I purposely made all of today’s appointments within walking distance of the office, that way I wouldn’t have to worry about what to do with my car after I’d had a few glasses of champagne at lunch. Unfortunately, I didn’t remember this when I was picking out what to wear today and that is why I now have red raw toes from wearing my sky high Kurt Geiger heels on the walk to work. I remember finding these shoes in John Lewis’s end of season sale last week and just managing to squish my feet into them then but I was convinced that it was because my feet were swollen from the 10 viewings I had carried out that morning. I had also convinced myself that if I lost the stone I had planned to lose last year, then my feet would be slimmer and they would definitely fit. I don’t know what happens to me when I am shoe shopping it’s like all common sense leaves my brain as soon as I enter the shop door.
The challenge: To take the third line of the last song I heard, make it my post title, and write for a maximum of 15 minutes.
The Last Song I heard: We can’t stop by Miley Cyrus
The Third Line: “It’s our party we can love who we want”
Is that true with the threat of pregnancies,
Unwanted trouser nits and STD’s,
And sex in the most awful locations.
Not to mention awkward conversations,
When you realise you have bedded a mate,
Which after a few vodkas sounded great.
A party just isn’t the place to hump,
Even if she has got the greatest rump.
So the next time you feel the need to mate,
How about you arrange a proper date?
Challenge Link: http://dailypost.wordpress.com/2013/08/29/daily-prompt-speed/
Often frowned upon by religious and non-religious folks alike but if we put god aside for a moment, are multiple marriages something that should be referred to as a sign of commitment issues or emotional detachment? Or could these serial spouses be onto something? After all we are living longer, communication with potential partners is easier and these days you seem to be able to get a divorce quicker than ordering a takeaway. Personally, I haven’t felt the need to get married once let alone several times but I just feel sorry for the brides and grooms of today who aren’t marrying for the first time and are therefore being dubbed the next Elizabeth Taylor.
I make my way into the walk in wardrobe and brush my hand across the silk of my evening gowns. I head towards the shelves of beautifully paired shoes and carefully select my black Christian Louboutins. My recently pedicured feet gratefully slip into them and I stand in front on my full-length mirror analysing my completed outfit. My red Stella McCartney evening dress is figure-hugging in all the right places, accentuating my recent weight loss and my heels help to show off my toned calves. I stare at my reflection and can’t help but thank my recently installed home gym for my new found self-confidence.
I’m suddenly in a black cab being whisked at high speed through the traffic of London, we speed past the red blur of the double decker buses but I fear that we are still going to be late. I swing open the car door and run along the narrow streets, my heels clicking on the cobbles. Finally, I spot the marble entrance of the Lancaster London Hotel and my speed increases, I’m not sweaty or out of breath due to my recent gym visits and my hair and makeup remain perfectly in place.
As I enter the main hall, I swim through the sea of cheap suits and apathy and straight to my colleagues, Les and James. We share a kiss and the mandatory smalltalk but as I turn to the main stage their faces blur into the background. The trophy glimmers in the hand of the speaker and as it catches the light I am blinded by it.
“And the award for Estate Agent of the year goes to…”
I smooth down the expensive fabric of my dress and make my way towards the front of the crowd. I am already half way up the stage stairs when I hear my name called. I realise that I finally have everything I ever wanted and I beam at the speaker as I take the award from him. The trophy fits in my hand perfectly and I wrap my fingers around it to feel the chill of the metal but I feel nothing. The speaker guides me to the pulpit and I lean towards the microphone, this is my moment.
‘Thank you, I would just like to thank…’
My mouth goes dry and I clear my throat to start my speech again.
‘Sorry. I would just like to thank…’
My mind goes blank, I know this is how I am meant to start my speech by acknowledging those who have contributed to my success; parents, siblings, significant others etc. but I cannot think of anyone to thank. The fabric of my dress begins to cling uncomfortably and my feet sting with pain from the height of my heels. As I look out into the crowd for reassurance, I notice that everyone has left even Les and James and I am standing on the stage alone with just the award for company. The truth suddenly hits me, in actual fact I have nothing.
- Daily Prompt: I’d Like to Thank My Cats (dailypost.wordpress.com)
In this room is a Grandmother,
superior to any other.
Seventy years of age is she,
though looking more like twenty-three.
The secret to her youthful glow,
is Tuesday’s keep fit class, you know.
