Depression – A work in progress

An explanation by one who has it.

I owe much to the people in my world. If I could show them how much I love them I would. It’s not just family or friends either. There have been many people in my world and life that have not only shaped me into the person I have become, but have supported me and I love them all for it. Even the ones I don’t remember.
There are two people that I owe my life to though. One is my Doctor and the other is the marvelous person she referred me to – my psych. Then there is one more person that has kept me going since, he’s my rock, my partner, and the love of my life.
To all of these people I give thanks. There are not enough buckets in the world to hold the thanks that I would give you if it could be measured at all.

There is pain, so there must be life. It’s heart deep and sometimes delves to the pit of your soul. Sometimes the pain gets the better of a person – no matter what the support around them, the medication that they are on, or the love they are given.

Depression – I was once informed – is like being at the bottom of a deep dark well.

I have to say I disagree to some extent with this analogy – for me its more like being deaf, dumb, blind and in complete emotional pain coupled with exhaustion. At the end of it, at the very bottom of it all, you are just a husk. An empty hollow husk.

If you really want to use the ‘well’ analogy though, throw a lid on the top of your well once you’re down there – and imagine, if you can, that the lid has been thrown on by someone else – someone unexpected, and it happens when unlooked for – a bit like when an accident occurs – it’s just not something we plan on happening.

Now this lid is one that allows no sound, touch, sight, air, or anything in – then make this lid ‘magic’ but not in a good way. For you see that’s the issue I have with the ‘well’ analogy; a well has a top – sure you might be at the bottom of the well, but a well has a top and everyone knows it. When you have depression, there is no ‘top’ to your well. A lid to a well in depression is something that you have been told about by those that you trust and love (so it gives you some hope) but you have never really experienced it for yourself. A lid on a well for depression is a bit of a myth; more than reality is just around the corner.

So, when someone asks me if I am ‘well’ I say, “yes, why yes I am, and you?” Well to me is breathing in and out. It’s getting up in the morning when really, all you want to do is stay in bed. I would be happy if I could sleep forever. But no-one (except my psych – who I love and adore) wants to know this. Really.

Let me see if I can explain this a little better for you.

Just take a minute. Stop and think about one that you love. It can be anyone, but it must be someone that loves you back. It could be your Mum or Dad, your partner, husband or wife; your children (grown up of course), or your dearest friend.

Now, what is the one thing that you know that you do not want to hear from them? Something. Anything, it doesn’t matter how big or small it is that they say or have said, or perhaps you worry that they will say or do? What is that one thing that they tell you that you just don’t want to hear? What ever it is, do you know why you don’t want to hear it? I’ll tell you – you don’t want to hear it, not because you don’t love them, but because you don’t know how to deal with it. You don’t know how to respond, and you don’t know what to say. Regardless of it being something that you wish you could stop, you feel completely and utterly useless in that situation.

I’m not being mean here by explaining this to you in this fashion, I don’t want to evoke feelings of hurt or pain – that is not my intent – that is NEVER my intent. This is the only way I know that I can explain myself.

I used to get bullied at school. I was an only child, I say was as, later in life I discovered to my great delight and joy that I had two siblings – by step, but none the less, they are my brother and sister and I adore them.

However, I digress.

As I say, I was an only child, and we moved around a lot. I went to so many primary schools both in New Zealand and Australia – it wasn’t funny. A child soon learns that to leave your friends behind is a painful process. To do it again and again is something that you just don’t want to experience. You soon become inured to the whole process. It’s not just school friends you leave behind, but after school friends, be they the man that speaks nicely to you in the Dairy Bar or Delicatessen, the woman who lets you pat the horse, the lady that teaches you how to ride, the man that chats to you on the ferry, the kids next door at that house; the ones in the caravan park. The children that live in a motel (how exciting!), all these people in a young child’s life impact on a child in many ways. Kindness is something that will always touch a child deeply; usually because it is unlooked for. I know that I went through most of my young life learning to look inwards. I learnt, as I said, not to make friends – you don’t make any, you don’t leave any behind. However, you still become sad as you realise that there were many there that you would have liked to let into your world. Many people that you admired.

So, I learnt not to allow people into my world as it were. I also learnt to read. A lot. I discovered that nearly every school I went to had a library. Now that was a discovery of some magnitude. I discovered many ‘friends’ in those books. They did so many exciting things, they were brave or scared, tired or strong, big or small; and I went on every single ride with them.

