the blog tour


I have never before participated in such an activity as this – mostly because I don’t ‘know’ any bloggers and don’t relish the imminent dejection upon engaging in such a sport- but, that said, JUST THIS ONCE, if awesome undead gremlinesque kitty cats like dead cat are standing over me with a poised and bartonella-ridden claw, then I guess it’s ok….maybe..I’d like to send people to blogs I like and its interesting to learn more about people’s writing. Plus this breaks up my inspiration drought quite nicely. I’m going to treat this like a roadtrip and select some guys who I think would make a fine cup of coffee for you when you stop by to see them.

Apparently the rules are something like this –

1. Pass the tour on up to four other bloggers
2. Give your nominees the rules and suggest or dictate a specific Monday to post.
3. Answer four questions about your creative process which lets other bloggers and visitors know what inspires you to do what you do.
A) How does my work differ from others in my genre?
B) How does my writing/creative process work?
C) Why do I write or create what I do?
D) What am I working on at the moment?

4. Compose a one-time post on a specific Monday (date given from your nominator).

so onto the business of rule adherence then…

1. On this tour I’m taking a stop at The V-pub because he loves these things and actually, despite the name, doesn’t blog much about weight. Next I’m popping in to see the incredibly talented Mr Flanders because I’m hoping to lure him out of his hibernation and back into the cyber-world (though I won’t hold my breath for involvement in this endeavour). Thirdly I’d like to take the tour to katzenworld, not because I expect them to necessarily respond, but because anyone who likes cats can’t help but go ‘nyaawwwww’ when you see what’s involved in their tummy rub tuesday editions! Finally, I’m pretty sure that they will be too busy writing postcards to Ellen Degeneres to respond but I’d like to take you to meet Dumbfunnery.

2. In the unlikely event of one of the above actually reading this, then presumably you can either do the stuff it says above for Monday 22nd June, or y’know, get on with something else, because I’m totally not going to feel awkward about directing my monumental blog traffic your way!

3. Oh the questions –
A) How does my work differ from others in my genre?
I don’t know what genre I am in, so I guess my work differs from others firstly by uncontrollably spanning genres and being consumed by erraticism (no that a is not meant to be an o). Also I write quite candidly about mental health issues and that is something that too few people do.
B) How does my writing/creative process work?
I switch off my consciousness as much as possible and let words fall out of my semi and subconscious. The process usually takes place in the bath on my smartphone, and therefore my SO (who doesn’t read my blog) can’t figure out why I spend so damned long in the bath and STILL sometimes come out without shaving my armpits! I often don’t look at what I’ve written until I’m verbally exhausted, so I never really know where I am going or how things will end, occaissionally, before I start I have some vague senses of ideas but it is very rare that these things are planned or structured intentinally, they just kind of spew out. Sometimes I don’t read the words until I publish and then I kick myself for having to fix all my dumbass grammatical errors and fat-fingered typos.
C) Why do I write or create what I do?
I write and create what I do for several reasons. I am an unskilled and clumsy vocal speaker, yet can usually express myself with a degree of clarity and depth of feeling in written words. I feel almost elegant and very confident reading and writing, but vociferous discourse is intimidating and at times overwhelming for me. In addition, being so poor at talking, certain things still need to be vented, and some embryonic ideas need to be written down in order to realise what they mean. Writing is a way of staying a bit more sane than good old depressed non-writing me and is a good deal cheaper than my old therapist. Also, in my daily life I have to be very analytical, rational and logical, which is exhausting because clearly I am none of these things, I’m just pretending because I wanted to be Dr SPMP (which, incidentally, I am), so going to town on a short written blabber about whatever the antisocial, freaky liberalist side of me has been aching to shout out in serminars is definately the better option!
D) What am I working on at the moment?

Right now I’m working on a couple of manuscripts, but they are of a scientific nature, so I guess you want to know about creative things. More of the same I’m afraid – no big creative projects imminent because of too much science and not nearly enough sleep.


Get out of my way, you fucking moron!

