Womblin’s World

Hi Everyone,

Please add your voices to the growing number of outraged young people and adults who are campaigning to have ultra-sonic ‘dispersal’ devices outlawed. Details are below, as is a web-link to the Buzz Off website and also a link straight through to a government petition asking the Prime Minister to outlaw these discriminatory devices.

http://petitions.pm.gov.uk/Mosquito-Ban/

http://www.pageflakes.com/buzzoffcampaign

Thank you,

Diane.

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Makers and users of ultra-sonic dispersal devices are being told to “Buzz Off” today by campaigners who say the devise, which emits a high-pitched sound that targets under 25 year olds, is not a fair or reasonable solution for tackling anti-social behaviour.

The campaign spearheaded by young people supported by the Children’s Commissioner for England, Liberty and the National Youth Agency is calling for the end to the use of ultra-sonic dispersal devise.

There are estimated to be 3,500 used across the country.

The BUZZ OFF campaign will be driven by young people who have been affected by the device and will aim to provoke debate and thought amongst parents, government, businesses, the police and others about the increasingly negative way society views and deals with children and young people.

We will be asking children and young people from all over the country to get in touch with us to tell us if they have been affected by ultra-sonic dispersal devices and what they think of them and the way society treats them. We will also be working with those businesses, local authorities, politicians and other professionals to explore more appropriate ways of tackling anti-social behaviour.

For the latest updates and blog, visit the Buzz Off campaign website

Click here to read the full press release.

If you have something to say or want to pledge your support. Get in touch!

Email us at BUZZ.OFF@11MILLION.org.uk  Phone us on 08448009113

Write to us at BUZZ OFF Campaign c/o 11 MILLION 1 London Bridge London SE1 9BG And please keep checking this website for further updates.

Find out more about the NYA by clicking here www.nya.org.uk  and Liberty by clicking here http://www.liberty-human-rights.org.uk

With reference to my feelings on Battery Hen welfare, posted last September here I now bring you some pretty good news following a week of celebrity chef documentaries on chickens and chicken farming. Helmanns, who make the UK’s best loved mayonnaise, have announced that they will be introducing a free range line. At bloody last.

Meanwhile, my favourite Etonian, Hugh-Fearnley-Whittingstall, has been battling it out on the intensively farmed chicken meat bird front. And doing quite well too, I’ll have you know.

Support him please. It doesn’t take much, just a read of his site and a virtual signature. Animal welfare must come first. If you can’t afford free range chicken, then eat pulses instead–they are a lot cheaper than even the cheapest bird.

Sign up here

Thank you.

…Is the question asked on the BBC Magazine website. So, do we? I have to admit that I like to learn something new when reading a novel, even if it’s only a description, a scene being set of a place I’ve never been. There’s nothing like it, being inside someone else’s head. And that’s something that all the movie-watching, gaming and newspaper-reading in the universe could never give us in a million years. Reading is a form of telepathy and I believe it helps develop true empathy.

So no, you don’t need books to be clever at all. But books can help make us more human.

I am reading eight (count ‘em) EIGHT drafts as well as writing my own novel for National Novel Writing Month. Good thing I don’t have to critique them too, or add detailed comments about why I am enjoying them so much — I do like to sleep a little bit of a night time.

This year is the first time I’ve attempted NaNo, and while it’s really for those who haven’t yet written a novel, I felt I needed to boost my raw-draft output having concentrated on editing for much of the last twelve months. There isn’t much of this year left to go, you see, and because I have written, without fail, one full novel every year since 2002, I was getting a little nervous about 2007’s effort.

Anyway, Great Aunt Ida’s Revenge (a weird mainstream story, sorry horror folk) was drafted in a little over six weeks last year, so I’ve decided to step away from Llanvale, my fictional horror setting, and draft a quick and dirty sequel before the year’s end. Enter Stanley, my hapless teen, as he contemplates life without some much-needed nooky.

Excerpt
Great Aunt Ida’s Impossible Return

I own a condom called Tim. He’s been in my wallet now for one year, five months, fourteen days and around about ten or eleven hours. Not too sure about the minutes though (I’m not that anal). He’s nothing special really, neither ribbed nor bumpy with no tiny packets of tingly goo to make the experience extra special, nor does he taste or smell of aniseed or strawberry (as far as I know). He’s just a normal straight up and down kind of guy with no frills. Come to think about it, Tim’s probably the most boring prophylactic in the entire universe. But I love him. I bloody must do because I just can’t give him up. He sits in my wallet, day after day in the dark, living in hope of being allowed his leave, of discharging his god-given destiny, while I live in terror of exactly the same.

Gawd, Natalie.

While I checked out the kitchen cupboards for food, I decided I’d call around her house later on that day. I’d come clean and just admit to being a little nervous about the whole thing. She’d take pity on me, surely, then leave me alone for a bit in the nooky department. Perhaps I could appease her by asking her to help redecorate mum and Uncle Mick’s bedroom in the house. She could choose the colours. Yeah, she’d like that. Women did.