Sadly, none of my new ‘friends’ could stand by me when the school bully decided to pay a call. There was one school that I went to where it was a daily occurrence. In the end I learnt to deal with it by looking out for her earlier on in the day, just so I could get it over and done with. I felt, at the time, that it was better to get it over and done with, rather than living in fear each day wondering when it was going to occur. I realise now that she never cottoned on to me hunting her down. Most probably because it was always a shock to me when I found her, as I knew what was going to happen. I’ve been told that I have a very readable face. I am fairly certain that the shock was plain on my face every time. That and the fact that I could always feel the blood draining from my face. I was really white to begin with, I must have looked like I’d seen a ghost when my face goes ‘white’. The whole incident in high school was completely hideous. When the school career officer told me to leave school, get married and have babies as I wasn’t going anywhere, it gave me a free pass to leave. I left halfway through year eleven.

Bullies come in many forms.

Karma is my best friend.

About a year later, I was walking through the supermarket at my local shopping center to pick up something up. I must have looked tough or something, but I know I looked completely different – for example my hair was down and I had light makeup on. I looked nothing like I did in my high school uniform; hair down and makeup were not something you were allowed in my day. So, my ensemble for the day consisted of some light makeup, ankle boots, tight jeans (I loved my Faberge stretchy jeans!) and a t shirt. Because it was raining and we were on my boyfriends motorbike, I was also wearing his black leather jacket and had my helmet under my arm.

Right there in the middle of the supermarket, by the freezer section stood my high school tormentor. My heart must have dropped to my boots for all of five (very long) seconds. Then it was like a switch had been flicked. I strode up to her and said, “Hi, how are you doing?”

She turned, looked up at me (that shocked me so much. I had blossomed in so many ways after leaving school. But she was so much taller than me in high school, I know I had my heels on, but I was actually looking down at her!) and realised who I was, stuttered an hello! then bolted! Literally bolted out of the supermarket. I was left standing there stunned. It took all of about three minutes before I STRUTTED out of that store with the biggest smile on my face. Seriously? I could have taken the world on right there and then. I felt amazing! The best part of that was, I had no intentions of doing anything – I really had just wanted to get the bacon off the shelf she was standing in front of. I had no idea what she saw that day, but I must have looked like the biker-chick from Hells Angels or something.

So yeah, me and Karma? We’re tight! LOL.

Oh, in an aside? That boyfriend? We are still together to this day. We may have been on again, off again for the first five years of our relationship back in those days, but we haven’t parted since.

Most of what I read was along the lines of Agatha Christie. It wasn’t until my mid-to late teens that I discovered Tolkien and fantasy. Early twenties for science fiction to become another genre to love. I never liked reading non-fiction. Not ever. My reading was pure unadulterated escapism.

It wasn’t until much later in my life when my psych mentioned to me – “you do realise don’t you, that none of what you read is real?”
I answered immediately by iterating that of course I knew\. But something inside me ‘clicked’ and I thought about it – as she knew I would. I really did have to ‘let go’ of my ‘friends’ and it wasn’t until she said what she said, that I realised that I actually needed to tell my brain that they weren’t real. Funny side affect of this has been that I can now watch movies that before I was too scared to watch. I just tell myself it’s not real. Amazing huh – I knew it all along, but I had needed to tell that part of my brain that had latched on firmly to all that I read, that none of it was real.

The brain, let me tell you, is a very amazing beast.

The Ties That Bind

The Ties That Bind.

She walked along the tracks, the sun shimmering in the distance where the heat was radiating so much that everything seemed to be distorted, including the train station up ahead.

The tears rained down her face, smudging mascara, and putting rivulets within her makeup. The sobbing had stopped long ago, before she’d even reached the tracks. She was probably not even aware that still she cried.

Reaching the station she clambered up onto the platform and wandered over to the ladies toilets where she went in and washed all of her makeup off. Looking in the mirror she whispered to herself, “so what did you expect? Really? That he would profess his undying love for you, drop to his knees and propose?” Realising that this train of thought was not going to do anything other than realise another bout of crying, Boe washed her face once again, and drying it on the paper towels provided, straightened herself up, collected her suitcase and left the room.

Walking up to the ticket machine, she purchased one ticket – a one way ticket back to the city. The very last place on earth she wished to go. Moving over to the timetable on the wall Boe worked out that she had less than twenty minutes to wait before the next train would whisk her away from the town where she had never been any happier.

Boe walked over to one of the bench seats currently in the shade that looked out over the stations platform, and across the tracks. The view was so pretty. The station oversaw the main part of town. The part she thought, that was the prettiest. All the store fronts with their timbered board walks and pretty lace work in a myriad of soft pastel colours. Planter boxes in windows and baskets of flowers hanging from porches. It was such a beautiful town, and she couldn’t believe that she wanted to get as far away from it as possible.

It was Sunday though, so for the most part the stores were all closed, and the traffic was minimal. Sundays in Longview was always relaxed. Most people took off for the lake with families and friends at this time of the year. Swimming, boating and picnicking being the main past-times. Boe was so going to miss those times, especially with Luc.

She’d passed by the store and dropped a letter in through the letterbox telling her boss that she had to leave town suddenly, and that she wouldn’t be in on Wednesday like she usually was. Lucky for her she was only on casual wages – she didn’t have to wait and put in two weeks notice.

Once she got into the city, and home to her Mamma’s place, she would contact Janie and let her bestie know what had happened, where she was and that she was going to be okay. She knew she would be. She’d managed on her own before, she would again, at least this time she wouldn’t be alone for long.

Hearing a train in the distance she looked up and along the track, so she didn’t see him when he walked onto the platform through the station gate. Nor did she see the relief that crossed his face when he saw her still sitting there. Slowly he walked over to where she was, and sat down beside her on the bench. That’s when startled, she turned to face him. Before she could form any thought, let alone say a word, he took one of her hands in his and said, “forgive me Boetica. I didn’t think. I just reacted, and reacted badly at that. Please believe me when I say I love you, and I hope you will forgive me. That you will stay, and never ever leave me again.”

Boe looked into his eyes. They were warm and brown liquid pools of sorrow. He truly was sorry, she could see that but, “How can I? Why should I for that matter.” A spark of anger flashing across her face.

“It was wrong of me to react the way I did, and I can never undo the damage I did by leaving. But I hope you’ll give me the chance to try. When I came home after coming to my senses, and discovered you had packed and gone… a large part of me wanted to just curl up and die, and I realised that my heart is tied to you irrevocably, and that there is no way in the world I could ever live without you. Besides,” he said as, still clasping her hand he slid down onto the floor of the platform, and on bended knee said, “if you leave, I won’t get a chance to tell you every day how much I love you, or how sorry I am for screwing things up so badly. Marry me Boe, keep me bound to you forever. Allow me to love you and our baby the way I should, the way you deserve. Marry me, please.”

“Yes,” was all she said. Radiant now, a smile lit her face, because she knew that this was the right path for all of them. She knew it in her heart.

The Cemetery

I love to write. I also love reading, and anything else that provides me with some sort of escapism. It wouldn’t be stepping too far from the truth to say, that I was unique in my family in that way. My family are all doctors, lawyers, judges and the like. I don’t mean to be dismissive of them at all. I respect and admire all of them for what they do on a daily basis. They actually scare me senseless, family or no. But in my family? I’m the odd duck on the pond, or the ugly duck as it were.

Mother once told me that I wasn’t adopted and that I needed to pull my socks up a bit – this was after I’d written an essay at school on where I’d come from. My mother, being the literal being she is, took exception to the piece, even though I tried to explain that it was a piece of fiction only.

For the last few years I’ve been writing on and off. Never serious, just dabbling, doubting my ability – as you do. I’ve taken my bit’s and pieces of work and thrown it in a drawer to be left mouldering. I thought that, unlike wine it wouldn’t age well.

I had no idea at the time, how wrong I was.

You see there’s this rather new and novel way (no pun intended dear reader) for a person who has the time, talent and conviction to obtain all of the assistance that once could only be found in a publishing house, all online. You can actually publish yourself if you have the drive and do the research. It was doing the research that had me end up here, as an acclaimed writer and now published, I can also say author.

Let me go back a bit first though, so you understand where I’m coming from. You see some time ago now I was, what I now term ‘unconventionally’ fired from my longterm position, and fired in a rather spectacular way. I was a loyal employee and believed that I would either retire or die before I left. I was accused of doing something I had not, and found wanting was ‘asked’ to leave. It was such a shock, for not only was I wrongly accused, I had never been fired from a job before. I had received raises, secondments and been head-hunted, but never fired. It was just before Christmas, and my family at the time, relied heavily on my income. It truly was not a good time for either my family or myself.

Approximately one week later, and heavily depressed – it was only a few days before Christmas Day, and for the first time since leaving work, I found myself alone at home. Feeling completely devastated by the circumstances I found myself in, and wallowing in self-pity – something I was unfamiliar with – I did the only thing that would make me happy – I grabbed my iPad, closed my eyes for a minute, and then began to write… the words flowed from me. I wrote a story. I have no idea how long I wrote for, but at the completion of that story, I found myself lighter of heart, and with a sense of satisfaction inside of me. I put the story in a drawer and within fifteen minutes my home was inundated with loved ones, and the story itself was completely forgotten.

