So I Thought I could write a novel...... in a month.......Today's N.P.C.....

Perhaps I COULD have - if I'd been chained up in a windowless cellar with a packet of biro pens and limitless paper, no biscuits and nothing else to do.  As it is, or was.....here is the scientific proof that I haven't.  Viz. my Novel Progress Chart, or NPC, covering the last month.....
Today I managed to plan the 'structure'.  I have no plot, just a 'structure'. And I've identified some of the characters about whom I might be able to summon the enthusiasm to write.  Or something.  Whatever...

Today's Novel Progress Chart, or N.P.C. - like cheese ripening in a cellar.

My novel progress chart, or N.P.C.

Looks good, don' it?  I bin workin' so-o-o-o harrrdddd..............
It's maturing deep inside my brain, like cheese ripening in a dank cellar.  The kind of cheese that you have to smoke and soak in alcohol in order for it to reach its full potential.
The kind of cheese that has mould running through it; it's not 'bad' mould though, it's a good, healthy mould formed by a special kind of bacteria called Glaxius Smithius Kleinius, which holds the cure for all known ills.  Including rabies, psychopathy, ebola and morbid obesity.  Probably.
I have done some work on three short stories which I've had on Word for about two years.  I think I might finish one of them this week.  If the weather remains as bad as it is...

In the meantime, please have a look at the shop I opened on Etsy.  It has examples of Barry's work (that's the Barry who did all the artwork for the Seapenguin e-books) including postcards of the original Seapenguin picture for just £2.  More on the way.  https://www.etsy.com/uk/shop/BlueCoracle?ref=hdr_shop_menu

Find all five of my e-books here http://www.amazon.co.uk/Kate-Smart/e/B008MFK3NE/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1407855670&sr=8-1

Whinge of the Week - Beans with a Cooked Breakfast, and face furniture

'I thought I was on to a winner Tuppy.  I thought for sure that I'd win the Whingers Anonymous Whinge of the Week prize hamper last night, but nobody agrees with me.  I was shouted down! Most people seem to enjoy beans and I simply can't understand it.  I feel like a stranger in my own country Tuppy!  Is it a new-fangled thing Tuppy, this beans with breakfast carry-on?'
I sighed heavily, and glared at Geoffrey through my brand-spanking-new 2-for-1-from-Spec-Spenders 'pince nez' before removing them and warming to my theme.  The heavy sigh was just an act by the way, breakfast being one of my favourite subjects.  Especially if it's freshly-cooked by someone who knows what they're doing and I'm starving and about to tuck in.  And the glare was the same - an affectation affected to draw attention to my new affectation, or 'face-furniture' - wire-rimmed 'pince nez'.
It's just a shame that some people don't appreciate style when they see it.
'I like your new half-moon specks Mr Tuppenceworth!' shrilled Chelsy, the Fulmars' three year old great-great-great-great-grand-daughter as she gambolled across their vile new decking and I tottered past along the cliffs yesterday on my way to throw the rubbish over.
'They're not half-moon specks,  you midget philistine,' I snarled,'They're 'pince-fucking-nez.'  And she ran back inside, screaming for help.
I think we can expect a rather tiresome visit from the Fulmars, later. Anyway - back to the beans with cooked breakfast topic.
'Yes Geoffrey.  It is new-fangled and not traditional by anyone's standards, no matter how low these standards happen to be. In fact, it's an indication of the preternaturally prehensile strength of the grasp of the shoddy processed foods hegemony-style-thing which has its roots deep, deep down in the blackest depths, or indeed 'bowels', of the mid-20th century and whose relentless tendrils stretch right out into the furthest reaches of the Andromeda nebula, and beyond. A traditional full-cooked involves the following, and only the following: a nicely-fried egg, with yolk showing, two rashers of grilled back bacon, one proper sausage, grilled (and none of your cheap rubbish), a grilled slice of black pudding (optional), a grilled tomato (if in season) , and half a slice of non-greasy fried bread.  Needless to add this must all be served piping-hot, on a properly-warmed, white-glazed breakfast plate. This should be preceded by something lightly citrus-y such as a small glass of fresh orange juice or half a fresh grapefruit, and accompanied by a large pot of well-brewed tea and a rack of toast, with real butter and home-made marmalade or perhaps honey.  A freshly-laundered damask napkin should be folded neatly in four and laid on the side-plate with a side-knife placed carefully on top and condiments to hand. By condiments I mean salt and pepper.  No red or brown sauce and beans certainly don't come into the proceedings at any juncture.  They're messy, and spoil the whole aesthetic.'