Breakfast turned out to be a cup of tea, a dubious looking banana from the fridge, and was disturbed by a couple of Uncle Mick’s ex-colleagues who looked more shifty that any pair of criminals I’d ever seen as they stood on the doorstep. They wanted to know if I knew anything about the grave robbery. I said no, I’d been away. They asked if I knew anyone who’d want to upset our family. I said yes. Two pairs of eyebrows shot up and two pairs of eyes beneath gleamed with a blood-lust I’d only ever seen in the eyes of Mick when he was after me with Doris, his peacekeeper truncheon type-thing.

“Who?” the stouter of the two wanted to know.

“Oh, just about any criminal put away by my uncle over the last twenty years,” I told him.

The eyebrows dropped down to sit back at-ready and the pair tried hard to hide their disappointment. “Ah well…yes. If you hear of anything?”

I nodded. “Yup.”

“Thanks, son.”

I sighed. “No problem.”

I shut the door and went to check my email. There was one from Pete, nothing from Nat. I sighed again and opened Pete’s message.

“DUDE!” God, he even wrote that way too. “I’m BACK in HELL (ThisTown) for a couple of weeks before going off to WAIT FOR IT………. CARNEGIE HALL in MANHATTAN at a teaching event thing in the recital hall. Shit, Stan-me-man, my balls are busting for this. I’m on my waaaaaaaaaaaaay……..!”

Just take a look at this.

Scientists have ‘discovered’ that neatness stymies creativity.

Blinks.

Scientists have ‘discovered’ the right side of the brain, it seems.

Crikey, I could have told these highly-paid people that messy is good when it comes to creativity, that one should allow the muse its way with the person doing the creating. And it’s a ‘place’ we all strive to be, isn’t it, inside that creative trance? A place that has in many cases been ‘educated’ out of us.

Sigh.

I could have told them all this and more.

I wonder how much their grant was?

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I’m not much of a one for writing short stories, but once in a while the world thrusts one at me and demands it be told. (I call these the Tales From Yr am Bythau, but that’s another post, not for today). The more recent of these demands was made of me two weeks ago when, walking by the river in a local country park, I heard in my mind a woman speaking with a low and lovely Irish lilt about the river, the sounds, sights and magical conjuring it brought forth. This dark-haired beauty was not, however, speaking to me. For some small but never-the-less important reason known only to the Universe and her minions, I knew without a whisper of doubt that she was talking to none other than The Greatest Guitar Player in the World.

My muse, it must be said, is male and so explains some of my writings. Mostly, I just shake my head and just keep thrashing the old keyboard.

What does this have to do with dead people who sing, you want to know? Well bear with me, all will become clear soon enough.

My female character collects river-worn fragments of glass, and is telling my protagonist all about the numerous qualities of such treasure (he is unimpressed, of course). Thick glass is old and blue glass is rare — probably a poison bottle at one time — a rare something to be found, just waiting to be discovered.

Well last week, for one reason or another, I didn’t get down to the river as I usually do on a Wednesday, but I did today. I walked again in the place where my story is set, and remembered that there is now an altogether different tale being told there — a tale from reality.

Last week, a woman was found drowned at ‘my’ bend in the river, washed up where my lovely Irish spryte collects her pretty glass. The woman was a suicide, apparently, and had decided to wash away her tears in my river’s flowing waters. I can’t, quite frankly, think of a more beautiful place to die, but lament that a setting such as that, one so very gorgeous, could not sway her away from her ghastly, sorrowful mission.

I wondered which eddy she drifted into, waiting to be found, as I wandered along the banks there. I scanned the shaded banks where the waters run slow, but deep and listened to the river’s song as it met with the shallows further on. The banks were utterly clear of glass today, unusual, because there has been quite a bit of rain over the last few days, enough to put the river level up and to bring in fresh spoils from upstream.

But wait.

I had arrived at a spot in which I highly suspected the river may have rested her tragic load, a small inlet where the water seemed to stop completely to lap out a rhythm on the pebbled beach. And there at my feet lay a piece of glass — a piece of rare, blue, glass.