That’s what a cyclist yelled out this evening

“get out of my way, you fucking moron!”

I can only assume that someone took a dump in his desk drawer at work today or something. I’m not sure if this comment was intended for me, or the bikes coming the other way, or the stars, or the headlights but either way it seemed a bit unnecessary. I reckon he could do with listening to a bit more Jewel. I’m having a Jewel kind of week so far…despite the undeniable religious over, mid and undertones of many of her songs, the lyrics that don’t involve god, often provoke a sense of serenity and quiet introspection. Hands for example opens with the  following:

“If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we’re all OK
And not to worry ’cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these”

I find the sentiment both charmingly simple and culturally sagacious. It makes me think. We spend so much time and effort worrying and stressing, fretting and waiting for the sky to fall that we miss out on the good stuff. jewel declares that she won’t be idle with despair, and sometimes I need to be reminded just how wasteful it IS to just sit around being depressed and letting the whole damned world beat you up.

I’ll bet mister pottymouth on a bicycle has spent way too much time worrying, possibly about the lingering smell of the aforementioned hypothetical turd, and forgotten that sometimes it’s OK to give way to someone else, and sometimes you just have to sit back and enjoy the ride.

Jewel is right about a good few things, and the importance of kindness is right up there. We spend our depressed, egotistical little lives scratching at intruders and causing each other pain, when a little pinch of kindness would go a long way.

I’ve also justfinished reading the invisible man and frankly am disappointed…I think the reader is supposed to feel some empathy towards the invisible man, but he’s such an intolerable prick that frankly, I was releived when he died and I didn’t have to read about him again. I’ll try the time
Machine and work out if H.G. Wells just isn’t for me….

PS no I am not on any new exciting drugs, unless you count salbutamol as exciting…its hardly recreational.

I don’t wanna talk to you anymore – I’m afraid of what I might say….

Ok so I stole the title from Incubus – well -some days you just feel like that don’t you. I’m not sure if I mean you feel like quoting, like Incubus, or like telling someone you don’t want to talk to them..Probably not the latter, I’m actually feeling unseasonably chatty.

I think there might be something wrong with people who would, out of CHOICE, use the central toilet cubicle in a row of three (where the outer ones are against actual walls). I mean, don’t they realize the very real possibility that the central dividers could fall down? Not to mention the fact that you might be flanked on BOTH sides by other people doing their business? Well, I for one will not get caught out by this and I stick to my very reasonable rule to only use the outer cubicles (except on an emergency basis – because peeing yourself in public is probably far worse than being sat in between two groaning poopers and praying that the walls stay up….

I never realised before toady that if you use two sprays at once in the tissue culture you can feel like a total bad-ass – y’know two guns firing at once..haha!! Take that bacterial scum!!! you should try it some time – it sure beats just patiently going about your cleaning duties in a normal way.

Who breaks a sofa at a wake anyway huh?

Tonight shall I journey with the young frankenstein, who has just left for university, or shall I venture into the goings on in that weird street where people are losing their minds and killing each other…

Speaking of which. I read a novel the other week that really struck me as great writing. It’s called “Days of madness” by a little-known writer called James Josiah.

I have to admit that I downloaded this to my kindle because it was free, but having read it,I will happily pay for any future work he creates. This diarised account of a depressed man struggling with reality, medication and all of life’s usual woes made me laugh, concerned me, and yet somehow made perfect sense to someone who has been diving in the pool of depression and medication for many a year. I was irritated when the book ended because I think I got addicted to the writing style, and yet plunged headfirst into Robert Stevenson’s considerably more starched text describing Dr jekyll and Mr Hyde.

I guess I’ve been reading more than writing. Sometimes you have to absorb and ruminate or you’ll run out of new things to say.