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TONITE - at the debating society (or DebSoc).....

Not content with Whingers Anonymous,  Geoffrey's joined the local Debating Society, or DebSoc.. 'Any excuse for a gossip and a cuppy,  Tuppy!'  he enthused.  I was forced to tread heavily on his foot in order to relieve the pressure of my feelings, viz. an intolerably horrible melange of revulsion, frustration and disgust.

Tonite's topic is, apparently, 'Softly softly catchee monkee.  WTF does it mean,  and is it not a bit racist?'

'What do you think,  Tuppy?' shouted Geoffrey, as he smashed up some bourbon biscuits with a rolling pin for the base of a no-bake tiramisu.

'I don't know, and yes, probably,' I replied, placing today's free 'Rocky Outcrop' newsletter over my face as I prepared for a snooze. 'I hope those bourbons aren't the stale ones that you left out overnight by the way.'

'They are Tuppy, but you'll never notice due to them being soaked in a hundred and fifty per cent alcohol.'

'Really?  Where did you get that?' I said,  opening one eye and wondering whether it might be worth not having a snooze after all.  Perhaps there might be something more interesting to do, although past experience made me doubt it.

'The rats have started a new Still up on the moors.  At the Old Quarry.  They're giving away free samples.  Free samples Tuppy!'

'Right Geoffrey.  Put that rolling pin down, and fetch your coat. The one with the huge pockets.'

'Can we come too?' begged the underpants. 'We don't like to be on our own.  We might Do Something to Ourselves...and it would be All Your Fault....'

'No!  get back in the woodshed please.'  Geoffrey and I exchanged glances in our usual covert manner. We'd have to get a bigger padlock...and perhaps a flamethrower...

next time....the underpants effect an escape, and we decide to raid the illicit Still... 

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The Frankenstein Pants

'These aren't biscuits.  They're Rich Teas.'
I didn't want to be rude (yet), so I spoke quietly and calmly.  Then I placed the packet, or what remained of it after it had been stuck inside the underpants' back pocket while the Tupfinder General was wearing them, carefully on the games table.
I sat back and folded my arms. 'Well?'
'Well what?'
'Well, what else have you got?  You said you had biscuits.'
'R-rich teas.  They are biscuits.  It says so on the packet - look.  R-rich Tea BISCUITS.' The underpants were nervous, I could tell by the tremor in their voice and the way their legs were twitching as they sat on the edge of the settee.  I decided to press my point.
'A biscuit is only a biscuit if you can dunk it. FACT. You cannot dunk a Rich Tea.  Geoffrey - put the kettle on.  Three teas, extra strong with plenty sugar.  And bring the Hobnobs.  Let's do a comparison test.'
'Plain or chocolate?'
'Do I really need to answer that?'
'O I like a plain Hobnob,' enthused the underpants.  I could tell they were trying to find common ground, and connect with my better side.  Little did they know I don't have one.
'You'll never fit in round here,' I said. 'Rich Teas and plain Hobnobs?  We're on different planets. Next you'll be saying you don't like fishfinger sandwiches. You might as well go back to wherever you came from - oh!  it was the Narks, wasn't it?'
'Yes.  As you already know, Val Nark created us from cloth made from thistles and nettles.  She wove us on a loom that Dave made from salvaged timber and stitched us together with thread made from more thistles and nettles.  But she went too far in her quest to produce an everlasting and 100% eco-friendly product.  She made us strong  - but it was the wrong type of strong.  She gave us prehensile strength, and we couldn't cope with it, psychologically.  We've become clingy and needy. In fact, we're emotional leeches, and we can't stop ourselves from 'acting out' by refusing to be removed whenever someone wears us.  Can we stay?  PLEASE?  Don't send us back to the Narks' minimart-cum-farmshop-cum-postoffice.  We'll feel safe here because we know you don't wear underpants. You'll be saving us from ourselves and doing the world a favour.'
'All right. You can live in the woodshed.'
'Will you teach us to read and write so we can tell our story to the world?'
'No.'

