Thinking Creatively

It's the April A to Z next month which I have enjoyed enormously the last two years. However, with my life currently up shit creek (no point putting rose-tinted glasses on), working full-time, commuting two hours day and organising my three boys, I'm not sure whether I'll have the time or stamina to complete it.

And yet I feel I should try as over the last few years I have lost a great deal and If I give up writing and my freedom to express I will lose even more.

And I can't allow that to happen. I have always been a creative. I will probably die creatively - perhaps while parachuting into France on a horse. 

Anyway, by the end of the year, I suspect my life will have changed even more and I will need to think creatively if I am to support myself and my children. So I might as well start now.

So the obvious solution is I could shack up with a rich man. That would solve a few problems. But how? At 52 the odds are stacked against me finding anyone who doesn't look like corpse since Jerry Hall has already snapped up Rupert Murdoch and Amal has got her teeth into Gorgeous George. That just leaves only Prince Harry, Tom Hiddleston and Tom Cruise as eligible bachelors. I've got to be honest, even though HRH and I are pretty tight I don't think she'll want me as a daughter-in-law. For a start, the balcony at Buckingham Palace might collapse during a fly-past if I was required for an official waving session. And my big gob could be potentially very embarrassing at state occasions. Plus I'm old enough to be Harry's mum as I would be for the dishy Tom Hiddleston.

So that just leaves my arch nemesis Tom Cruise as a potential mate.

God, just how unfortunate can a woman be? The one available man who is old enough for me is a nutter who believes in little green men and wears platforms heels.

Still one can't be too picky at my age. Anyway, I reckon Tom has a good sense of humour so he won't have taken all my jokes on this blog seriously. After all, they were only little jokes. And Tom needs a woman with a sense of humour to counteract all his serious thinking. I could even help him build up his muscles for his next Mission Impossible role by feeding him up with British delicacies like fish and chips and pie and mash.  In fact, I'm fairly sure I could win him over just by throwing myself out of a multi-storey wearing only a harness and a t-shirt which says "Tom for US President."

Well lets' face it - even Tom's got more political savvy than Trump. And Tom can even fly a plane!

Okay, so it was only in a movie. But he was darn good in Top Gun. Tom's flying ability alone would definitely get him through the first electoral eliminations. 

And with a British Rose by his side it would be easy route all the way to The White House. Then, once he's elected, I could leave him to do all that political warmongering stuff whilst I hang out in The White House hot tub.

Hmm. Sounds like a good trade-off to me.

Right. I have a plan of action. Now all I need to do is lose half my bodyweight and stock up on perfume to spray on my love letters.

I think I'll go for Poison by Dior.

Just when you think life can't get any shittier...

I forgot to get my beef out of the freezer for our New Year's Day meal. Bah humbug.

So shall I go out and get some or go with frozen pizza?

Hmm...

Maybe I'll just create a new Turley Surprise dish -  pizza slices on a bed of Yorkshire pudding and brussel sprouts. With gravy.

Could be a winner.

Ten Years of Blogging and the Dawn of a New Era

Today my blog is ten years old.

It is, frankly, a miracle I have kept this blog up for so long. Who would have guessed that this blog which was started on a whim with a glass of wine in my hand would last so long! However, this last year has been my least productive in terms of writing with only 33 blogs posted and no new novels. This is due to a dramatic change in my personal circumstances which is reflected in the subtle change in my blog title. I intend to keep on blogging but it will be a while before I am organised enough to find time to blog frequently or to continue with the novels that lie dormant in my files as I am back working full-time and looking after my boys' welfare in my spare hours takes priority over my creative endeavours.

The last year has been a particularly sad time for me. I am in now in my own changing room. It is one I had not anticipated at my age but there are times in life when you have to make dramatic decisions and when faced with the choice of sinking or swimming, I chose to swim. The door to my past life is closing and the one to my future is opening. I hope happier times lie ahead.

A big thank you from the bottom of my heart to all of you who have supported my creative endeavours over the years. Normal service on this blog will resume when the legal papers have been signed. In the meantime, expect random caustic posts from the newly created The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman. Hopefully, there will be ten more years of musings and several more novels in me yet.

Car Crash Customer Service

The Automobile Ass.

Dear Sirs,

In reference to your recent email stating, "We believe we have resolved this matter for you", my response is "No, you have not." In fact, I have resolved this matter by a) cancelling my insurance policy with you and b) informing your staff that I will never be using the services of the AA again.

In addition, I will also be writing to my MP to advise him of the deeply prejudicial policies victimising those who work in the arts that the AA and its underwriter's support. As an author with an alternative full-time occupation who would have been charged an extra £500 on my policy for having a part-time "risky" profession, I will delight in putting my writing skills to good use whilst I compose my epistle. I will also take pleasure in penning it as I luxuriously sip a glass of champagne and nibble chocolates whilst sitting comfortably at my desk and not, as you seem to think, whilst drunk and careering dangerously around the M25 citing Shakespeare, phoning other impetuous authors to discuss rhyming haikus and intermittently drooling over nude photographs of Dan Brown.

Assuring you of my best attention at all times,

Jane Turley

This children's author has just turned up at the local primary school to give his (unpaid) talk on his latest book "Around the M25 in Eighty Days, Fuelled by Coke, Booze and Fags."

This author is upset that after returning from a trip to his local library where he has given an (unpaid) talk on publishing and found that his insurance company have increased his car insurance premium by five hundred pounds. The despair on his face is due to the fact that he planned to gas himself in his garage but has just remembered he parks his car on the street because he can't afford a house with a garage.

These two high-spirited authors are on their way to a writing convention. He writes action thrillers and she writes erotica. This photo was captured on the M25, just before they caused a massive pile-up when he decided to act out the car chase scene from his latest novel, "Dead Broker."

Z is for Ziggy the Zoologist

There was a zoologist called Ziggy
Who fell for a sweet-hearted piggy
They made love in her sty
Beneath a moonlit sky
And wallowed in mud with a ciggy

Y is for Yancey the Yeti

There was an awkward young yeti called Yancey
Who had a peculiar fancy
He liked to sniff cheese
And lick mushy peas
And then shove 'em down his girlfriend's panties

X is for The Xmas Sunday Driver

X is a nightmare letter. Last year I cheated and did X is for the Kissable Letter to get myself out of a hole (my ignorance of words beginning with X) and this year I am going to cheat again by doing X is for Xmas which means effectively I write about whatever I want. Hurrah! Three cheers for ingenuity!

So X is for the Xmas Sunday Driver.

As someone who does a lot of driving, I deplore Sunday drivers because they are always, always, always, getting in my way and slowing me down. I am one of those people who drive to the speed limit so if I get stuck behind an elderly couple driving at 40 mph in a 60 mph zone because they are admiring the pansies on the roadside I instantly turn into a road-raging monster. I know it's hard to believe that a sweet, English rose such as myself could ever be angry but when I have places to go and people I want to see before I die I am like the Incredible Hulk on speed.

However, in my experience, Xmas Sunday drivers are the absolute worst of their breed. I always know when Xmas is approaching because of the sudden appearance of Sunday drivers on the road during the middle of the week. It's bad enough they disrupt weekend travel with their visits to bird sanctuaries but, in December, they descend onto the roads causing monumental havoc wherever they go. You may have thought the increased number of road accidents in the darkness of winter is due to poor visibility but it’s not – it’s due to Sunday drivers venturing out from their bungalows to do their Christmas shopping and holding up the traffic at every junction in the entire Western Hemisphere.

So the midweek arrival of the Sunday driver is mine and probably other every commuter’s worst nightmare. The sheer randomness of encountering a Sunday driver midweek can turn even the most resilient of commuters from a sane, competent adult into a suicidal maniac prepared to run down the M1 wearing his pants on his head. You can always spot a Sunday driver because they are either consulting a map, have their hazard lights on, or are driving so slowly it looks like they are parking up for a picnic. This total lack of road awareness is due to the fact that the only other times of the year Sunday drivers venture out midweek are for MOTs, GP appointments and visits to the crematorium (not usually in their own car though). So by the time most Sunday drivers realise they need to do their Christmas shopping they’ve forgotten how to drive, where they live and sometimes even who they are. Thank God the police force can tap up the DVLA for car ownership details and remind Sunday drivers who they are and where they live otherwise there would a perpetual circle of lost OAPS driving round the M25 in December.

Anyway, the last time I encountered a Xmas Sunday driver he was driving down the centre of the road in what appeared to be an uncontrolled zig-zag manoeuvre. After I’d careered into the kerb and resuscitated my kids, it duly dawned on me that the festive season must be approaching and I needed to pose myself some urgent questions such as whether I'd still got the Christmas cards I didn’t send from the previous year or whether I could get into the loft to retrieve the Xmas decorations without being buried alive.

Unfortunately, I was unable to ponder those important questions for very long as not long after getting back on the road I was distracted by the need to safely overtake another Sunday driver so I could get home before the New Year. Now I don’t normally have a problem with overtaking Sunday drivers but occasionally there’s the one who thinks he is being carjacked and puts his foot on the pedal in panic. This usually results in me racing them side by side yelling “Out of the way mother fucker!” whilst praying to God that no one is driving in the opposite direction and that the police will believe me when I say I’m a responsible driver. (Ho hum.)

I should also like it noted that it's my belief  that Sunday drivers are also guilty of causing all the congestion in town centres on Christmas Eve. This is because they have an innate desire to pick up their turkeys from the butchers at precisely 9.05 am thereby conflicting with all the workers who only have Christmas Eve to do their shopping. This selfish behaviour leads to frayed tempers, massive bottlenecks and tailbacks (particularly in the vicinity of Marks and Spencer) and some workers not returning home until after the Queen’s speech. The congestion is also exacerbated by the fact that after 11am Sunday drivers tend to fall asleep at the wheel and it is not uncommon to see one of them veering off onto the pavement only waking up in time to narrowly avoid the other Sunday driver who has parked there because he left his glasses at home and can’t tell the difference between “To Let” and “Toilet”.

Now I know some of you will be moaning about how unfair I am being to Xmas Sunday drivers and that one day I too will be one. However, I have it on very good authority (mine) that by 2030, when I’m a pensioner, teleporters will be the common mode of transport and I’ll be able to beam myself to the butchers on Christmas Eve. In the meantime, I count myself lucky to be alive. However, I still have to negotiate another fifteen Christmases on the roads so I ask you all to pray for me - I am too young to be driven insane, or worse, meet my death on the bonnet of a 1974 Ford Cortina.