Writer's Notebook

Like some of my fellow Fiction Friday writers I don't go in for New Year resolutions, so here are some anti-resolutions... things I promise not to do.

I will not mourn over Wales defeat to New Zealand in the Rugby World Cup final by going on a singing spree around every pub in the town. I'll do the singing spree the night before. And please note, I said singing not drinking. For Welshmen the two are incompatible. First we sing, afterwards we pursue other less important pleasures.

I will not sacrifice any roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dishes to Eyjafjallajökull in a bid to appease him and try and prevent a repeat performance of last year's breakout in 2011. The resulting digestion would almost certainly prove to be counterproductive and bring about the cancellation of our holiday in Spain to visit our son who's studying there for one year.

I will most certainly not start living up to my old fogey age by refusing to make a fool of myself at folk dances, sing songs etc.

I will not back away from the annual "sing our anthem before the game" competition before the Wales v France game at our local pub just because my son will not be singing along beside me. Even if the French doubled the 19 people they put out last time, that still won't be a match for me alone. Besides, if the wind is right, we might even hear my son singing his head off in Spain.

I will not give way to pressure to write a trashy, political novel filled with violence, sex and corruption. My imagination just could never do justice to what's actually happening.

This week's 3WW words - grimace, phase, stumble.

"Hi, is this seat free? Thanks... Phew glad I got through that safely, last time I was here I stumbled over the top step and fell. My briefcase burst open and my papers went flying all over the departure lounge... Eeeh, do you mind if I smoke."

He followed the eyes of his newest neighbour and victim to the large white sign with a red circle around the circumference. Inside, a cigarette and a thick, diagonal, black stripe.

"Oh, of course. Wouldn't do to smoke here, now would it. I'm Michael by the way, Michael Glasdon."

No reply.

"Aaare you flying for the first time? ... Well, there's nothing to worry about you know. They know their stuff, these pilots. They'll have in Mallorca in no time. Of course, there was that time the navigator left his map at home. We were in the air for three hours before anyone realised we should have landed half an hour ago. It was when I saw the river I realised we were going the wrong way. Still, from there it was easy. The pilot just had to turn the thing round and follow the river down to our destination. So we got there in the end."

"At least, we're not late today. Not that I'm in a hurry but I do so hate waiting round. The worst part's once you get in the plane and are waiting for take-off. They have to put the plane through all these different phases before they let it loose. Mind you, good job they do to. I was in Africa once... didn't check on anything. Fastest take-off and landing you ever did see. We were in the air just one minute and twenty-two seconds. Turned out we were overloaded. Some bothersome official insisted on loading a truck full of goods into the hold. That's why we came down so quick. Perfect landing though. They're so well trained, pilots nowadays."

"Would you like a polo? No! OK. Course, I love a polo myself, love sticking my tongue through the hole in the middle. Nothing like it. Hang on, I'm just going give those kids opposite some... Cheeky little blighter that little one. Offered him a polo and he poked his tongue out at me. Never had anyone give me a grimace like that before. Took the polo though. Mind you, mustn't suck a polo on the place. Dangerous with all that turbulence. Here I was one minute enjoying a nice little suck when my stomach came up into my head and the mind got lodged in the back of my throat. Turned green I did. My wife had to give me a good thump on the back to get the thing out. Said she should do it more often, but I've never had anything stuck since."

"Here, look at the guy over there. There, look. Right in front of the phone boxes. Long grey hair, that's the one. Don't you think he looks a bit suspicious. Better keep an eye on him. Might be a terrorist. Never know, do you? That time I was flying to Moscow they had one. Mind you, never have noticed to look at him. Seemed perfectly normal. But when the police came to get to him, he swore at them in who knows what lingo. That's how they found out, he really was a terrorist. Thirty minutes more and the plane would have gone sky high. Not that anything like that is can happen to us, today."

"No. With you around I'll be quite safe."

"What's that? Did you say something."

"Yes, I did. I said with you on the plane then the rest of us passengers will be quite safe. If anything's going to happen, then statistics dictate that it's going to happen to you. We're all in the clear."

The wink he gave to the grimacing monster opposite was one of great relief at the sight of his panicking neighbour fleeing through the departure lounge as fast as his legs would carry him.

This week's Fiction Friday challenge: The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis.

We had to wait almost ten minutes to get a seat under the parasol protecting us from the searing sun. We could have gone inside or even elsewhere but I was not going to miss my moment of glory. I'd waited three months for Louise to accept to go out with me and I didn't want to hide away from any passers-by.

In the corner I saw some people get up and raced to claim the table. I pulled a seat back for Louise as she approached. She accepted without a word and I took a seat opposite. I was about to say how happy I was to be with her when the Perfect Stranger theme rang out of her bag. Without a word Louise glued her cell phone to her ear. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the occasional shot fired from her lips: a single word or two at best, presumably hitting its target as it took two or three minutes before the next shot rang out. My mind went back to the warning Ted had given me. Something about Louise not being right for me. To be honest I'd not paid that much attention. I wasn't going to let him spoil my afternoon.

