Monday 25 November 2013

Revisiting Rock Chick

Long time readers of Fudge may recall the story of Rock Chick. It's a character loosely (and, at times, not so loosely) based on me. Most of the stories are real to a greater or lesser degree and all are 100% true if not 100% of the truth.

The story began life as part of the Write on Wednesday series about two and a half years ago and I linked up on a weekly basis with Gill at Ink, Paper, Pen.

Sadly Gill and her blog disappeared about nine months later and the Rock Chick story didn't really have anywhere to go. Maybe it had just run it's course at that point, perhaps there was nothing more to say.

Now seems like a good time to revisit Rock Chick.

Several things have happened lately, small and insignificant in isolation but, for me, as a whole, they add up to questions.

Questions about me, where I am, where I'm going,  where I want to be and, perhaps even more importantly, the place I want others have in my life ...

 Maybe in part it's the realisation that the place I have in some peoples lives isn't necessarily a place I'm comfortable with and so it seems that now there is more to say.

I've decided that Monday will be the day that I republish/write new Rock Chick stories. I can't promise consistency, you know me, full of good intentions … but for now, that's the plan.

The very first prompt for Rock Chick was to log into Facebook and take the first status update you saw as your prompt. I am republishing the first part of the story as it was written back in July 2011.

Writing Rock Chick was often almost a compulsion for me, a cathartic experience when things seemed very bleak and confusing and life made very little sense. I never really did make any sense out of it all. The things that confused me still do but the bleakness has a way of dispersing over time.

Life goes on, a level of acceptance is reached and happiness returns in a different form.

I'm hoping that revisiting the story will rejuvenate Fudge a little as well as helping me make sense of where I am now and perhaps it will also give me back some of that enthusiasm to write that's been missing for far too long ….

“Dress code Rock Chick!!  Time for a wardrobe rethink …….”

She contemplated the outfit laid out on the bed.  Normally a fairly confident person she was unused to self doubt (well, in her personal appearance anyway).

There was a fine line between sexy and sad as you got older and, although she didn’t feel, it the truth was that there would probably be lots of twenty something’s out there.  She didn’t feel the need to compete with them. She was happy in her own skin. But getting this right suddenly seemed so important.

Studying herself in the mirror she touched the tousled hair untamed for just one night.  Smoky eyes dominated her face, her lips a soft red.  Dressed all in black, skin tight jeans and high heeled boots accentuated the length of her legs.  The silky top caressing her curves rather than exposing them and the wide leather belt with silver studs slung around her hips added that rock chick effect. 

All that was needed was her favourite jewellery, a mist of perfume and she was good to go. Worn hoops of silver swag from her lobes and the Aquamarine pendent nestled in the hollow of her throat.

Picking up the delicate silver bangle with the turquoise stone she hesitated for just a moment before slipping it over her wrist.

With a deep breath and a bright smile she gently closed the door on the doubts in her mind.

Wednesday 13 November 2013

Not Guilty!!

Sometimes I think that I sound just like Bridget Jones which, considering Renee Zellweger is a Texan putting on an English accent, is a bit of a concern. It's true though, if you've ever wondered what I sound like (which you probably haven't but one day I might even get around to that vlog so you do) then just imagine Bridget Jones saying 'fuck' and that's me.

I should probably worry more about the fact that I act like Bridget Jones much of the time. Anyone who's watched the films could probably imagine me parachuting into a pig pen or trying to climb the wrong way up a fireman’s pole (that is NOT a euphemism by the way!) in the same way that it would be perfectly possible to imagine Bridget riding a sheep in the back of a van or taking out 3 checkouts at the Supermarket with a single bottle of coke or even standing in a wheelie bin holding a bag of cat shit and I'm probably never going to go Thailand because I just don't know all the words to 'Like A Virgin'.

Come to think of it SD is just like Mark Darcy (other than not being a top human right lawyer or hugely rich and or, to be honest, even owning a suit to my knowledge).

I've had my own Daniel Cleavers in the past too. Men that like the idea of me but don't take me seriously. One's that have played with my heart, made promises they don't keep and have left me wanting to stuff my face with ice cream or eat pickle straight out of the jar with a spoon while I sing 'All By Myself' very badly in my PJ's.

Men who, for whatever reason, decided I wasn't enough 'just the way I am'.

Last night we were watching a little of the Sarah Connor Chronicles. I'm eking it out as for some bizarre reason they only made three seasons and I really don't want it to end. Seriously, if you haven't watched it then do!