The Lark Ascending - Ralph Vaughan Williams

Today's N.P.C. (Novel Progress Chart)

Novel Progress Chart, or N.P.C.

Flat-lining again.    Does thinking about it count?  No, didn't think so.  Ah well....

The Prehensile Underpants, and the Tale of Uncle Funkle's Cirumnavigation of the Wintry Isles

'They're clinging on lads!  I can't get them off!'

'Of course you can't.  They have a mind of their own.  They have preternaturally strong hands that can grip preternaturally strongly - that's what preternatural prehensile strength means...' I snapped, before going back to my paper.  I didn't really know what I was talking about, but I didn't care.  I had not a shred of sympathy for the T-G and his underpants problem.  Serve him right for encouraging Val Nark by buying her latest 'wares'. 'Look Geoffrey - it says here they're building a community centre up at the tourist car park. What a sodding nightmare that will be.'

'Yes Val mentioned that last week when I booked us into her Positive Mind, Positive whatsit class.  She's going to be in charge.'

'You what?  Why ever didn't you tell me?'

'I thought you wouldn't be interested.  You don't like that kind of thing.  You're not community minded.'

'Who says?'

'Everybody. You as well now I come to think of it.  You don't like village life.  You think it's claustrophobic and unhealthy and full of nosey-parkers and crass bores who like being big fish in small ponds.  You say it every time you look out of the window to see what's going on.'

'Val Nark's got a finger in every pie that's going,'  I replied briskly, folding the paper and placing it on the packing case that served us (very well, as it happens) as a table.  'And it's the community-minded types among us who have to put a stop to her appalling megalomania.  I should oil these,' I added, picking up one of my several pairs of high-powered binoculars and polishing the lenses on my dressing-gown sleeve.

'Excuse me for interrupting,'  interrupted the T-G, 'But can you two stop gossiping about the community centre - which I fully intend to torch by the way, so do stop fretting Tuppy - and help me get these dreadful underpants OFF MY BODY?!  I need to go to the toilet rather urgently.  In fact I've been needing since half past three this morning.'

'Fetch the blowtorch Geoffrey,' I said, relenting. 'Let's see what we can do.'

'Rightyoh.'

*EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKKKKKKKK!!!!!!!!!*

The Underpants

The underpants emitted an earsplitting shriek.  'Leave us be!  We're not doing anyone any harm!'

'Yes you are.  I need to go to the jiminy-cricketing toilet.  My late uncle Funkle became faecally impacted after spending three weeks in an open boat when he was circumnavigating the Wintry Isles.  I've never forgotten the horror of what he told me.  I had nightmares for years I tell you.  Years.  And it isn't going to happen to me. Get off me.'

'You only had to ask,' huffed the underpants, sliding to the floor. 'Hi everyone!  Pleased to meet you!  Can we stay?  We've got biscuits.'

next time - the underpants move in, and refuse to move out until they hear the Wintry Tale of Uncle Funkle....

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Today's Novel Progress Chart, or 'N.P.C.'

Today's N.P.C.

Flatlining.  Might get some done later.  In the middle of trying to organise money so that I can survive while writing a novel.  It's an ever-decreasing circle.

My Novel Progress Chart, or 'N.P.C.'

Like Mrs T-G I have also started writing a novel, and after a bit of thinking and wondering I've now got a plan and a pattern for it, which appeals to me, and which doesn't feel too daunting. Unlike Mrs T-G, I don't live in Tupfinder Towers in a magical world where 'munny' is not required, so I'm not able to lock myself away in an 'upper room', and I have to earn to survive at the same time, which is an absolute pain in the neck to be honest.  However.  I don't want to live in a tent eating berries by the roadside, so I'll just have to shut up and get on with it.
I'll chart my progress along the way.