Until about two weeks later when I was cleaning.

It was a lovely sunny day, and I’d been cleaning house for most of the morning, and decided that I needed a break. I grabbed my iPad and made myself a cuppa. I took my cup outside into our sunny courtyard, where I sat and browsed through my iPad.

I spotted the story I’d written, stunned that I could have forgotten it in such a short time.

I started to read.

I can remember my daughter Brianna finding me there sometime later. It truly was a beautiful day. I can also clearly remember how stunned I was, and that I could not have possibly written what I had just read – only I knew that I had. Brie asked me what ever was the matter with me, with a smile on her face and in her voice. I looked at her for a minute, and she said quite clearly too me, “Mum, you’re scaring me now. What is it?”

“Nothing, baby-girl. Just something I just read. Would you like a cuppa? I’m just about to make myself a fresh one.”
“I’d love one Mum.”
“Fine, how about you have a seat here, I’ll make us both a cuppa and be back in a minute. Oh, have a read of this. I want to know what you think of it.”
“Do I have too?”
“No,” I laughed, “of course you don’t. But I think you might like it, and as I said, I’d like your opinion. It’s just there, I’ll be back in a minute.”

Grabbing my cup, I went back into the kitchen. I joined Brie in the courtyard where she was avidly devouring my words. It made me smile.

I sat there with the sun shinning, enjoying my cuppa and waited.

“Oh my God Mum, this is fantastic,” she said. “Who’s the author, what’s the name of the book, I really want to read it.”

I sat there, I’m sure, with my mouth open, and then I gave a short laugh.

“What do you mean who’s the author. You know who wrote it!” I declared. It was at this point that I thought that having given her my iPad to read it on was perhaps not the best idea, as obviously she had cotton’ed on to the fact that I had, in fact, written it myself. I thought my girl was playing with me. How little did I know.

“Seriously Mum, who wrote it?”

Once again I just stared at her, for once completely at a loss for words. slowly contemplating the idea that perhaps she didn’t know.

“Mum?” I could tell my baby was now beginning to get annoyed with me, and the idea crept into my head that perhaps she truly didn’t realise that I had written it.

“You mean you really don’t know?” I asked.

“Now why would I ask if I knew?” she said clearly irritated.

Fair enough, I thought. Well here goes nothing. “Umm, I wrote it Brie.”

“You what?”

“I wrote it.” Once again that big grin of mine just plastered it across my face, because all of a sudden I realised, my girl had just confirmed that what I had read, was every bit as good as I thought it was.

For the next hour, there was much discussion held in our courtyard.

Suffice to say after that my husband read it, then my sister-in-law, my best friend and, well it took a fair amount of convincing, but eventually I began to realise that truly, I had nothing to lose. I just had to get it out there for others to read, a quote that I stole from my daughter by the way.

Seriously, I do believe in the end I published it just to stop my family and friends from harassing me.

I was lucky that I had been born of an age where information on publishing was only a click away. I did much research over the next few months all the while, honing my story and craft. I had nothing else to do, so I figured why not. In doing my research I realised one very pertinent fact, that I had access to millions upon millions of people. All I had to do was locate a beta team to read the manuscript objectively, an editor (because during that period I discovered I can edit others works, but not my own), an artist to make the beautiful cover that you’ve seen on my novel, and the most marvelous piece of research of all? I came across the most fascinating piece of information that effected me personally – that an ancestor of mine who passed away in 1849 and who, yes was a doctor, was also a published writer of that time in the west.

The artist in me no longer felt alone within the family.

I was lucky enough to visit him this time last year not long after I discovered his existence. I am rather a tactile person, and really felt the need to connect with him. I took with me flowers from my garden which I placed upon his grave in thanks. For his very existence as a writer in the family before me, gave me the final impetuous that I needed. It gave me faith at the time that was much needed, and today I was back to thank my ancestor for the faith and hope he had given me, and to share with him and celebrate my hitting the number one spot on Amazon for my genre. True, there were other people in my family that had helped me get here. But this family member deserved more from me than a mere thought.

I removed the dusty and now pale flowers that I’d placed on his grave last year, and replaced them with a fresh bunch of flowers – once again from my garden. He knew I was there, I could feel it. He also knew I’d be back again next year… for I knew now that there would be other stories to tell him about, and I knew he would appreciate being included in the family once again.

