Sunday Scribblings

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With 101 prompts to choose from I was spoiled for choice! So I decided to use them all. Actually I had 4 left over, but I nearly made it! If you are not a Scribbler, you will wonder what on earth I'm doing here! Just click here to find out! Here goes
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I still remember the DATE. ‘HI, MY NAME IS Charlotte’ she said flicking back her blonde HAIR. ‘Would you like some YUMMY CHOCOLATE?’ It gave me GOOSEBUMPS.

That is the EARLIEST MEMORY I have of my FIRST LOVE. A CRUSH which led to KISSING which became a POWEFUL PASSION, a PHENOMINON.

A MISSPENT YOUTH was to suddenly CHANGE. She was my FORTUNE COOKIE! We were hardly TWO PEAS IN A POD, because she was down from DEEPEST DARKEST London, but she got right under my SKIN. We were like THE TOWN MOUSE AND THE COUNTRY MOUSE. We flew on golden WINGS.

We had such happy HOLIDAY MEMORIES. FELLOW TRAVELLERS on DREAM JOURNEYs to exotic DESTINATIONs across the OCEAN. HOTEL STORIES, struggling with our LUGGAGE, lying on our BED! SPICY BEDTIME STORIES of WICKED FANTASY, very little SLEEP, and hung-over MORNINGs!

We’d DANCE to exotic MUSIC and she’d tread on MY SHOES! Sometimes we’d WALK together, and when it was SLIPPERY I’d CARRY her home. SIMPLE pleasures. It was so GOOD.

She once asked WHY I LIVE WHERE I LIVE. I told her that WHEN WE WERE WEE my Father got a job in a HOSTPITAL. MONEY was the reason for the DECISION. I can still hear him saying ‘ITS NOT MY FIRST JOB, WORST JOB, DREAM JOB’.

We were IN THE KITCHEN one day and she said’ WHAT WOULD YOU ATTEMPT IF YOU KNEW YOU WOULDN’T FAIL?’ I told her about the BOOKS I WOULD WRITE. I wanted to write about my HERO, my NEMESIS. WRITING about MONSTERs. CHRONICLES of REAL LIFE and MYSTERY stories. But I told her I WOULD NEVER WRITE. I remember saying 'I HAVE AN IDEA but I lack INSPIRATION’. I’m not one for SUPERSTITION. When I’m asked ‘WHAT’S YOUR SIGN’ I say ‘open’. Those THREE WISHES are not going to come my way!

One day she suddenly said’ I HAVE A SECRET. A SECRET IDENTITY’ I could tell she was TROUBLED. She told me she wore many MASKS. Her life jumped LEFT AND RIGHT. She had other boyfriends. She described herself as having a COLLECTOR PERSONALITY as if she was a compulsive THEIF. It was ROOTED in her. But she begged me to give her A SECOND CHANCE. I said it was THE END; I wanted no part in a COMPETITION. But I hate GOODBYES. It’s at times like that I GET THAT SINKING FEELING.

I read IN THE NEWS about a TIME MACHINE. I wanted to know about THE EXPERIMENT because NOW AND THEN I need to know WHO ELSE I COULD STILL BE and WHO ELSE MIGHT I HAVE BEEN?

It would be good IF I COULD STOP TIME too. I DON’T WANT TO BE A PASSENGER IN MY OWN LIFE and I don’t take kindly to being given INSTRUCTIONS. No-one will FOUL it up for me. I just want to wallow in my ECCENTRICITY and chill in my own FRIDGE SPACE!

So DEAR DIARY, that’s my TWO CENTS WORTH!
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Actually, the prompt 'In the Kitchen' caught my eye, so I wrote this too.'


In the kitchen I am King! King of all I survey. The kitchen is my empire, my territory, my domain.

I spend hour upon hour in the kitchen. Once I change into my pristine white uniform I am top dog, master and mentor.

People come and go. Butchers, greengrocers, fishmongers and poachers. In the kitchen I conduct my business, I weal and deal, I pass cash under the counter!

I have helpers in the kitchen. Some cook, some clean, some peel and chop, and one washes the pots.

The kitchen is my consulting room, my advice centre, my surgery. I witness teenage angst, I advise on relationships, I stick blue plasters on cuts and gashes and I proffer a friendly ear to lost souls who have nowhere else to turn.

The kitchen is my studio, my workshop and my laboratory. There I design, experiment, create and sometimes caramelise! Ok, burn. In the kitchen I am surrounded by cookery books, hastily written recipes and copies of old menus.

The kitchen is where I receive orders from my hungry customers. Waitresses bring me little pieces of paper containing their orders. Some scribbled, some wordy and many illegible.

In minutes the kitchen table is groaning with platters of steaming food, each one a product of my passion for all things gastronomic.

At the end of service, I stand back, look around and tell myself how lucky I am to work in the kitchen.

Then I close the door behind me, and with the sound of the day still ringing in my ears, I thank God it’s all over until tomorrow when I’ll have to bloody well do it all over again!
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