“A HANDBAG?” With apologies to Oscar Wilde…

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I do love a handbag… they don’t have to be a designer brand, I have no use for dainty Chanel bags, although I love the perfume – I like big bags and I cannot lie…(sorry.)

When I was a little girl, I used to detest the pastel frilly dresses my mother inflicted upon me and couldn’t wait to change into jeans or trousers because they had pockets. And what do you do with pockets – why, put things in them of course!

I think I was about fourteen when I realised I could make the transition from pocket junk to a handbag, mainly for the purposes of being able to carry more stuff around with me… And yet I still use my pockets. They generally contain the crystal of the day, tissues, cat treats, phone, spare hair elastic…

My current handbag was a birthday present from my mother, a useful size with handy zips and compartments. A quick inventory of its contents follows, just for curiosity… my son is actually afraid of going in my handbag – in case he never makes it out alive…although if my handbag is left lying around, generally a passing cat will use it as a temporary resting place.

Photo-0109Who let the cat out the bag?

Here goes: perfume, body spray deoderant, hand sanitiser, hand wipes, tissues. (The bathroom section..) A paper plate, sachet of wet catfood, cat treats, hairbrush, three notebooks, address book and diary. Four pens, a selection of handbag crystals and a crystal guidebook, stress relief tablets, hayfever tablets and painkillers. And a packet of pink paper napkins with cacti on – my latest addiction – collecting paper napkins. In fact, they deserve a post in themselves…

But oh dear, what a lot of rubbish I carry around with me! Keys, moisturiser… no, I think that’s it, actually. But these, to me, are all items that I need, that make life a little bit more comfortable and nicer, just to have all these little essentials – to me, at any rate – on hand.

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I think, perhaps also, my bag love could stem from my homeless days when you had to travel light and have all your essentials with you at all times… not unlike boarding school really, now I come to think of it!

And at least with handbags there’s none of that annoying tissue fluff that spreads over every item of clothing if you happen to forget and leave one in your pocket when you put your clothes in the washing machine.

Right. Time to put notebook and pen away in my bag… – ooh! Bonus handbag sweetie… tucked away in a corner… !

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“Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby…”

21706327_113092622769487_1471741883_oI found this sculpture when I was poking about at Lizian’s. It’s called ‘Infinite Love’ and I think it’s beautiful 

PLEASE NOTE: This post is different from my usual posts as I do mention adult and sexually explicit themes. People who are under age or who may find the subject matter offensive, please don’t read as I would hate to upset you, and normal service will be resumed in the next post. Thank you x

Well. That was … an education. A few days ago, I watched some of a programme called “Monster Cocks”… I thought perhaps it would be a programme about a new breed of chicken – it was on a normal television channel. Obviously I was totally wrong. Obviously.

It was about gentlemen who have very large… cocks!!! (Picture me giggling immaturely at the use of this word…) There is, however, more to this (why is everything sounding rude…) than meets the eye – the enormous appendage may give the owner some bragging rights, but there are quite a few practical difficulties.

The man with the largest penis (13.5 inches) has clothing issues – he used to have to wrap it around his upper thigh and then put his trousers on. Three men with penises ranging from 11.5 to 13.5 inches found considerable success in the porn industry; but their personal lives, for all their excessive genitalia, fell sadly short of expectations.

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Now. When a man and a woman love each other very much… oh, I’ll just SAY it! Your average woman simply cannot accommodate a penis of those proportions! Picture the metaphorical guardian of CrystalCats private property scurrying back across the bridge, running indoors, slamming the gate, lowering the portcullis, locking the door, hiding the key and then peering out anxiously from behind net curtains… as the owners of these priapic prizes explained the physical difficulties behind a more intimate relationship… rather like having a Lamborghini Aventador and not being able to drive. (I can’t drive, but then I don’t have a Lamborghini either…) You simply cannot insert something of that size into another human being without doing them serious internal damage.

Also, the amount of blood required to maintain a full erection in a penis that size meant that its owner felt light headed and couldn’t have sex anyway because he didn’t feel like it any more… mixed blessing indeed… Apparently there is something called a “cock ring.” No. Not chicken jewellery. A man puts it around the base of his penis and it helps to prolong and intensify sex.