Family, and those that inspire us should never be forgotten.

The End.


I was lucky enough today to have received an email informing me about a blog by one Neil Ostroff. After doing a quick scan of the email (as you do), I was interested enough to have followed the link to his blog. Suffice to say I learnt so much from that one blog that it blew me away.
I realised that I’m not alone in writing the way that I do, that it’s okay to write the book and then edit it over a period of months all still without an ending in sight!
Only last night was I editing my book once again, and at the back of my mind was the eternal exercise wheel for hamsters churning around, with the same thoughts going through my head that have been there for a long time now. Will I ever finish this book? Will it ever be good enough? Should I just put it in a drawer and forget about it (tried that one by the way, it didn’t work). I haven’t even finished it yet! And so on, and so forth.
So to read on his blog that he himself never has the ending, even after months of editing and tightening up what he has already written was such a relief.
So, I must remember to send Neil a quick ‘thank you’ if I ever do finish it, and publish it too.
Smiling now, my heart is a happy place. May yours be so too!

An Interview with Verna Hargrove (aka Summmer Lee)

Okay, ‘bare with’ as my girl would say! I’m still new to this wonderful world of blogging.

Loving my family and friends, and books and authors, there are things that I want to share with you from time to time – also, in pleasing them, I also please myself. So, this wonderful interview is something that I wish to share with you for obviously a whole raft of reasons.

I hope you find it insightful and inspiring as I did.

Here is an interview with Verna Hargrove (aka Summmer Lee).

Why I Don’t Like the Liebster Award. Please Don’t Hate Me.

Why I Don’t Like the Liebster Award. Please Don’t Hate Me..

Liebster Blog

I love this, and I so hear where she is coming from. Those dreaded chain letters that we all received as children, the memory of which still gives me the heeby-geebies today when recalling them. I remember them with such clarity. Not the content, just the ‘do it or you/your dog/your bestie/Mum will die if you don’t pass it on to the next ten friends’ thingy.

I too cringe at nominations and awards. It’s the whole ‘I am so not worthy’ thing going on. I always feel that if they look just that little bit closer they will realise what a big mistake they’ve made. Then I get embarrassed. It makes me smile just thinking about it.

Then I worry that they will take it back. But I don’t want to lose it. It’s mine! *snort*

So yes, I believe that there is someone else out there that is far more worthy than I. That I am not deserving, and yet at the same time I crave the acknowledgement. I glow with pride and get warm fuzzies when anyone tells me ‘well done’ for anything that I’ve done. I strive to do the best that I can, then burst with pride when it’s acknowledged, then feel unworthy all at the same time.

Who said we’re not complex creatures.

The Garage

It was a hot day.

The traffic’s so thick, and I had forgotten that coming out at this time of day was a bad move. The main arterial route I was travelling led to the city. Worse, school was out, so there were Mum’s running amuck on the streets in their four by fours and people movers. It was chaos.

Worse, I was low on fuel. The little light continually flashed its incessant message at me. Blink, blink, blink. Warning and I had better heed its advice. Small my car may be, but running out of fuel on this road and at this time of day under a burning sun, was enough to make me decide that I would get fuel ASAP. Thinking of the nearest fuel stations and what lay ahead of me, I knew the next major intersection held two depots. Both on the other side of the road, and each on a corner of the major intersection. Getting into one would mean crossing the oncoming traffic just before the lights, and although it was a reputable fuel supplier, you could only go in one way, fuel up in that direction and then leave. This proposed difficulties for me getting back into the flow of traffic to head for home.


The other fuel depot was less reputable, but I could use the green arrow at the lights to turn into it. Fine, that would have to do. Making my way through the occasionally hazardous traffic, I finally made it to the intersection where said light finally turned green and I could zip into the driveway of the garage, with a jerk who was tailing me missing the derierre of my wee car.

I pulled up at the first available pump, and after popping the fuel lid jumped out of the car, wallet in one hand, stuffing keys into my jeans pocket with the other, walked around the back of my car.

It was then I realised I was dressed for slubbing around at home, not in view of the general public. Sure I was fully clothed, but… I had on a pair of boot leg jeans, a pair of thongs on my feet (they’re my faves, and the fact they’re purple, may or may not factor into that), and a mauve singlet with no over-shirt.

Why wasn’t it suitable? Because I had no bra on. So sue me, it was a hot day dammit, and I hadn’t planned on making any stops.

Looking at the pump I realised that there was nowhere to select the dollar amount of fuel I needed to buy. “Dammit! Really? This is on a major arterial road for fucks sake.” Muttering to myself, I was thinking about how much money this depot would make – there was no reason not to have updated fuel pumps!

Having to stick to a budget was slowly becoming something that was a pain in my arse. Still, I couldn’t afford to fill my tank like I was used to doing in the not too distant past. Looking at the pump once again, and recalling that I wasn’t using the best supplier of fuel, I choose the more expensive type of fuel for my car. Hoping as I did so that it would be the equivalent quality of the cheaper fuel across the way.

Twenty dollars and two cents later, I put the fuel nozzle back on the pump effectively shutting it down.

Walking into the cool air of the garage I scanned the area for the register. Ah there it was. Over in the opposite corner to where I expected it. Circumnavigating the ice-cream freezers and not even tempted to put my hand in and reach for an ice cream, I placed my money down on the counter and stated “Number six thanks.”

“Number six?” the boy behind the counter queried.

“Yes, number six thank you.”

“Are you sure it’s number six?”

“Yes. It’s number six.” Wondering what his problem was.

“It can’t be number six.” I was becoming mildly annoyed.

“It can and it is. I checked. Number six please.” Make that becoming beyond pissed.

He queried my selection twice more, so in total frustration, I pointed out my little white and relatively still new vehicle whereupon he finally accepted my cash.

Honestly, if he hadn’t snapped out of it… then again, if he so much as hinted at requesting five cents to cover the two cents over that I’d pumped into my car, he had another thing coming.

Receipt finally in hand, I turned away and crashed fully into six foot seven inches of rather hunky male. Seriously, it was akin to walking into a brick dunny.

With all the too-ing and fro-ing between myself and the pump-operator, a sizeable queue had formed.

Backing up I apologised profusely, blushed and stepped around Man Mountain. I heard an appreciative, “G’day!” As I sailed past.

My response? “Cheeers.” With a hand wave over my shoulder as I waltzed out the door.

Really, a person asks me if I’m having a good day and I walk off saying cheers? That bump must have scrambled my brains.

Half way across the station driveway and heading for my car, I realised with no small amount of shock and amusement that the guy had been trying to hit on me.

That never happens anymore. Well, let me put it this way, at my age it happens so rarely that I don’t even recognise it when it happens. Point in case.

Finally reaching my car I hop in, put my belt on (habit), and lean forward to put my keys in the ignition as my window comes down to let in the cool afternoon breeze that has finally sprung up and the central locking kicks in.

Sitting back in my seat, I’m just about to move off when seemingly out of nowhere a large hand lands on the sill of my window, and larger than life a body squats down on the other side of the door.

Not normally a nervous person, I will admit to a small ‘eek’ leaked out of me.

It’s Man Mountain, and he’s now at eye level with me.

OMG. Now what?

“Hello again.”


“Sorry, if I made you jump. I didn’t intend on startling you.”

The guy is squatting outside my window, wearing high vis clothing, hair in disarray. Okay, I can accept this. What confounds me is the cultured, gentle yet deep and smooth as silk voice oozes out of him and my heart just melts into a puddle on hearing him talk.


“Are you okay?”

“Umm.” Okay now where the hell are my brains? GeezLouise.

He’s smiling at me, but I believe he’s trying, with great difficulty, not to laugh. Hmpf!

“I wondered if you were doing anything tomorrow night?”

“Are you kidding me?” I responded, totally startled.

A deep chuckle emanated from him.

OMG. I’m screwed.

“No, I’m serious. So, are you? Busy I mean.”

The sunglasses that covered half his face wrapped around his head so securely, I was certain that if someone hit him across the back of the head, they would stay in place. That thought wasn’t helpful, but like most thoughts that entered my head these days, it appeared – not helping the situation any.

“Look, sweetie…”

“Sweetie? Oh, this isn’t going to be good is it.” Looking away from me, I noticed the smile slowly melting from his face. For the first time since he’d taken up residence outside my car door I might add. Hmmm.

I couldn’t help myself. I grinned. Reaching up to the top of my head I grabbed my sunnies and slid them down onto the bridge of my nose.

Ah, misguided security. Safe from nothing except uv-rays, it was misguided indeed. At a time like this? I’d take what I could get.

“See this?” I asked as I swung my left hand outside the drivers side window and waved it around like a madwoman.

“Hmmm, yes. I believe… yes, yes. It’s a hand?”

This time it was my turn to chuckle. Oh stop it, I told myself.

Waggling my ring finger only now, I continued on regardless.

“It’s a ring.” I said, as deadpan as I could.