Sometimes the river is quiet. Sometimes she sings. Today I like to believe that a new voice has joined with hers, and that the woman who added that voice and tears to those beautiful waters is at last at some kind of peace.

~~~~

I’ve got the full quote of the line from Aliens:

“We’d better get back ’cause it’ll be dark soon, and they mostly come at night… mostly. ”

Newt, a little girl, is the sole survivor on a planet of human settlers that has been ravaged by the aliens. Very spooky in context. But lose that context and what have we got? Let’s break it down.

We have a ‘they’. This is, of course, quite ambiguous and gets our minds racing: Who or what is ‘they’? They could be supernatural creatures, they could be human or animal. Because of the night-time reference, it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to imagine ‘they’ might even be vampires. That the monster was, as a matter of fact, one of the most terrible imagined (for its time) is neither here nor there. The implication is that these guys come at night — when humans are always vulnerable — and that they are really very bad news.

The ‘mostly’ fills us with an unexplained dread, too. Not only do we have an unimaginable terror running around in the dark that we must, simply must, hide from, that terror could actually come in the day-time too. No vampire, this, eh?

That’s my take, anyway. Discussion always welcome.

I was thinking of what a fellow writer said to me, too, about thrillers needing that horror kick. Indeed, the thriller kick is nearly always something that could have, or has, happened in reality: the serial killer’s history; the torturer’s den; the stalking of another. Which brings to mind the opening line of the first novel I ever wrote, Razor. Though I classify the novel as a dark fantasy/horror, my beta readers always assumed it was a thriller until half-way through the opening chapter. Here’s the line:

“Raul watched the man who watched the children.”

So, your turn now — why is it scary?

…Or not, as the case may be.

Horror can be a gentle and long build-up to climax incorporating atmosphere and emotion along with story details we already know — or it can be contained in only a single line of sense-exciting prose. I like those mono-scenes that say and do so much to make us shiver or shudder or at the very least draw an “eeeeewwwwww” from our lips in so few words. So let’s try some. And yes, this IS an invitation:

Write or quote a SINGLE sentence in which the very essence of horror is embodied.

In the interest of education, I believe we are allowed to post small excerpts from published works and films…? If anyone disagrees, please let me know and I shall remove said excerpts. I would, of course, like to discuss each line accordingly, for its merits and value — how exactly it gives over that horror kick, and how strong the reaction. Let’s try to use quotes that don’t need context. Do they fail because of that lack of setting, history, etc? Which are scarier, the one’s which make us say “eeeewww” or otherwise. How can we use this knowledge to help with our horror/dark fant writings?

And I’d like to post up some originals too. Email me with ideas, etc: womblinATwomblin.com

How about this one to start with, from a movie: Aliens — “They mostly come at night. Mostly.”

Mwhahahahaaa…

~~~~

I am annoyed. Very much so.

I know this is old news, but since Sir Ian McKellen has said that it’s looking more and more likely that he will play Gandalf again for The Hobbit, I feel the subject needs to be re-addressed.

Peter Jackson successfully brought Middle Earth alive and into the homes/minds of many people who had never read Tolkien’s trilogy before his film adaptations were screened. Many of these people did not choose reading as a favoured pastime, or indeed never chose it as a pastime at all. Peter took the story and flew. That he loves the trilogy, the whole ethos of Middle Earth, cannot be disputed. That he was able to take this adored tale and make it as brilliantly real as he did is astounding. That New Line Cinema’s greed is keeping this director from finishing the whole series (it was said that there was to be a Lord of the Rings prequel, too) is disgusting.

What can we do except despair? This:

Sign The Jackson/Hobbit Petition

I can’t believe there are so few signatures. COME ON, EVERYONE — SIGN! It won’t take any more than two minutes of your time.

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For those of you who neither know nor care that I used to haunt the canals of Britain in a narrowboat, please don’t bother reading this. Anyone who does boat, or is interested, this is a rant. Be warned.

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Is it one, two…three or more? Boats, I mean, going through lift bridges. How many is enough before one of the steerers takes the initiative and asks that person standing with her daughter and her push bike if she’d like to cross the bridge? How long should a person be reasonably expected to wait? Should boaters have to wait for pedestrians, or even (gasp) vehicles to cross said bridge before they take a turn? Yes, take a turn.

I’m not asking that every boat’s crew should lower the bridge after them if another boat can make use of that open bridge, I’m asking for a little less of the blinkered view of boaters I find happening on the canal running through my village. They don’t seem to see anything past that narrow ribbon of water sometimes, as proved by the man who did come back to lower the bridge today so that we could cross, but under utter protest. “Well I didn’t know you were waiting to cross,” he said. Okay, so we’re standing there alongside a very long and straight stretch of canal while four boats have gone through, my daughter very obviously poised to go over on her bike, but do we get preference? Are we even asked if we’d like to cross? No, we are unnoticed, not on the boater’s radar, we are less important. When I say something I am told, “Well, there’s a footbridge there.”

Sigh.

Does this help the pensioner I saw waiting in disbelief a few weeks back as boat after boat motored past him with not a wit of politeness from those on the back decks? Does it, indeed, help the people who need to cross in their cars in order to get up onto the main road from their houses down in the valley?

And when I’m told by these people that all kinds of people hang around bridges, so how were they to know…when I’m shouted at by two females on the same boat after I cross who obviously couldn’t care less about anyone not on a boat, then I despair and vow never to return to live and work on the canals as I once did.

Yes, thirteen years living and working on the cut — not just holidaying once or twice a year — give me a little authority on the subject. Perhaps thirteen years is no time at all, eh? So I ask again, boaters… exactly how many is enough?