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I really feel that I have had a sheltered life – I’m not a stupid person as I am well aware of the mechanics of sex, you can safely assume I had it at least twice myself since I have two children (my son stuck his head round my bedroom door while I was watching this and was highly amused by the expression on my face…) but everything really does seem sexualised now sooner and sooner. Rather like seeing Easter eggs in the shops the day after Christmas…

I don’t have any particular hang-ups about sex, but it just seems all about the ferocity and action of it, “shagging” like “studs” as oppose to seducing like lovers… This programme also mentioned various statistics, like 60% of men fantasise about dominating women… what? Seriously? It would be a brave man who attempted a Mr. Grey on my arse..

Sex, rather than a mutually enjoyable activity does seem to be portrayed in some aspects, like reality shows, about the power play, but it’s the ultimate in bodily invasion really. Whatever happened to the delicious balance of trust, the delicate eroticism of a look, a shared smile and the knowledge that he knows that you know exactly the power of a touch, how he can touch you and make your knees melt and pulse race… or gentlemen, think about it, the simple pleasure of having a lady lay her hand on your chest to feel your warmth and have your heartbeat quicken; far more intimate and erotic than a mere good hard shag. Although I suppose that has its place.

Perhaps I’ll just have a cup of tea.

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(Also, I must add, for my own peace of mind – ALWAYS USE PROTECTION!)

Or… “Animal Tails”…?

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Here’s the start of my other option… how does this compare to “Dream”?

The Beginning…

Why is it that the colour palette of childhood memories remains so vivid in your mind’s eye, so poignant, so carefully delineated…my very first memory involves a cat, and from that day to the present I have usually been accompanied by a cat or two. Or three. Currently four…

My very first cat, my very first friend was Snoopy, a large black cat, who was originally a gift from my father to my mother. She however, has resolutely remained a “dog” person so Snoopy, by default, became my particular friend and comfort.

I was born in the seventies, not so far removed from the Golden Age of Hippydom, the Summer of Love and Psychedelia, but very different in terms of attitudes as strikes, unrest and power cuts made the news. For me though, it was a time of learning and sharing, an establishing of my own little foothold in the world around me.

My first memory then, my waking into being if you will, involves the sort of day we all remember from being a child: golden, dusted with magic and sunshine. On this day, I remember very clearly, bunching my fists in my cat’s furry armpits and hauling him upright to walk with me.

I remember so very clearly – I was maybe about two or three – the thick plushness of Snoopy’s fur, soft as love, the smooth cotton of my dress – blue with white flowers – and the springy dry feel of grass under my bare feet. The colours were bright and crisp, so bright you could taste them and smells – I wish I could bottle the scents of childhood, the golden days of summer when the sun shone, the sky was blue and the Earth gently baked.

Snoopy walked tippytoes with me, good naturedly and patiently. He was the first in my long and usually rewarding association with animals, my first introduction to the value of their friendship and love. He went on to be my best friend, dressed uncomplainingly in dolls clothes and a major player in my childhood adventures in the theatre of my imagination.

The sun was high overhead and the clouds were white and puffy, like cotton wool or cold candy floss that you could reach up and pull down by the handful to eat. At that age, every day is an eternity, a page waiting to be filled, a story just beginning…

Cookers. Just Don’t

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I’ve had one of those weeks really. The best part of it has been taken up with the melodrama of my mother’s cooker… her old one was quite an elderly beast, nearing the end of its natural lifespan. However, the crisis came somewhat sooner than expected when it began tripping the main fuse in my mother’s house whenever she switched the oven on.

She looked at me accusingly…

What? I didn’t do it!”

Don’t be stupid, Samantha, I want to know what did!”

She was obviously assuming that I had somehow acquired a degree in Electrical Engineering from somewhere… by process of careful elimination, though, I was able to ascertain that it was definitely the cooker that was tripping the fuse, and nothing else, like the washing machine, for example, or a blown lightbulb.

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My mother pooh-poohed my tentative diagnosis, so the council was called to check the house wiring. The electrician that arrived confirmed my suspicions that in fact an element in the oven had blown which was causing the rest of the electric to switch off via the circuit breaker for safety reasons (oh yeah I know what I’m talking about!) and that my mother would have to buy a new cooker. My heart sank.

Buying white goods with my mother has its own particular set of pleasures since she hails from the school of thought that you should be able to get the all-singing all-dancing latest model and still have change left from a hundred quid. Ha.