“Listen,” he said, “I rarely give jewellery before the first date. I really think you might be worth that bestowment, it’s just not something I was prepared for. You know, if I’d known I would bump into you today, well, I would have been prepared. Would you take a rain check?”

This made me grin. What can I say? I’m weak where gorgeous males, and jewelry come together in the same time zone.

Shaking my head, I pulled it out of the clouds, my thoughts taking a swift right-hand turn. Where did this guy get off? It looked like I would have to be blunt.

“Look, mate. I’m engaged.”

“Ah, so that’s a no then?”

“Yes!” thinking to myself, at last he finally gets it.

“That’s great. What time can I pick you up?”

Arghhhhhh. Thumping my head forward onto the steering wheel, I groaned in frustration. This guy was doing my head in. I was about to sit up, put the car in gear and move off, when I found my hand, THAT HAND, engulfed in his. His hand was the size of a bears paw. He held my hand with the tips of his fingers, he then ever so gently wrapped my wrist in his other hand.

I found my hand secured.

I felt safe.

I relaxed.

Then three things happened instantly.

A ping of intense feeling swept through me, filling my entire body.

I forgot to breath.

Awareness of where I was, and what was happening then smacked me in the back of the head like a frozen fish on high flail.

I tried and failed to snatch my hand back.

“Feel this,” he said as he pulled my hand gently forward and placed it, palm flat against the middle of his chest.

His heart raced under my hand. He spoke once again, softly, deeply…

“That’s what you are doing. It’s what you’ve been doing since I first saw you stepping around the back of your car, and up to the pump.”

Suddenly I realised that my heart was pounding too. Okay, stalker alert.

The hot flush that had swept through my body immediately dissipated. Where the hell did I think I was for heavens’ sake? In the middle of a happy ever after story book? Good grief, this was real for goodness’ sake. Stuff like this doesn’t happen in real life. Only I would land a stalker at a garage dressed like this.

Pulling my hand away from him, I shook my head. Picking his other hand up from where it still rested on the doorsill, I dropped it outside my car door.

“Bye mate.” It was all I said as I gave him a small, sad smile before putting my car into gear and moving off.

It was then I noticed I was shaking like a leaf. Pushing all thoughts of my strange, yet stirring close encounter out of my head, I moved my car to the other side of the garage.

I needed to gather my scattered wits, and I also had to check the air in my tyres. There’s no way he would know I’d not yet left, as the garages service centre sat between the pumps and the air service and car wash, where I was now. As far as it concerned him, I’d driven straight out of the garage and back onto the main drag.

I sat in the car for a minute or two, trying to shake off the mixed emotions that were shooting through my body, but I was damn well going to take control on the nonsensical thoughts that were shooting through my head. Finally getting out of the relative safety of my car, I shook my head at the crazy world I now lived in.

Still, I smiled at the attempt he’d made. It had certainly been a different way of trying to get to know someone – or get in their pants.

I wonder how often he’d tried it before, and more to the point, if it had worked?

Collecting the air hose I moved to the front of the car. I bent over and took the cap off the tyre and applied the nozzle. A small amount of air squeakily escaping before I seated the nozzle home properly.

Checking off the weight shown on the gauge in the tyre before applying any pressure. I noted that I did indeed need air. Plunging my thumb down, listening to the hiss of as air was slowly being forced into the tyre, my thoughts once again turned back to the male that had just asked me out on a date. I shook my head in disbelief. No one would believe me if I told this story.

I looked down at what I was wearing again. This male that I didn’t know from Adam, had tried to pick me up in a garage of all places, even after I’d told him I was engaged. The cheek!

Seriously, he must have been desperate. I chuckled. I blamed the total encounter on the girls, I should have worn a bra. My fault for flaunting them as I had.

The right weight was met in the tyre, so I capped it and moved on.

I was overweight and old. Fat and old. The only attraction had to be the girls. My normal intelligence had failed me entirely in the verbal encounter, so there wasn’t anything there to have egged him on at all. Hell, I don’t even recall doing my hair this morning.

I heard a motorbike pull up beside me wanting to use the air hose too. Well, they’d have to wait, I still had two more tyres to check.

I’d moved onto the third tyre when something large landed – and with some force I might add – on my arse, propelling me up and around to face my attacker, where I immediately took up a fighting stance.

What the hell?!

Ah shit. I relaxed.

At a guess, ‘that’ was no more, and no less than a rather large paw being applied to my rear, by a rather large man. A large man that had stepped back a few paces at my obvious aggression in response to his attack.

“Hey!” I frowned at him. Yet more intelligence being shown on my part. “What part of ‘No’ don’t you get Sasquatch?”

“Sasquatch? You know that’s not a very nice thing to say to a guy.”

“Are you for real?”

“Look, I just want to ask you out on a date. Where’s the harm?”

This being said all while he was now slowly encroaching on my space. My back hit the front end of my car.

“You are not old.” As he reached out to me.

“You are not fat.” He leaned into me, forcing me to either meet him chest to chest, or lean back.

I leant back.

“And you are definitely not married yet!”

Then he ever so gently wrapped his bear sized paws around my waist before my back finally met the hood

He was serious. Super, super serious.

Husky his voice maybe at the moment, but there was serious intent there. Read my message, it said, loud and clear.

My back met with the hood of my car, just as his chest met with mine.


His hands had slowly made their way up my sides, touching nothing and yet touching everything in their wake. Raising my hands above my head, he kept them wrapped up in one oversized paw, with his other running back down my arm, to my face, where, holding it gently, he placed the most chaste of kisses on my mouth.

Damn. It. All. I wanted more.

What could I say, it had been a dry spell.

A long, very dry spell.

Lifting his face away from mine, he looked me directly the eye. That’s when I saw his eyes for the first time. He had green eyes. Deep sea green.

I could get lost in those eyes.

I did get lost in those eyes.

Thank goodness he had me draped over the hood of my car as I’m fairly certain that my legs would not have held me up right about then. They’d gone all to goo. Like my brain.

“Now,” he said as he pulled me up, and straight back into his arms. “I won’t,” he kissed the tip of my nose, “take no,” he kissed above one eye, “for,” he then kissed above the other, “an answer.” With that, he kissed me again. Still chaste, but longer, trailing it across my jaw, down my neck to my collarbone, then back up to my lips, where he nibbled my bottom lip.

His lips were soft, he was gentle in his kissing of me, and I was completely and irrevocably lost.

With one arm wrapped around my lower back, and the other cupping my cheek he said, “Don’t freak out on me okay? I’m going to put my card in your back jeans pocket..”

His hand slid into the back pocket of my jeans.


“Call me tomorrow and let me know where you’ll be. I don’t care if it’s at a friends place, a bar, the beach, or with people in tow, just tell me you’ll meet me?”

All this said as he reined kisses across my face.

If I moaned, I didn’t know it. I’m sure if I reflect on it later there will be a lot of moaning. To be frank, I’m not even certain I was still breathing.

“Tell me you’ll meet me? Please?” All in that voice.



“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll meet you.”

“Good girl.” Hugging me to him, he gave me one final chaste kiss on the lips, and turned and climbed onto his bike. Pulled his lid on, and with a wave, roared onto the road and was lost in the traffic in a heartbeat.

I got back into my car, started it up, and shakily, headed home.

Ring. Why hadn’t it worked? It always worked, even on the pushy guys.




Notes & ideas.


I’ve just finished reading the delightful blog by Jennifer Martin (link below), and I had to laugh. Not at the blog, nor even at the subject. Rather, at what was currently residing on the corner of the desk in my study.

Let me explain. Jennifer was reminding someone that notepads were quite a handy item to have upon your person. Especially for those times that you’re away from your technological writers tool of choice.

My mind instantly flashed to the corner of my study desk where a mishmash collection of notes, in a variety of shapes and sizes was currently sitting patiently, awaiting my time and attention. You see, although my tool of choice is my iPad and wireless Apple keyboard, I have a habit, good or bad, of writing any piece of inspirational thought upon the nearest piece of paper I have to hand. My notebooks are varied in size, and stashed in some of the weirdest places around my home. Depending on which handbag or purse I’m carrying will also denote which notebook resides within – I never change notebooks when I change my purse. I’ve also used serviettes whilst at a cafe´and from time to time I’ve even used the backs of used envelopes. Any A4 paper that comes through my letterbox will instantly be recycled into A5 sized notepads, and these are scattered around the house, and also keep a couple in the glove compartment of my car.

The only problem I have with all the notes that I have made, is finding the time to collate them, and incorporate them in which ever story/tale I’m telling at the time.

I even make notes about possible new characters, books, chapters, names… you name it, I make notes about it.

So yes, I highly recommend note taking. I also recommend the processing of those notes sooner rather than later. Otherwise you too will end up with a box, or a desk corner just like mine.
Knowing this, you may now understand my POIYPOIY when my mind instantly flashed to that corner of my study desk that is currently holding my