Her Benfleet home immaculately neat,
(as long as the dogs wipe their feet)
you’re always welcome to visit,
“Tea? Milk, one sugar is it?”
Impossible to get thinner,
as she’ll always cook you dinner,
banana loaf, shortbread or cake.
She does love to cook and to bake.
Her secret to a happy marriage,
to buy her husband a large garage,
lock him away with his train set,
50 years of quiet you should get.
So raise your glasses and shout hear, hear,
to celebrate her 70th year.
Happy Birthday Enid, Mum or Nan!
Love from Amelie, your biggest fan.
My stomach begins to churn as I pull into Kings Drive, the last time I was here I met with… Daniel. The closer I get to the drive of number four, the slower I drive. I don’t want to be here, I should have taken Les up on his offer to show the decorator round himself but it’s my first day back in the office since… then. I didn’t want to let Les down any further.
As my car rolls onto the drive, I hold back the tears in my eyes and take a deep breath. I need to remind myself that this isn’t about Daniel, Daniel won’t even be here. This viewing is purely professional; this is just another day at the office.
I collect my handbag and the property keys from the passenger seat and open the car door. As I make my way to the front door, I see an old white van with ‘SS Decorators’ written on the side, pull up outside the front garden. The wheels scratch along the kerb as the tyres mount the pavement, I wave at the gentleman behind the wheel and manage to force out a smile.
I make my way to the front door and start fumbling around with the keys. I can hear the gentleman’s footsteps pat up the drive behind me and I turn to face him. I hold my hand out in front of me and he shakes it with an extremely firm grip. I feel the roughness of his hands and the power behind the shake, which pulls my arm at an awkward angle.
‘Hi, Katrina Hunter.’ I pull my hand back out of his grip and continue with my search for the correct key.
I would imagine that Steve Smith would describe himself as ‘a bit of a geezer’. He is rather short and must be in his late forties. He has a large pot belly hanging over his low waisted jeans and has paint and grease splatters covering his entire outfit. He smells like a mix of cigarettes, petrol and sweat; it’s not a pleasant concoction, especially after my recent 24 hour ice cream binge.
‘Shall we?’ I point towards the door and realise that I sound exactly like Daniel. I recall the first time I visited the property with Daniel but quickly snap out of my daydream when I catch another whiff of Mr Smith’s odour. I finally find the correct key and push open the front door.
‘Right love, I need about ‘alf an hour. Gotta get some quotes over to Mr Knight like yesterday. He’s quite a slave driver innit ‘e?’
‘I’m sure he has his reasons.’ I have to defend Daniel’s actions, he is doing this out of the kindness of his heart and it’s all for his lovely sister. This man has no idea; he doesn’t know Daniel at all.
‘I’ll do the downstairs first then we’ll go upstairs, eh?’ Mr Smith winks at me and I turn away pretending I didn’t see. What a repulsive man.
‘Ok I am just going to make a phone call, I won’t be long.’ I head out to the kitchen and place my handbag on the worktop. I don’t really have anyone to call, I need some time by myself and this way I won’t have to converse with Mr Smith any more than I have to.
As I remove my phone from my bag, I scroll through my apps but decide that being caught playing Candy Crush may not be the most professional thing I have ever done. Instead, I text a few of my friends with the ordinary conversation starters, such as ‘hey, how are you? x’ and ‘morning, hows things? x’. Ten minutes later I am still waiting for a reply so I decide to pop my phone back into my bag and find Mr Smith. When I look up from my bag, Mr Smith is standing right in front of me.
‘Shall we do the upstairs now?’
‘Yes, no problem.’ I follow behind Mr Smith, a few paces behind actually, it seems even the smell of this house cannot overpower his body odour.
I follow Mr Smith into the first bedroom; he looks the room up and down, then scrawls some notes onto his pad. Every so often he gets a calculator out of his pocket and starts typing out sums, I dread to think of the cost to redecorate all of this.
As we enter the third bedroom, I remember that this is the one I chose for little Luke’s room. I picture the walls covered in the red paint I had chosen and the large dinosaur motif I had found on the internet. I can feel the tears building up behind my eyes again and I shake my head to remove any thoughts of Daniel and his nephews from my mind.
Steve saunters out of the room and calls from the hall, ‘right, bathroom next?’