Having ascertained that there was no possible way my mother could cram an Aga into the space in her kitchen designed for a reasonable sized electric cooker, we managed to select a suitable model for a reasonable price from a certain shop who shall remain nameless (think of a Greek hero looking for a golden fleece and you’re halfway there…)

Delivery was arranged for as soon as possible, which happened to be ten days away but Mother has a microwave and we would be able to manage..( “Couldn’t you get them to bring it sooner, Samantha..?” HOW? When they have to bring it straight from the warehouse and don’t happen to have one already knocking about under the desk…)

The great day arrived… as did the cooker. Faulty. I’m not joking. Aside from anything else, it was just a fraction too wide to fit in the allotted space, so we had to remove the fitted cupboard. But once in situ, the oven made a noise like a particularly bad-tempered tank and yes – you guessed it – blew the electric.

I was a little annoyed, but putting my newly acquired and completely hypothetical electrical knowledge to the test, I was able to deduce that it was in fact a faulty oven, rather than a problem with the actual wiring of the house. I duly made the ‘phone call to arrange a replacement product for the following day. (Why? Why did she have to wait ten days for the first one and yet they could arrange another one for the next day..? Hmm..)

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The next day came. According to my mother, the delivery men were a lot more careful the second time, even taking the outer packaging off for her. Once again, we gathered, the court assembled, waiting for its king… the cupboard had been fully removed, the floor cleaned, the relevant wires connected up and the cooker just needed to be pushed gently into position…

My mother leant forward and tenderly removed an errant piece of cellotape from the front of the gleaming appliance… and… the door fell off. Seriously. I couldn’t make it up if I TRIED.

Samantha!”

What?! I didn’t do it!!”

And now we are waiting… for another replacement… another delivery. Me? Oh…I’m hiding. My phone’s switched off…shhh….

21458593_173122279909646_1359111582_oYes. I know. The pictures have absolutely no relevance to the text… Just made me feel better to look t something pretty…

Here’s A Novel Idea…

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The world of WordPress is like a garden, populated by wonderfully creative people, all sharing their own stories. NaNoMoWri is fast approaching, where you attempt to create a novel in a month, and I thought perhaps I would give it a go.

According to the saying, everybody has a book in them, rolling around in their brains… I’ve been tentatively dipping into the world of writing, a couple of projects bubbling, but at the moment, I can’t decide which one to pursue… do I pin down “The Dream” or capture “Animal Tails”? I would value your opinion – here’s the first little bit from “Dream”. Next week I’ll post a bit from “Animal Tails” and I would love to know what you think I should concentrate on for November. And…thank you. As always.


Emily stepped out of the air-conditioned taxi and at once the smells and the heat assaulted her senses. She did not reel from the overpowering cascade of spices, rotting vegetation, scents of oil rising from the water slapping at the docks and everywhere people, noise, chattering, voices.

She welcomed the overload, drank it in, feeling the colours and tasting the smells. She turned to the taxi driver who had off-loaded her small case and placed it carefully by her feet and was now looking at her politely, expectantly.

“Oh, sorry!” Emily blushed and fumbling in her handbag retrieved a note which she pressed into the driver’s hand. At once she knew it was too much from the way he seized it and rapidly backed away, bowing once and then returning to the comfort of his car.

Emily turned again to stare at the battered old ship, who had once sailed the seas in glory but had now retreated to the shelter of this bustling little port for a somewhat shabby retirement, rather like an old actress from the ‘30’s, retreating to the hills to live out her days in solitary and eccentric splendour.

This grimy old glamour girl was to be her home for the next month. Emily picked up her case and walked towards the gangplank. Dry orange dust swirled about her ankles and clung her to her toes, exposed by the strappy designer sandals that had seemed so classy when she bought them, yet now somehow seemed superfluous. She stopped, kicked them off and looped her finger through the ankle straps and ran light footedly up the gangplank.

On board, she found herself in a vast hallway, and turned, staring spellbound at the high ceilings, beautifully moulded, the elegant double staircase that swept upwards to left and right, curved like a gently smiling mouth. A light touch on her elbow recalled her attention and she looked around to see a small, neatly uniformed girl smiling at her.