I could just tell you useless daily statistics, like how many times I’ve washed my hands each day but really, as long as the total is greater than the sum of toilet trips and meals then no-one cares. I think I’d rather read that tally up my life thanks


“High fives to better judgment…..Low twos to you my fickle friend…”

Forgetting or remembering

To paraphrase idlewild, I often forget to remember. Curiously enough, I believe this is due to my extreme skill at remembering to forget.
Sometimes ginger tomcats, sometimes cotton wool and xylophones, sometimes psychotic suicidal dream-parents, or dragon-shaped clouds and sometimes murikami, those figments are captured. Fragments of thoughts and memories all tossed into the fabric of my core. Who knows when or if they will waft their way to the great kaleidoscope of conscious thoughts.

It’s funny, the things you appreciate when they are gone.

Like the first time I immersed myself in my favourite book. I can never feel that same naive anticipation and curiosity again.

Letting the dog sleep on my bed even though she wasn’t supposed to.

Those glorious sips of red wine before the inevitable headaches begin.

Reading plath by the riverside while tori sang in my ears.

All those forgotten earthquakes that shook me into the person I am today.

And yet still chosing to forget so much.

So where’s Neil when you need him?


^picture = cover of Ultimate Sandman Volume 1</span

After fighting for a few hours with the British Library box office website, I finally managed to get some tickets to see Neil Gaiman and Tori Amos talking about their comic book connections (y'know….sandman comics, comic book tattoo, Tori's references to Neil in her songs etc) Of course immediately after Neil's facebook page announced the talk the box office crashed…and many people spent hours just hoping the site would favour them…I gave up around midnight, and tried again this morning at 7:30, but it said it was sold out and wouldn't allow me to put tickets in cart.

Not one to be dissuaded by things like that, I doggedly kept on trying…y'know, just in case…and to my delight, someone clearly failed to check out their basket in time, and their tickets were quickly scooped up into mine. I'd already set up an account last night so I flew through the payment and now am the proud owner of two tickets 🙂 what's even better is that I think it will be held in the auditorium which only seats about 250 people. Can you imagine being so close to both Neil and Tori? and then in the evening seeing the bizarre personality of Amanda Palmer as a cameo? amazing. And surrounded by books the whole time. Ah bliss, and with an old school friend (with whom I have been comparing nerdy notes about the sandman comics etc)

Oh god. It’s finally happened. I’ve gone in all guns blazing about a bank error resulting in a threat of court summons from the council….only to find….

I clicked something wrong on Internet banking.
And just like that my £25 compensation and paid for phonecall disintegrate into the ether.
I just have their word for it of course….but…this ‘event’ happened four months ago and we all know that my strung-out guppy brain can’t remember that far back. Why didn’t I notice sooner? Well I did, but then SO pointed out that you don’t pay council tax for two months of the year…so i figured it was all under control…

Yesterday an unwashed plate (probably mine) on the living room floor caused SO to claim suicidality.

I spent the whole day cleaning.



I just went and drove SO’s car for the first time. It felt a bit weird to be honest and SO was gripping on to the seat grimacing the while way around snapping ‘GEAR! GEAR!’ and ‘SLOW DOWN’ at me :/

We got back in one piece, and I stayed calm, didn’t do anything dangerous and I forced SO to come up with some positives about the experience to counter his criticism of the speed-bump and gear-changing mishaps. Apparently junctions were ok, and I managed to stay calm, I also tackled a mini roundabout in a reasonable manner. Ha! I’ll have to take that and run!

This year is shaping up to contain some great things. Horses every week, Neil, Tori, then Neil again.

Stream of consciousness trickling out of my psyche

Oh glorious treacle of tasks and negativity. Why do you impede me so when I want nothing more than to run away? Thrashing as I am through even the shallows, barely able to raise my thoughts or my limbs. A never ending fatigue from fruitless fury. A ceaseless reminder of ruthless rejection. 4 feet deep and I’m drowning in my own demise. Breathing in waves of molasses-like fears and expectations. Weighing me down though my body is lighter. Pulling me back through the steps I have taken. This is life, this is the state I have chosen. This is so much more weight than I can bear on my mind. This is not enough strength to get me through to the garden. It’s cold and alone here.
Still sticky with fever, or tangled in doubts. Waves just come dragging me over the ocean to another such desolate spot. No closer nor farther than any before from where I know I should be.