I decide to wait in the hall, I place my handbag on the floor and try to distract myself with the pattern in the artex ceiling. As I look up in the air I suddenly realise how odd I must look, if Mr Smith walks out and sees me staring at the ceiling he is going to think I have gone mad. I study the carpet pattern instead; whoever decorated this hall must have been seriously odd. I have been waiting on the landing daydreaming about new cream carpets for quite a while when Mr Smith shouts out from within the bathroom.
‘Right last bedroom, then we are done!’
Mr Smith joins me in the hall, then we both walk into the smallest bedroom. I make my way over to the large window that looks out onto Kings Drive, if I stand at exactly the right angle I can just about see number 1 from here. Just as I am admiring number one’s new hanging baskets, I feel hot breath on the back of my neck. I freeze, unsure of what to do.
‘Excuse me,’ I turn to face back into the room to see Mr Smith standing right in front of me. Has this man not heard of personal space before? ‘Have you finished now, Sir?’
I am cornered, I cannot move there are walls and a sweaty man blocking all of my escape routes.
‘No, I’m just getting started.’ Mr Smith pushes his body close to mine so I am forced to step back into the window pane, I feel the back of my head hit the glass. ‘Don’t be shy.’
I can feel his pot belly resting against the tops of my thighs and I try to slide out of his grip. ‘Sorry Sir but..’
He places his fat hairy finger over my lips and it leaves a salty taste behind.
‘That’s enough of that, now be a good girl and keep quiet.’ Mr Smith’s hand grabs onto my leg just above my knee, my entire body tenses and I inhale sharply. I try to squirm out of the gap between Mr Smith and the wall but his mass and strength has me pinned against the window. His hand begins to climb my leg and the roughness of his skin grates along me like sandpaper.
‘Mr Smith, no!’ I shout out.
‘What did I say, Miss Hunter?’ He uses his other hand to cover my mouth and pushes my head against the window. I try to pull his hand off of me but he is too strong, his other hand continues it’s journey up my leg.
I search inside my jacket for my phone but I realise I have left it in my handbag in the kitchen. Using both my hands, I manage to push Mr Smith’s hand off my leg but instead of deterring him it seems to encourage him and he returns his hand to a higher position on my thigh. As he is fumbling with the hem of my skirt I once again try to remove his other hand from my face but his strength continues to overpower me.
I hear the engine of a car outside and I scream to try and inform the passer-by of my situation. I know it is in vain though; my muffled screams are only just loud enough for Mr Smith to hear let alone someone outside of the property. Mr Smith’s hand slides under my skirt and I use my free hands to bang on the window.
‘Naughty,’ Mr Smith pushes me away from the window and against the nearest wall; I once again feel the pressure of his body pushing against me. ‘So the Hunter becomes the hunted, kind of ironic don’t you think?’
I continue to scream, despite Mr Smith’s hand covering my mouth and I almost give up hope when I hear footsteps echo down the hall.
They have always said ‘be careful what you wish for‘ but Eden had never listened to the mainstream quotes you find in movies. Not that Eden would know of such things, she lives in a hut without electricity, which means television cannot poison her pure mind.
Eden’s hemp skirt itched against her legs and the chains gripped tightly to her wrists but she would not give up. Eden and her fellow environmentalists were sure that this time would be different; the trees would remain and the builders would leave.
Unfortunately, only an hour later the police had arrived, as had the torrential rain. A few had given up early, they were afraid that a criminal record may destroy their university chances but Eden had no such worries. The rain made her clothes heavy and the dropping temperature was far from welcome however Eden remained silent as she gripped on to the bark.
‘Is that lightening dangerous?’ Sky whispered to Eden as the thunder bellowed. Annoyed at Sky’s break of silence, Eden aggressively shook her head.
Why does everyone keep trying to stop me from saving the planet? Eden thought to herself. She thought back to the time she was arrested for trespassing, when she was collecting weeds for her nettle soup and the time when she was arrested for breaking and entering, when she was rescuing those rabbits from the pet shop.
‘I just want to be at one with nature!’ Eden had meant to say it in her head but instead shouted it at the top of her voice.
A bright light filled her world and screams, thunder and sirens deafened her. That’s the last thing she heard, that’s the last day hemp itched at her skin and the last thing she remembers from that life. Every day since then she has been in her ‘field of dreams’; her bones replaced by stone, her skin replaced by moss and her hair replaced by grass. Some call her the sleeping giant, some call her Mother Nature, but Eden simply calls herself ‘at one with nature’.