“This way, Miss and I will show you to your cabin.” For practical as well as economic reasons, Emily had elected for a middle of the range cabin, to ensure a longer stay; and bolstered by a small inheritance she had chosen this ship as a wonderfully exotic place to achieve that common goal in the 21st Century, of finding oneself. The girl swung her case up with practised ease and set off towards the left -hand staircase.

Pausing for one last look around the softly glowing hallway, Emily’s eyes were caught by a couple just beginning to descend the right-hand staircase. The woman was dark, delicate, impossibly glamorous, and whilst she held the hand of a little girl, she smiled up into the eyes of the man beside her. Tall, with an everyday elegance and tousled blond hair, he grinned amiably down at her then looked up and directly at Emily.

Moonstone And Mewsings…

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Moonstone is one of my favourite crystals, and I have written about it before…but there’s nothing wrong with a little repetition. I think it’s also especially appropriate for this time of year, as Life, like the Moon, goes through phases.

My friends in the U.S. were lucky enough to experience an eclipse, a significant lunar event. The last full eclipse we had here was about eighteen years ago. We waited expectantly, I remember, armed with special glasses and cameras, and gathered outside in the garden to witness it…the moment approached… we waited, breathless with excitement…it got a bit dark. That was it.

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Similarly, we had one of the largest earthquakes here in the Midlands about ten years ago…my son’s Transformer toy fell off the shelf. That was it.

Just as we see the Lady Moon in her different shapes, from full to crescent, so Moonstone can change depending on the light. As a mineral, it is formed in layers which gives the crystal its wonderful iridescence, reflective golds and silvers, that hold an aura of mystery and ethereal splendour.

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No surprise to learn then, that Moonstone helps us to access our intuition, that deeper sense of knowing something that is almost-there, temporarily concealed behind the veil of conscious thought. Moonstone can open our hearts and minds to inspiration and impulse, and help with sleepwalking too.

It is a wonderfully empathetic stone that can help men attune to their divine feminine – women must wear it with heightened awareness, linked as it is to our own bodily cycles.

And once again we come to a new phase and a new chapter… my own life is on the cusp as my little family is dissolved. My older son now has issues of his own… my younger is leaving to start his university degree and I find myself alone again.

The Moon may sail alone in seeming solitary splendour, but she is surrounded by stars that anchor her to her path… I’m not the Moon, but then I’m also never really alone… not with cats and love. Always.

The Silken Snares Of Spidery September…

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Yes… it’s approaching that time of year again… that I anticipate with great trepidation… Spider September. For others, yes, it may be the “season of mist and mellow fruitfulness” but as soon as I turn that page on my calendar I know that I will spend the majority of the month in fear and trembling…

It’s Spider September… in brief, the month when all the single male spiders come out in search of a lady friend. And my house seems to play a significant part in these fledgling relationships… eHarmony… safe meeting place… something like that.

However, most of this year has been suspiciously spider free… have they gone elsewhere for sordid spider sex? Have they been planning a mass assault for later on in the month? Or… or… do they read my blog? Have I finally managed to convey the depths of my horror and fear – could I have been the topic of discussion on one spider soiree…?

Here, let’s give her a break…”

Yeah, I feel sorry for her after what Barry did last year…”

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The whole ethos of my blog is to look at things a different way, take a second glance at things and try to find the magic… I must thank Sue for reminding me of this – I am following the Adventures Of Elliot at the moment, please go and visit. She has a fondness and sense of wonder for little creatures that includes spiders that made me try to re-consider…

Every morning when I go out in the garden, when dew has fallen, the whole place has been festooned with spider webs – Mother Nature’s lace – adding a magical, other worldly feel… created by eight legged acquaintances. (Sorry, can’t say friends yet…)

These little spinners hang trembling from the corners of the shed and I was actually quite fascinated to notice that they were striped in brown, cream and black – almost tabby spiders. Earlier in the year as well, I was entranced by a marble-sized ball of tiny baby spiders, tucked away in a corner of our fence. They clung together in a family ball, yet when they felt a tremor of possible approaching danger, they split and scattered. Once the danger had passed, they resumed their family huddle.

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I wander in my garden and appreciate the beauty as rainbows slide along their silken strings the spiders cast from branch to ground… snares to trap the unwary as yet again I blunder unwittingly into a thread and it clings to my eyelashes, floats across my face… and I leap and caper, clawing desperately, trying to remove the clutching threads…

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Oo, look at ‘er at the corner… doing one of ‘em funny dances again…”