The Underpants that Can't be Destroyed

Geoffrey's 'special ornament'

We had a visit from the Tupfinder General last night.  He had a terrible case of the jitters. He was twitching so much that at one point he accidentally fired off a round from his sawn-off shotgun and smashed Geoffrey's 'special ornament' - a ceramic boot which he brought back as a keep-sake from a holiday in Kyle of Lochalsh in 1974, and which has been gathering dust on the mantlepiece ever since.
'I'm sure it will mend as good as new Geoffrey,'  I soothed. 'Fetch the superglue. I'm sure we've still got some left in the Box of Useful Stuff under the sink, from when we managed to fix the lavatory seat.  I was keeping it specially for emergencies in case I had to glue someone's mouth shut.  But your 'special ornament' takes precedence, and we can always get more.  By someone, I don't mean you, of course.'
'Why are you being so kind to me Tuppy?  It isn't like you.'
'I don't know.'  It was true.  I didn't know, and it wasn't like me.  In fact, it was quite alarming.  But I'd think about that later.  In the meantime, we had the raving Tupfinder General to deal with.
Apparently,  Mrs T-G started writing a 'novel' yesterday morning, and is refusing to do any of her usual 'household activities' until she's written it.
'I'm going demented Tuppy!' he raved, 'She's locked herself in the upper room and she won't come out till it's done, and mark my words it'll take sodding YEARS for her to finish it. She can't even write a shopping list without consulting a thesaurus at least fifteen times.  I'm even having to make my own tea!  And I can't find my best socks. The stripey ones with no holes in. I've no clean underpants left and I don't know how to work the washing machine, and we've run out of biscuits and that blue stuff that she puts down the toilet.  What am I going to do?'
'Oh I wouldn't worry about your underpants T-G,' I began.
'We wear ours till they go crusty don't we Tuppy?' interrupted Geoffrey. 'And then we turn them inside out.  After that, they disintegrate.  In fact, we're rather needing new underpants ourselves, aren't we Tuppy? Would you like one of our biscuits, T-G? We've got loads.'
The T-G sighed and sat down on the squashiest part of the settee.
Just then, Razor Bill arrived with the post.  'Can't stop lads,' he said,'I'm doing a leaflet drop for the Narks. Val's giving me a week's supply of flapjacks if I get it done before lunch.'
I picked up the leaflet. 'Hmm.  Look, T-G.  This just might solve your problem...'
'What is it, Tuppy?' asked Geoffrey, peering over my shoulder.
'Val Nark's started a new line in her shop.  She's selling indestructible underpants.  She's making them herself and weaving them out of nettle fibres and thistles.  Apparently, they're indestructible due to their - and I quote - 'PRETERNATURAL PREHENSILE STRENGTH'. Good grief.'
'They sound like just the very dab!' said the T-G, leaping to his feet (or foot). 'I'm off up to the Narks to get a pair.'

Later - Geoffrey admits that he believes a 'thesaurus' is a type of prehistoric dinosaur-style monster, and the T-G models his new underpants...and encounters a not-entirely-unpredictable problem......

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Whinge of the Week, and the Mysterious Yoyo Wrapper