Anyway, part way through my phone rang and so I hit pause to take the call. As I was trying to chat politely without shouting 'bugger off, I'm watching the telly!' Eddie, my little black cat jumped up on to the sofa next to me and silently farted!

God that cat stank! Christ knows what she had been eating but, like a thick mist, the stench wafted over me. I started waving my hands around, my eyes were watering and I grunted to the the other person on the phone as I tried desperately to hold my breath. I gestured wildly to SD to remove the bloody cat before I was asphyxiated and he walked over and scooped her up with one hand under her belly.

Now Eddie is a rather nervous cat and she hadn't seen SD approach. As she was suddenly lifted into the air it unnerved her so much that she broke wind incredibly loudly. I have honestly never heard a cat make a noise like that before. I burst out laughing at SD’s horrified expression before gagging as the smell hit the back of my throat, god knows what the person on the other end of the phone thought was going on.

I finished the call as quickly as I could whilst waving a magazine around to try and disperse the smell and then ran out to the kitchen to grab some fresh air spray.

'Bloody hell that stinks' I said to SD 'and have you ever heard a noise like that either?' 'I thought I was going to die laughing or just die or something'.

SD looked at me with a pained expression – 'To be honest Sarah, it does and I haven't but I'm a bit surprised that you find it so funny, I thought you might be slightly embarrassed'.

'Why should I be embarrassed?' I said, 'After all, it's not like….' then it dawned on me …

Bloody SD had thought it was ME who farted!!!

Monday 11 November 2013


Gus and I walked to Goodlands Gardens this morning It makes a change from our usual destination of the park. Sometimes the park is a very lonely place, a great expanse of green dotted with trees with only a lone dog walker or two in the distance bundled up against the weather at this time of year. Sometimes I crave that solitude whilst at other times I feel the need to have people around me as unconnected as they might be there is something comforting about having them around.

The gardens bisect our town and it's always bustling with people on their way to and from another destination. In the summer people will stop and watch the river running past or feed the ducks or sit on the grass areas to eat their lunch but this morning most were viewing it as a short cut and didn't pause to see the trees shed their multi coloured leaves or the weir froth the water into a pulsating white foam. I felt slightly detached as Gus ran happily about sniffing each bush and hunted for a stick for me to throw for him almost as though I were in a bubble watching the rest of the world wizz past.

As we walked home we dodged the green and black recycling boxes that lined the pavements and I reflected on the contents. I don't think I've ever really given much thought to what people put in those boxes before, my main objective being to stop Gus peeing on them because I can't think of anything worse than people unknowingly picking up a box that Gus has liberally sprayed with urine but today for some reason my eyes were drawn to the content.

Some were filled with take away pizza boxes and empty cans of beer. In one there was wrapping paper from a childs Birthday, judging from the brightly coloured boxes it was a young child, a girl of perhaps 3 or 4. Others had empty bottles of wine, cereal packets and convenience food containers. Almost all had milk cartons, empty toilet roll tubes and newspaper.

I guess you can tell a lot about people by what they throw away. The things they no longer have a use for or the things they see as defunct, disposable, of no use.

Out of interest I looked in my own boxes. I put them on the low garden wall to avoid dogs like Gus peeing on them and I try to collect them back in as soon as they are emptied if I'm at home as the bin men always put them back on the pavement. My black box goes out every week usually more than half full with the usual milk cartons and cereal boxes, the green one less frequently with a couple of empty wine bottles, foil containers from the fruit I've defrosted, the odd empty marmalade jar.

My neighbour on one side never puts out any rubbish. She doesn’t have a large black wheelie bin standing in the small area behind her wall that separates her house from the pavement. She doesn't own a green or black recycling box and I've no idea what she does with her rubbish. I only know that she never puts any out to be collected. Maybe she doesn’t acknowledge that she has rubbish? Her house is meticulously maintained, she isn't a hoarder with rooms piled high with accumulated crap. Maybe she sneaks out after dark and deposits her rubbish in other peoples bins? I honestly have no idea.

On the other side of me is a shared house. Their recycling bins overflows with a conglomeration of rubbish all mixed and never sorted into the correct container. They put out their boxes along with the black wheelie bin every Monday even though the wheelie bin is only empties once a fortnight. I guess they can never remember which Monday it is (although if they looked down the street they would see no one else has theirs out). Their boxes stay on the pavement until at least Thursday and generally by Tuesday evening I've tired of stopping Gus from peeing on them as we negotiate the obstruction that often seems to shuffle along the pavement to partially block my gate.

