There’s a festival type situation going on around me (and it’s for Christians so you know it’s deeply cool…) which is the primary reason why I’m here, waiting like a good little girl for a scheduled talk. We’re slap bang in the end of the middle of August so naturally I’m swathed in a massive scarf, shivering helplessly and clutching a steaming cup of tea. Not to mention the tiny tartan umbrella resting on the ground beside me ready to be unfurled at a moment’s notice.

Of course I came prepared for inclement weather. There’s a thicker cardigan and a jacket stuffed in my bag but for now I’m clinging firmly to my stubbornness (in the hope that it will keep me warmer) by refusing to don them because it’s going to get colder. I won’t feel the benefit later if I put them on now. Logic. Or something.

Every now and then there’s burst of truly glorious sunshine to briefly warm me like a delicious scone on a plate (there are a lot of food vans around). I know I’ll cave sooner or later. I might well be better at dealing with the chill as opposed to the heat (it’s a good thing I live in England then. Otherwise I’d be reduced to a burbling puddle for a large proportion of the year) but even I am not so unfeeling.

My wardrobe is experiencing something of an all or nothing situation. It’s far too early in the year to bring out my massive coat and I haven’t got a clue where my waterproof is. If indeed I still have one. Oh that’s just perfect, the rain has come. Where’s the beer tent? Of course, as I finish scribbling this in said canvas abode, the sun’s come out in real force. She’s a terribly fickle bitch, English weather. But let me ask you this, who’s got an overpriced half pint of cider?