Month: December 2017

Normal Service Will Resume Shortly

Hello there, chaps and chapesses. Just a brief missive to let you know that I will be noticeably absent from proceedings next week but, fear not, my desertion will be brief. Even as we speak, I am wending my merry way to deepest, darkest Derbyshire to retreat to a small stone cottage in the hills.

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Whilst the main purpose of this is to focus my uninterrupted attentions on the new PorterGirl novel, Sinister Dexter, I also intend to use the time to get in some eating practice, ready for Christmas.

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Not only that, but there is swotting up to be done in preparation for the Westminster Pub Quiz, where I will be pitting my wits against quiz master extraordinaire, ultra-posh Tory backbencher Jacob Rees-Mogg.

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The only slight hiccup with this, is that I have also agreed to attend a lunch on the South Bank that afternoon, followed by an ill-advised pub crawl around London. By the time I get to Westminster I’ll be lucky if I can even write my own name, let alone lock intellectual horns with an old Etoninan. No matter. If I manage to end the evening without having removed my clothes or been charged with a public order offence, I shall consider the thing a success.

In the week leading up to Christmas I hope to share with you some of the new book and, if I can avoid police custody, snippets of my adventures in the capital. In the meantime, try to behave yourselves while I’m gone…

Lucy x

Trenton Babbage – Diary Of A Bacon Smuggler Part Three

Back once more – and still sticking rigidly to his optimum 637 word limit – is Trenton Babbage with his epic tale, The Bacon Smugglers…

able to get the lifeguards involved too, and complete the holy quadfecta. Until that blessed day we make do with linking up our various explosive devices and saunter out the tradesmen’s entrance. Via the half price milk chocolate hobnob stand.

Outside the air is thick with freshness, one can chew on it, literally; not like in that stupid advert. So we do, we stand together taking great big bites out of the air, chewing greedily on the concoction, drooling almost in our childlike glee; in fact, if there hadn’t have been a local co-op exploding at this very moment, showering the surrounding area in three for the price of two own brand butter, people woulda thought we were a right coupla nut jobs! As it is they are conveniently indisposed to paying us any mind, so we make our way back to the train station … you know the route.

On the train I disclose my experience of the buffet car bacon sandwich to Perl, and its subsequent treatment and allusion to the work of Pannerberg. Oddly enough she’d had the same ordeal with her purchase – or perhaps not odd at all; pick any random person who’s eaten a bacon sandwich, or anything bought from a train’s buffet car, and defy them to wax lyrical upon it, or even border on as good as slightly dissatisfied – what may be odd though is how certain people deal with these below par food stuffs; not many I imagine use them to recreate the victims of a serial killer active on the Danish island of Zealand during the latter half of the 1800s…though I could be wrong. Perl’s killer of choice was of course Dagmar Underhål, who was perpetually perturbed by the constant lies people told each other. Not the big ones; the affairs, the fraud; it was the little ones; back in two seconds, I’ll do that in a minute, sarcasm. Her literal understanding of the words people used left no room for nuance, sarcasm, metaphor. She used to roller her victims, render them transparent essentially, using one of the first cricket wicket rollers brought over from England by the rail engineers. “I never go anywhere without my little roller, Manfred. So I placed my one sixth eaten bacon sandwich on the buffet counter, looked the server in the eye and began to roll. All the while explaining to him how and why Dagmar used to do this to members of her community; she was squeezing out all the bullshit, all the layers becoming one, nothing else left to hide, just a pure human spirit.” “Bloody hell, Perl; I just pinned the bits of mine to a chair, I didn’t mess with a poor bloke’s mind!” “Who is reading your notes? Who now thinks that there might be some crazed bacon sandwich fetish psychotic on the loose?” “Touché.”

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“I feel readers are going think it strange that we, self-professed top quality bacon lovers, would eat a buffet car bacon sandwich in the full knowledge that it will be severely sub-par.” “What do you mean, ‘readers’? we’re not supposed to know about the readers; we’re characters in a story, unaware that we’re characters in a story.” “Yes I know, but it just seems weird that we would eat bacon we know to be crap.” “I assume the author was more concerned with introducing the work of serial killers in a way he thought was humourous, than he was with character consistency.” “Insulting to the reader?” “Not necessarily, a bit lazy possibly. The explanation may come later.” “I don’t think the author should leave it too long; it will start to niggle in the readers’ minds.” “Not yet though; we’re here.”

Sitting on a great South West Trains train arriving at the international hub that is Southampton train station, can only

More Crap Poetry

Following the discovery of my schoolgirl poetry anthology, I bring you another scribbling from my ten-year-old self. I have left in the spelling mistakes as it adds to the charm, if not the comprehension. Not that it makes much sense anyway…

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Fog

Lord of darkness spreads his mystifing cloak on the sleepy air,

The stillness falls over the bold trees which stand still in pairs.

A sense of insecurity finds its way into every heart,

Perplexing, haunted things begin to start.

Silhouetted on the frosted sky,

A huntsman can be seen riding by.

A cry of a widowed woman echoes all around,

Horns of unicorns sing with such mellow sound.

Devil, dragon, fairy and trog

What causes this magic?

Why, it’s just fog.

Well, where do you start with this one? I think I must have had quite an aversion to fog, judging by the dark nature of the images conjured here. Although I am impressed I knew the word ‘perplexing’, the ‘begin to start’ at the end of that line puts my teeth on edge. And since when do unicorn horns sing? A slightly cheerier image than the crying widowed woman, I suppose. The inclusion of ‘trog’ in the third to last line is a very lazy rhyme for fog, in my opinion. The bit about the huntsman is quite good, though.

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