Over the next five minutes she shot out another few words whilst the server hovered in the background. I'd already waved him off twice and he was getting impatient. Several times I tried to get her attention before deciding to get her a glass of white wine. I took a nice, cold beer. I stared over the table at the face that had beguiled every member of our class since she arrived in April. The enticing, blue eyes seemed cold and distant today. A flicker of a smile appeared... something she'd heard, or did she notice me staring? It was not a welcoming smile. I raised my glass but again no reaction. It was another few minutes before the next volley rattled forth; louder, more questioning.

"Bruce Willis...?"

Now the conversation took off. Her voice softened. The occasional utterance built up to a steady stream. She was obviously warming to the subject... or to her partner. I was beginning to feel like number three in a proverbial crowd. With nothing to say, I soon finished my beer and got up to order another; just to give me something to do. I sat down again beer in hand. This time she actually acknowledged me, giving a thumbs up sign as she picked up her wine. I stared across at the gentle curves through the tight t-shirt she was wearing. Just an hour ago I'd persuaded myself, she'd worn it for me. Now I realised she had. Those words printed across the back:
My attitude your problem

I got up and fished in my pocket for a few coins to pay my beers. She didn't even look up as I threw them on the table and walked away just in time. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Luap and Annie coming down the street. The last thing I wanted was for them to see me with Louise.

This week's 3WW words: joke, leverage, remedy

The jokes were flowing just as easily as the wine was. What more could we ask for: a clear, blue, a three-star picnic table, more than enough to drink, and the prospect of some excellent music ahead. I leant back in my chair, closed my eyes and tried to forget the cloud.

Juliana crept up and put an end to my disquiet with a finger of comté: subtle and fruity With a touch of maturity. I nibbled the cheese down to Juliana's fingertips; with Robert here, I dare not go any further. I wondered if I would ever again have the opportunity...

The fingers returned to wherever they had been previously and I sat up to see her flitting from one guest to the other. Juliana's parties were always special and this one had been perfectly stage-managed. To think that in just 24 hours...

Juliana was an old friend and had been a client long before becoming an occasional mistress. And it hadn't taken me long to catch on to her game. The deal was simple. I kept the bank off their backs warning them only when their spending became critical. And I was a willing player even without the leverage she championed over me. In return, I got invited to all the best parties. I could indulge with impunity.

I watched as Juliana got up to make her usual little speech. She didn't even know it would be her last. Everything blurred as my eyes started to water. This had all seemed so real. Was it just the circumstances that had changed? I tried to work out how to put it to them. Actually, I spent the past 24 hours trying to work out how not to have to put it to them. I clutched at any and every straw remedy that passed through my roaming mind. But the moment I got a grip on one, it slipped away I know not where. So tomorrow, I was going to have to tell them: all about the shareholders' dissatisfaction, the takeover, my getting replaced as manager. Can anyone think of a kind way of saying:

"I'm afraid the first thing the new manager will do is an audit on all our accounts in the red. Bankruptcy is the inevitable consequence."

This week's Fiction Friday prompt asks us to pick two established characters from your previous work and tell the story of their meeting. I've chosen Simon, my itinerant Irishman who finally settles down in France and Elizabeth who after a long voyage of self-discovery finally discovered her life was intricately linked up with Africa. Several years later...

When he saw the drizzle outside, Simon began to have his doubts. He turned away from the window and glanced up at the fine grandfather clock in the corner of his salon. Just ten more minutes before the taxi came. Too late for doubts.

He picked up the CD she'd given him when he'd met her at the airport yesterday evening: Mama Etta's Bongo Supreme.

"They're really very good. They're the first band from Dahc to make it onto the world stage."

He'd listened to a couple of the titles, just to say he had, should she ask. He placed the CD in the rack between underneath the Irish Folk section, making mental note to write a label for musique du monde. Strange how some expressions just refused to come to him now in English. The internal phone buzzed: the portier telling him the taxi was on its way. Passing in front of the mirror to straighten his tie, he picked up the bouquet and made his way out.

They pulled up in front of the hotel some five minutes later and before he knew it an apparition in traditional African clothing came racing out of the hotel and opened the door to the taxi. How Simon stared. Her hair was made up in ringed sticks which stood out at angles from her head. He stared and stared not knowing what to think or say. He even forgot to make to make room for her to get into the taxi and she almost had to push him over.

As she leaned across and gave him a peck on the cheek the bouquet of her perfume roused him. He took her hand with not quite his usual eagerness and pressed his lips to it. It was one of the most exquisite perfumes he had ever come across. She was obviously a connaisseur. Was that her one redeeming feature? Maybe things would work out okay. She was certainly a beautiful woman with her tall, straight figure and the fine features of her face. If only she wouldn't stop behaving like a child all the time. She was like a bottle of freshly opened Champagne, bubbling away with all her might as she babbled on at all there was to see. Was there no end to her enthusiasm.