Compared to many I have very little I recycle in this way. I don't own a food waste bin as we waste very little food. All vegetable peelings, left over bread, cake etc. (kidding – there's NEVER left over cake!) goes to the farm for the chickens, most other left over food makes it way into the animals bowls but to be honest, there isn't much of that mostly because I shop carefully and only for the things that we need and partly because I believe that animals should eat only really animal food.

I'm not sure what you could learn about me from my recycling box. That I prefer red wine to white perhaps – That I eat Fruit and Fibre most mornings – That we seem to get through a rather large quantity of loo roll in this house – That I label and date the foil boxes of fruit in the freezer – That I like Jaffa cakes and drink Earl Grey – I like lemon and lime flavoured fizzy water but Miss Mac prefers strawberry and vanilla – That we get through rather a lot of toothpaste and I like my shower gel zingy …. I'm not sure anyone other than me would be interested in the content of my recycling boxes really – to be honest, I'm not that interested in it either …

It was a lovely day yesterday, cold but bright and SD and I got on our bikes for possibly the last long bike ride for a while. SD has been a little under the weather lately and our few days away last weekend didn’t really give him the boost I'd hoped it would. He's generally a little run down, nothing serious just a feeling of not being on top form. We decided to cycle as far as Charlton Orchards, about 5 miles along the canal and then see how we felt about carrying on to Maunsel Lock and our favourite café for coffee.

It really is pretty down on the canal at all times of the year and yesterday was no exception. As it turned out neither of us wanted to turn back or take the alternative shorter route once we reached the orchards so we pressed on. As well as the usual ducks and swans we saw Shetland ponies, a herd of Llama and two gorgeously plump pot bellies pigs in the fields lining the canal. Unfortunately the pigs disappeared into their shed before I could get a photo and, once the Llamas realised I had no food for them, they lost interest and wandered off too.

There's still no sign of Bear (and thank you for your kind comments) – I don't really hold out much hope of him coming home. It's been over a week now and I've had no response from my posters – I guess I was hoping that I'd get a call at least from someone who could confirm what I believe to be true that he has been run over because then I could at least stop hoping he will come home. I miss that daft cat more than I'd ever thought possible.

Maybe that's why I'm rather preoccupied with recycling this morning – there are some things you can easily replace in life and some things that, once they are gone, always leave a gap ...

Friday 8 November 2013

Missing ...

I miss his face …

He's frequently driven me to distraction. He's crapped in my bath and behind my telly on more than one occasion. He ate a hole straight through the centre of a chocolate cake I'd just made. He climbed right into the bin when he was small and I emptied the remains of a pasta dish all over his head dying him orange for several days, He would sit on the window sill repeatedly scraping at the glass with his paw as though he were waving to passers by. He left hair EVERYWHERE and Miss Mac was constantly covered in a fluffy white pelt. He brought in frogs and let them loose in my kitchen and, on one occasion, half a frog leaving frog juice all over the floor. He got stuck head down behind the merchants chest in the dining room with only his little white bottom and furiously wagging black tail on show.

He would snuggle up against you on the sofa leaning all his weight against you and stretch his head out to rest on your knee. He mothered all the kittens that have come through this house over the last couple of years, washing them while he purred loudly and jumping into the litter tray after them to properly cover up their tiny offerings. He saw Miss Mac through some really tough times and mopped up her tears with his furry head. He made me smile with his silly face with the big black smudge on his nose.

He was endlessly affectionate and placid no matter how hard Miss Mac hugged him and, although he would grumble loudly, he never struggled, he never unsheathed his claws and he was never aggressive.

Bear of little brain has been missing for a week now. We haven't seen his since before we went to Cornwall. I've contacted the local vets and the council but no one has seen him. Miss Mac drew up some posters with a photo of him. Rather than just the usual 'missing cat – please call' with a photo she also wrote about how much she loved and missed him and, at the bottom, written in pencil, it simply says, 'please call', the letters fainter than the print above as though reflecting the faintness of her hope because we've been here before and it's never ended well …

He's not just a cat, he's her friend and a link to her Dad who she misses too but no matter how many posters I put up, however many times I trawl the streets and search the alleyways that run behind our house peering into peoples gardens and calling his name I can't make everything right, I can't bring them back.

Sometimes I feel so damned useless!

Tuesday 5 November 2013

Note To Self:

Just because the sun is shining, the sky is blue and there's not a cloud to be seen it doesn't mean it's not bloody freezing outside!

