Here’s my latest Flash Fiction for the prompt “The blue ones were her favourite” from Anna Spargo-Ryan

**Trigger Warning**

Every Tuesday morning her Mummy had to go to work early and NewDaddy took her to school.

It meant that she didn’t sleep very well on Monday nights.  Mostly she didn’t sleep at all.  She just lay there, waiting.  She liked to imagine that Tuesday morning was already over, and she was safe and sound at school with Mrs Fletcher and all the other kids, and the only thing she had to worry about was whether to play on the oval or the sandpit at big lunch.

She tried lots of things to get away from NewDaddy and the things he said she had to do, but it didn’t make any difference.  Or, it did make a little difference: NewDaddy just got madder and when he got madder he got rougher, and he still ended up doing the same thing anyway.  So it was better just to wait in her bedroom and get it over with.

After a while she developed a little game.  She lined up all the crystals that OldDaddy had bought her before he called Mummy a stupidfatbitch and went away and didn’t come back no more.  She liked the crystals, they were cool in her hands and they were real pretty.  All the crystals had different meanings, they were supposed to bring you special powers, or something like that.  She always mixed up which one was which, and that was probably because she was a dumdumidiot and couldn’t keep things straight in her head.  But she could make the crystals go in a straight line.

When they were in a straight line she knew she would be alright once NewDaddy finished his grunting and she wouldn’t get into trouble from Mummy for making her bedhead bash against the wall, making a mark on the rentalwalls.

She always stared at the crystals in their straight straight line until NewDaddy left her room, and then she picked them up carefully and put them back in her jewellery box.  The rose quartz and the hematite and the jasper and the blue turquoise.  Sometimes she held the turquoise ones for a while.  The blue ones were her favourite.

Buckle up people, here’s some hits here for you…

1.  This coffee:Most every day I thank my intelligence and good sense (Or maybe it was just the pic of George Clooney with his ‘come hither’ eyes) for buying a Nespresso machine.  To all you coffee aficionados with your Gaggias and your, um, some other fancy coffee machines, I say: piffle.  In under a minute I can have a smooth and tasty coffee delivered to my mouth, with no cleaning up. I love you little pods.

2.  This meme:

The internet cracks me up sometimes.  I don’t know why, but this one just makes me giggle.  Not only the stupid face Leonardo is pulling, but the fact that someone has taken some stills and gone to the trouble of making this.  What a strange and wondrous world we inhabit.

3.  All of you readers.  I love that you take the time to read, and sometimes to comment on my jottings.  I love doing this blog thing, and even though I know it’s self-indulgent and meandering, I love how you guys are taking the time to come along for the ride…

4.  The Little Fiddlers concert at school this week.  Yes, that is their name.  And yes, they all play violins (with a couple of cellos and double bases) and yes, they are all “very talented”.  Read that bit however you see fit.  My ears may have been assaulted, but the cute factor made it all worthwhile.  Doncha just love how kids of a certain age have no real self awareness, so that have no self consciousness either?  They played, we clapped, so they must have been awesome.

5.  The weather.  Shhh, don’t tell The Sunshine Coast it’s Autumn.  We are going to hit the low 30s again here on Sunday and Monday, and I for one, could not be happier.  Warm sun and not much humidity.  That’s what I’m talking about.

So how about you, got some hits?

What’s the weather like at your joint?

…..FROM THE ASHERS… XXX

Nutella: Are you in or out?

It’s gotta be said, I’m in.  I don’t care for it at all on bread, but as a fall back emergency chocolate supply, it’s a winner.  Just dip your finger in (or teaspoon, for the more cultured among us) and eat.  Craving averted.

So perhaps you can imagine my joy at finding not one, but two Nutella recipes floating around the soc’s this week, and both are dead easy.

Nutella Chocolate Mousse

1.  Chuck a container of cream in a bowl and beat until it is frothy. (I used 300mls)

2.  Blend in half that amount of Nutella. (I used 150g)

3.  Pour into some kind of glass, ramekin or other thingy and refrigerate overnight.  I did it for about 4hrs because: mousse.

Oh my goodness, and sweet baby cheeses, this mousse is tres fantastique (possibly a fancy foreign lingo)

Nutella Cupcakes (kinda like brownies I reckon)

1.  Three ingredients:  280g Nutella, 60g plain flour and 2 eggs.

2.  Blend ’em together

3.  Spoon into small patty pans and bake at 160degrees for a while.  I did about 15mins

Oh hello sweet little chocolatey snacks… yes I do think I will have two… especially good for the cupcak-ily challenged ones like my own self, whose cupcakes usually end up as pretty good door-stops

And there you have it.  Two unreal recipes to get your chocolate on, without even trying.  Don’t say I never give you anything.  See you on MKR or some other cooking show.  As you can tell, cooking is my life and my passion.

*Actually, I use Nutino.  Because it’s about a buck fifty cheaper for the large jar, and I can’t tell the difference.  Sorry Nutella.  Maybe one day we shall meet again when you are on special.

What is your go-to choccie fix?

Last Friday we left The Shire to head over to the Sunny Coast hinterland foothills, to the cute little town of Palmwoods.

Gulp.

I haven’t been to Palmwoods since Hayls passed away last year, and quite frankly, I thought I might live the rest of my days without ever facing up to the ‘woods.  Palmwoods IS Hayley, as far as I am concerned.  I had never been there prior to Hayls opening her first cafe, Sister, there and everything in the street just smacks of her.

In the early days of the cafe I used to spend a fair bit of time there, first in offering moral support (sitting on my arse) whilst Ricki did pretty much everything in the fit out, from painting the front counter, to sourcing furniture and doing the artwork for the walls, and then later, as a ‘bum on a seat’ to make the place look busy (so, still sitting on my arse).

Then Ricki died, and my guts went inside-out for a while.  Eventually I went back, and Sister was a marker for lots of things in our lives.  We went there for work dinners, christmas celebrations, lunches with visitors, bonfire parties in the garden next door (which is now a beer garden), and cuppas at the place Jo and John and Hayls shared above the garage.  The night Coco was diagnosed with her PKD we spent the time waiting for blood results at the cafe.  Palmwoods has seen me laugh and cry more than any place I know.

As we took the turn off I wished with all my bits to keep on driving, and instead to spend some quality time with the tragedy that is the Big Pineapple.  We didn’t.  My throat got all hot and sore at the back, like it does when I’m not letting the cries out.

Nath parked MissXtrailia2013 right out the front of The Lane, so there was no more avoiding it.  We were in Palmy.  And Hayls was everywhere and all around me like I knew she would be.  Except she wasn’t.  And my throat went hot again.

We were meeting John and Olive so I guess if they could be here, if they could immerse themselves in a project that has Hayley written all over it, then I guessed I shouldcouldwould too.

Renae’s Pantry and The Lane are amazing.  In a revelation that will shock, I have to tell you, I don’t have the words to describe what an amazing job the Sirl family have done.  In a tiny space and a disused area they have created a bubbling, bumping place to overflow your stomach and your soul with nourishment.  You can do your food shop with Renae, who probably has gorgeous baby Frankie on her chest, you can chat with Benno about the workings of the world, you can get your delish mexican-inspired dinner from Carolyn and the ever smiling Louisa or you can just sit back with your buddies with a beer and listen to some tunes.

The Pantry.. Even the sign is cool

Tasty, locally grown food…. Couldn’t BE fresher

The punters starting to arrive as the sun sets..

Part One of Renae’s Pantry Manifesto

I didn’t want to go there, but pretty soon I didn’t want to leave.  Renae said to me that Hayley pushed her to do something like this, and that she is all around.  I don’t know about that, but I do know that she would have loved everything about The Lane and the Pantry.  The integrity, the quality of the produce, the creation of such a vibrant, lively, happy place.   All a bit like her really.

Gotta go.  My throat is hurting again.

Love your work guys.

All the rest of you: go there, I don’t know what’s better: the food, the company, the shopping or the wonderful sense of being part of an idea who’s time has come.

….From The Ashers xx

There’s a meme that is doing the rounds at the moment, and if you’re a Mum and on Facebook you’ve probably had it pop up in your feed once or twice:

A little slice of Mother Guilt anyone?  Come on, just one more tiny wafer….

And rightly so, I say, because a lot of you are screwing up aren’t you?  Maybe not in astronomical ways, but in little, insidious ways every single day.  Sometimes without even realising, you are messing up your children’s brains and lives forever.

But not over here.  Up here (on the moral and ethical high ground) the view is perfect.  Over at The Asher House we are all neat, kind, well-mannered, successful, happy, wise, talented and, well, perfect.

I have delved into the archives my phone to find documents to regale and impress you.  And of course prove my superiority.

Exhibit A:

I found this little love note on Liam’s desk a few years ago.  Ahh Liam, my gorgeous, quiet, gentle-soul of a son.  In case you can’t read it, it is poignantly entitled Liam’s Revenge and even better than a sonnet, it is more of a To-Do list.  A list wondrous things that he will do to his little (then 4 year old) sister.  Just quietly, I was relieved to find the note and be alerted to the plans of the PSYCHOPATH before Check Box One was completed.  Please note the tasks Three and Four: “Brake (sic) the things she makes” and “Call her names” have been successfully performed.  We are so proud to have such a committed high-achiever for a son.  I think most of the pundits would agree that goal setting and completion of tasks are the marks greatness…. Or perhaps it is vengeance that is the sign.  Obliterate the competition.

Exhibit B:

Coco has just started violin lessons, which makes our ears bleed brings much joy to our home.  This morning I was pleased and impressed to see she has penned her very first song.  It is without a title so far, but I think you will agree, it is the work of a prodigy.  There is a fair bit of crossing out, so perhaps the final words are still under review, but the chorus is truly wonderful.

In case the meaning escapes you the lyric is:

Verse:

Pop, cha cha

Fart, cha cha

They mean the same thing

They come out of people’s bums.

Chorus:

La La La La

La La La La

La La La La

(The chorus went on for quite a while, like any good ‘pop’ song… see what I did there?)

So there you have it, THAT is what perfection looks (and smells) like.  If you feel like you aren’t keeping up, feel free to drop me a line.  I think this year I’ll run some courses on pyshco and maestro hot-housing.  I’m clearly onto something.

This is in response to a writing prompt by Anna Spargo-Ryan.. A little game she has going on called Flash Fiction. The prompt was: “What about the others?” he said.  “What others?”

When Rob left me I’d like to say my heart broke, but my heart stayed strangely intact.  Which made everything so much worse because it meant that I felt every last bit of vicious shit he threw my way.  I felt it when he said I was a bitch.  I felt it when he said it was my fault he was leaving. I felt it when he said that if I hadn’t been so frigid he never would have had to “get a root from the horny bird up the road at number 28”.

Frigid?  Horny?  Where were we, 1982?  It’s a wonder he didn’t send me a fax outlining all of my faults.  Which in the scheme of things would have been better, kinder, because every word from his honed tongue hurt like a stab and caused me to spear off into separate parts.  I wondered if the fragments of me would ever meld back together.

The days and weeks and months mooshed together.

I went through the motions.  To work and back, shops and back, work and back, gym and back, work and back, work and back, drinks and back, work and back.  Then the fissure of the weekend to sit within until Monday came and I could climb back out into the world, hoping that the weight of the air out there wouldn’t press me to the ground.

The girls from work were kind and sweet in the beginning, but after three months they were sick of the sight of my slightly greasy hair and my unironed shirts.  They wanted me back.  Back to how I was before.  They wanted me to laugh with my eyes and down to my toes.  I laughed with my teeth.  They wanted me to be enthusiastic so that my skin tingled, but I couldn’t even feel the sweet scores I made in my skin every night.

They insisted I go out with James.

It’ll be fun, they said.

You might even get laid, they giggled.

He’s lovely, he’ll be kind, they said, eyes big and earnest.

So I went.  Not because of a glint of desire, but because they were kind and I wanted them to believe I was trying.  Even though I couldn’t give a fuck.

Weirdly, James was really nice.  Or, not weird that he was nice, but weird that I noticed.  It was the first thing I’d noticed in another person since I noticed that Rob smelt like another woman, and I’m not talking about a smell you buy at Myer.  So noticing things about other people wasn’t my plan these days.

James and I went out for coffee and then to lunch, and finally out to dinner.  We hit it off, and after the dinner at Miss Moneypenny’s we had it off in the silence of his Camry in the National Park carpark.  I couldn’t really get into it, between keeping my sleeves down to cover the scrapes and thinking the ghost of Harold the Koala was watching my white bum jiggle through the windscreen.

I kept my sleeves down and my thoughts encased, and James and I saw each other every other day.  I didn’t allow any cracks in the carapace of my mind,  I skated along, just this side of a diagnosis, with James oblivious to the sensuous ruptures I performed every night after he left.

We sat on the picnic blanket-the one I got from KFC after Rob left, and I ate a whole FatFuck sized bucket of original recipe until I vomited- and talked about what we would do for the holidays.  I wanted to go on a cruise, and James wanted to go camping at Imbil.  I hated camping and Imbil sounded crap, so I pushed for the cruise a bit more than I usually would.  James started to get the shits, and it was pissing me off, because he wouldn’t give me a reason for not cruising.

Why not though? I said, again.

Look, I just don’t want to okay, he said.

It’ll be fun, and besides, everything is included, so it’s a bargain, I said.

I told you, I bloody don’t want to, can’t you just drop it? he said.

No, I won’t, not until you give me one good reason why not, I said.

What about the others? he said.

What others? I said.

He made a gesture, like Delvene Delaney on Sale of the Century, pointing out the rich prizes, sitting on the KFC blanket with us.

What others? I said, a little more urgently.

James just smiled.