Geoffrey was the star turn at the ghastly 'Whingers Anonymous Club' last night.  He came home at half past eight, waving his badge and absolutely full of himself.
'Tuppy!  guess what?  I was the star turn with my whinge 'Why oh why must people call Sandwiches Sangwidges'!  They loved it!  They loved ME! I'm getting a hamper and everything!' he enthused for the umpteenth time, twirling and pirouetting round the settee. 'Next week I'm going to whinge about people who call sandwiches sarnies. It's simply intolerable, isn't it Tuppy?  Calling sandwiches sarnies.  It should really be sannie, shouldn't it Tuppy?  I'm right, aren't I Tuppy? They're going to love it - and ME - all over again!  I can't wait!'
'THIS is intolerable Geoffrey.  It's half past twelve in the afternoon and you're still raving on.
 Neither of us has had a wink of sleep, and if you don't shut your pie-hole NOW, I'm going to be
forced to shut it for you.  Now let that be an end to it.'
'An end to what? I'm entitled to enjoy my small successes.  I've little enough in life to enjoy, Tuppy.  I lead an impoverished existence.'
'Who sez that?'
'Val Nark.  She said it.'
'When?  You never mentioned it before, and it's definitely the kind of thing you WOULD mention,
under normal circumstances.'
But this wasn't 'normal circumstances'.  Not by a long stretch.  And we both knew it.  I was still on a health kick, and Geoffrey had gone stark staring bonkers. I sighed heavily, and out of sheer habit, tapped my pipe against the chimney breast.  Three spiders, a screwed up toffee Yoyo wrapper and a shred of tobacco fell out.  I picked up the tobacco and sniffed it longingly.
'Where did that Yoyo wrapper come from?' asked Geoffrey, pausing in mid-pirouette and collapsing - FINALLY! - on the settee.
'It isn't mine.'
'Come off it!  You've been eating chocolate biscuits on one of your five starvation days, haven't you?'
'Shut up Geoffrey, and use what's left of your pea-sized brain.  They haven't made Yoyos since the 1980s.'
'Where did the wrapper come from then?'
'I don't know.'  It was true.  I didn't know.  I picked up the screwed-up foil wrapper, and smoothed it out on my knee. 'Besides, what's a toffee Yoyo wrapper, compared to Val Nark telling you that you lead a so-called 'impoverished existence'?  The total cow.'
'I know, she is isn't she.  She said that last night at the Whingers Anonymous Club.  But I shouldn't tell you that because if people know who attends it won't be Anonymous anymore.  It's all meant to be hush-hush.'
'Nothing's hush-hush Hereabouts Geoffrey, as we know to our cost.  All the neighbours have night vision binoculars and telescopes.'
'I know Tuppy.  I'm glad I've told you now.  I don't like Val.  She always makes me feel bad about myself and I get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I have to spend more than two seconds with her.'
'I feel the same Geoffrey.  Luckily we never have to spend more than one, or indeed any seconds, with her.  So the issue doesn't arise.  It's a moot point or dead in the water or whatever. You know what I mean.'
'Oh I do Tuppy.  Only - '
'What?' My heart sank.
'I've agreed to attend her Positive Body, Positive Mind class on a Friday morning, up in the yurts.  In fact, I've signed us both up for it.  It's only six pounds a week for the two of us Tuppy - we've to wear loose clothing and no shoes....'  he babbled, backing away from me as I seized the poker and flung the Yoyo wrapper furiously into the fire....

Next time - the Yoyo wrapper mystery deepens, and there is an underpants crisis...

Today's Walk - helping a grounded swift

Another very short walk round my local area, due to the aforementioned sore foot.  Just fifty yards or so from my house I found a grounded swift, stranded in the middle of the road.  I don't know how it got there.  Swifts don't land, and it would be rare for them to fly low enough to be hit by a car I think, especially in the high pressure that we have at the moment.
Anyway, I picked it up, and was horrified to see literally dozens of vile parasites crawling and scurrying around beneath it - bad enough seeing them on the ground, but then, loads of the revolting things started swarming out of the swift's feathers and running nimbly up my arm.  I'm not squeamish about insects and I respect all living things, but these are hard things to tolerate.  Flat flies, I believe they are called, and very common on swifts. Difficult to brush them off quickly while holding the bird and trying not to alarm it.  Nevertheless I managed to remove quite a lot of them from both myself and the bird, and I'm fairly sure the swift felt better for it.  (I know I did!)
I carried the swift uphill towards a nearby field, holding it aloft as you see in the photo; the swift began to perk up and take an interest. When I got to the gate at the top of the field I stopped and gently moved my arm forwards.  Luckily, there was a tiny breeze and the swift opened its wings in response and then took off, straight from my hand.  Its fellows were not far away, circling the church spire as usual, and I'm sure it quickly found its family.

Riff of the Day - Smoak on the Wotter

'ER ER ER, ER ER ERER, ER ER ER, ER ER ER  *repeat until your ears bleed, then bring in the drums*

'BOOMBIDDY BOOMBIDDY'  'ER ER ER, ER ER ER ER...' 'Scream loudly, &c.'

Word that doesn't seem like a word of the day - BACON

Perhaps it's just me, but you know when you stare at a word for a while in a certain way and it doesn't seem like that word any more?  THAT.
Bacon is today's word that doesn't seem like that word any more.

B...A...C...O...N

It sounds like a town in Georgia, USA.

I won't call it BACON any more, because it just doesn't feel quite right.  I'll call it the thinly-sliced pink and white stuff in the packet at the bottom of the fridge, that sizzles when you place it under a hot grill or in a frying pan.
Might get an 'old-fashioned' look from the butcher if I go in asking for half-a-pound-of-smoked-that though.
I suppose I can always point.