As ever I was inappropriately dressed when I went into town yesterday morning on my bike, on the plus side, after half an hour or so I matched my jeans and my jumper so I felt very coordinated (although, up close, I suspect I was slightly on the purple side of blue).

I unearthed the 13.5 tog duvet last night, I've finally conceded that Summer probably IS over for now and it's not going to be Spring until at least the 1st January so I'd better get used to it. Out came my cosy ice cream sundae striped flannel pillow cases and away went the light Summer quilt.

It was a beautiful day though and I had a fabulous weekend away in Cornwall last weekend. I'm suffering slightly from an excess of just about everything and feeling a little sluggish hence getting on my bike (which groaned loudly in protest).

We spent the weekend high on the Pantire above Newquay in a guest house run by a woman who is ever so slightly mad and sings very loudly and very tunelessly as she cooks breakfast. I suggested to SD that they might sing a duet being that everything he sings either sounds like the James Bond theme tune or the death march to me.

Nick is very bubbly and very Cornish especially in the mornings unlike it has to be said either SD or Miss Mac who both look like they've been dug up at breakfast time and only communicate with hand gestures and grunts before 11am.

Luckily I'm at my best first thing so Nick and I chatted away whilst SD slept face down in his crunchy nuts and Miss Mac ate her cooked breakfast with both hands.

'I'll be out this evening my lovelies'' Nick informed us – the coven* are meeting up in Kernow woods at 11pm for a witch walk - a piece of sausage fell out Miss Macs open mouth as she looked on in horror - 'and later we'll be gathering round the bonfire at Porth cove for the ritual** – feel free to wander down and join us my darlings – we are always looking for fresh meat.***'

I like the Cornish. They say things like 'Dreckly' which means 'soon', 'later', ''when I feel like it, 'maybe never,' 'fuck off and leave me alone' and 'Piddledown Didda 'which mean 'is it raining?' (usually asked when you're soaking wet and dripping water all over the floor). and wear tee shirts that say 'keep Cornwall tidy … throw your rubbish in Devon'.

In the summer SD and I cycled to a stone circle and on the way back he stopped to talk to a farmer about a tractor or some tractor tyres or something (SD is every so slightly obsessed with tyres - most perplexing …) anyway, SD mentioned we'd just been to see the Merry Maidens (as the stones are called)' Likeun diddy' he asked (did you like them) before informing us that he had some standing stones on his land too – 'Seenunavee?' (seen them have you??) – 'Oh really' said SD – 'What are they called?' - 'The farmer picked at his teeth for a bit before replying – 'Well, you'm can call um what you like m'dears - but mostly I just call'um rocks'.****

We spent a happy afternoon in Truro on Friday before heading on to Newquay which was buzzing with the final of some national surfers competition. Plenty of rubber clad surfer types carrying boards to keep Miss Mac entertained.

Bearing in mind it was November this time around we were very lucky with the weather and although it was a little breezy (for breezy read 'howling fucking gale!!') it was dry and the sun shone. We got blown across Fistral beach and into town on Saturday morning and spent a very happy day wandering around the shops and drinking coffee at the Beached Lamb Café (which for some reason SD and I always think is called the Slaughtered Lamb …) where they decorate your latte like this:

On Sunday morning we had one last walk along the seafront and a wander around the harbour before calling in at Trago Mills for yet more shopping and more coffee (considering how much shopping we did I appear to have nothing whilst Miss Mac has bags full of loot!) and picking up Gus from the farm.

Yesterday I accidentally clicked on an email from Badoo (remember them?) - generally I just ignore them. I cant seem to get myself off the site despite numerous attempts and logging in to be nosey just pushes you right to the front and results in a load of messages. Anyway, as I was already there I had a look at my messages. Most were the generic 'so and so wants to talk' type of thing but there, right at the top was one from Paul, 44 from Exeter – 'UR fabulous bby' and, a little further down – Alex, 39 from Torquay – 'Hey sxy – you up for some nsa discreet fun?' - Lovely and almost impossible to resist don't you think?

Other than that there isn't much going on in my world at the moment. The search is still on for the perfect pair of boots and I think I've decided on the New Rock Gringos which is actually a mans boot but has that terminator look I'm going for (think Summer Glau in the Sarah Connor Chronicles).

Anyway, I'm just waffling now, thinking aloud and you probably don't want or need to hear the rest of the crap floating around my head so happy Tuesday Fudgers.

I'll be back … (see what I did there??? ;).

  • * she might have said girls
  • ** she may have said fireworks
  • *** she didn't say that at all – I made it up …
  • **** he really did say that ;-)