The taxi pulled up in front of the Arpège and Simon scuttled out and handed the Majeur d' the box containing the bouquet. He then opened the door for Elizabeth and taking her arm accompanied her inside.He was acutely aware that every eye was fixed on them as they made their way to the small private chamber he had ordered for the occasion. Would the table-talk revolve around her beauty or her outlandish appearance. Surely, Arpège had never seen anything like it. Was it his fault? Should he have prepared her? But how?They'd only met for the first time yesterday. True her letters had been full of Africa. But never once had he suspected anything like this.

He lead her to their table and pulled the chair out for her, giving an almost imperceptible nod to the waiter. He had scarcely sat down himself when she started.

"Oh Simon, you can't possibly imagine how I feel. It's all so heavenly like in a fairy story. Here in Paris, in the shadow of so much history. And all these wonderful things happening to me. Aaaah, yellow roses! My favourite colour. How on earth could you have known!"

He blushed; whether out her embarrassment at her shriek or due to his stroke of luck with the roses, we shall refrain from enquiring. The waiter returned again, champagne bucket in hand.

"Oh, what's that? I'm afraid I couldn't possibly drink that. I'm not a drinker. Seen to many lives ruined by it. I hope you don't mind, but I really don't drink." Her smile failed to penetrate.

"This isn't drinking, it's Champagne. You can't possibly refuse Champagne."

But it became perfectly obvious that that's what she intended doing and with a sigh he ordered her a bottle of Peregrinet - "Sparkling, if you please," she added.

They chatted a while but somehow life had gone out of their conversation. Could this really be the vibrant lady he had been corresponding with these past months; he'd thought her so charming, so refined. And once they'd exchanged photos, he knew he had to meet her. Where had he gone wrong?

The waiter brought in the dishes for the snails. She seemed puzzled.

"Snails."

"How wonderful." She clapped her hands together. "I love snails." But why all these dishes. What on earth are they for?"

He opened his mouth and was about to give an explanation but thought better of it.

"You ate snails in Dahc? So how did you prepare them?"

"We chop them up in the lettuce, of course. How else can you prepare snails."

He didn't bother answering. Was she really trying to tell him she ate raw snails straight from the garden? She obviously had no idea of how civilised people ate them. He helped her as well as he could. She didn't seem terribly keen on them. The waiter cleared up the dishes and reappeared with the dinner plates and an innumerable number of knives and forks. Elizabeth gave him an anxious smile.

"I'm afraid you're going to have to help me. I'm just not used to all this finery. In Africa everything is far simpler. Most times use our fingers."

Simon stared at her with disgust. Wiping his mouth with his serviette he leant forward:

"Would you please excuse me a minute."

He got up and left the room discreetly. He went immediately to the Majeur d' and whispered into his ear. The latter led him through into the manager's office. Before eclipsing, he paid the bill in full and left an additional sum: "For the lady to take a taxi back to her hotel." He may have been a coward but he was also scrupulously fair.

Two for the price of one today as I've combined this weeks 3WW prompt (bait, jump, victim) with a writing exercise that appeared Monday one the Write Anything site to write a story in just ten lines as follows:

1. describe the weather
2. describe a sound
3. describe an object
4. update the weather
5. describe a piece of clothing/ accessory
6. update the sound
7. using the object, write something about the mood of the scene
8. describe an action or movement using the article of clothing or accessory
9. describe a physical trait of one of the characters
10. end with a single line of dialogue

The red of the setting sun almost matched that of his cheeks. A snigger went through the room as he desperately sought to evade those eyes directed at him, the victim. He stared at the large at the pebble in front of him: round, smooth, a little jagged at the edges; the worm-like writing and that one single word - which had him baited. The sun was growing ever paler; he hoped his cheeks matched. The gleaming, red pen, bought for the occasion, remained motionless in his hand. Around him the sniggering had died down, replaced by the sound of concentration and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. In front of each writer, a pebble evoking memories of carefree days at the beach, sunshine, laughter; the nadir of the prevailing seriousness. His pen touched paper, jumping down the side of the page forming the letters C A D U Q U E S. He began filling in the lines of an acrostic when he noticed her eyes settle on him, their sparkle offering a thousand excuses, all the time seeking absolution for the guilt brought about by chance. His smile returned, he managed to pluck up courage enough to mouth the words:

"How about a quiet drink together after class?"

This morning Jodi published an interesting writing exercise on the Write Anything blog. Here's my attempt to do it justice.

A glimmer of sun broke through the gloom of the drizzle as Ron rounded the corner; fourteen years and not a word from Mum or Dad. The sound of the train pulling out of the station slowly reached his ears. He raised his eyes seeking out the slightest hint of a once familiar rainbow over the family abode; the one he had not called home since the day of the announcement - the cries and the slamming still made him shudder. There it stood in all its splendour but as the rejuvenated sunlight slowly caressed its façade, he realised how much that splendour had succumbed to impinging time and ebbing attention.

A familiar vibration in his pocket: he flicked open his shiny, new cellphone and smiled. A second train rolled through the station - the express down from Swansea: it didn't stop. He glanced up and shivered... still no rainbow; where was he to get the courage from, not even Jan's words had helped.

He propped himself up against the oak tree half way up the road and his fingers began moving furiously. His tongue soon found its way through the pursed lips, much like the train emerging from the tunnel. With one short stab he hit the reply button: