What came first- the chickens or the blog?

How Did I Get Here?

For Blogging 101 class the challenge on Day 2 Today, choose a place to which you’d like to be transported if you could — and tell us the backstory. How does this specific location affect you? Is it somewhere you’ve been, luring you with the power of nostalgia, or a place you’re aching to explore for the first time?

Today’s twist: organize your post around the description of a setting.

Finally the path curves away from the sea, out of the off shore wind which buffeted my body with sea spray and sand for the past 9 km. The kindly marshall wrapped up in his high viz jacket cheers me on. Not far to go now! I start climbing the long steep hill, fired up with the thought of crossing the finish line, passing women struggling to move at faster than walking pace.
It’s damp underfoot, the grass is slippery , my legs are tired, but it’s a good tired. I’m know they will keep going to the end. The rain has stopped now, though it’s still cold and grey for a so called summer’s evening at the end of May.
My playlist shuffles to “Happy” by Pharrell Williams, one of my favourites. Unbelievably I find the breath to start singing. I am happy. I am running.
I am passing other Lycra clad women of all shapes, ages and sizes. Some like myself have red boiled faces, ratty pony tails – the running mongrels; others look like they have just come from the salon, cool, sleek pedigree greyhounds with washboard stomachs.
One thing in common, we all started, and are almost at the end.
At the crest of the hill the finish line comes into view. An unimpressive inflatable black arch.
Just a few more strides. It’s squishy, from the sweat and tears of those who finished before me I wonder?
If this was a movie there would be a swelling orchestral theme, but here there is the bass thump from a poor PA system. In the movie of my life a smiling official would place an enormous medal round my neck and present me with a bouquet and champagne.
Instead I am handed a banana. I see the proud faces of husband, son, friend, dog. To be here, on this night, at this place, in this moment is reward enough. I’m smiling. I’m sweating. I hurt. But it feels good.
I’m there. I’ve done it. I cross the line. Past my self doubt. Past my shin splints. Way beyond my self conscious child bearing body. Leaving my inner voices laughing at my efforts far, far behind.
9 weeks from zero to 10km.


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Today’s blog post is a challenge from The Daily Post to write a story on what inspires you to write, in just 50 words.
This won’t take long.Enjoy!

Years ago, before committing words to paper, she chewed pencils, made shapes from clouds, tidied her room, paired socks.
Now the screen is wiped of prints, wiped again, battery checked. Clouds roll on by.
A feather drifts gently through the open window and lands beside her.
So it begins.


read more about this challenge here


Antique Antics

this blog post is written in response to The Daily Post’s blog challenge on writing about the oldest object in your house, from its point of view link to daily prompt on WordPress

Where once I was carried and cuddled, cherished and beloved, I was almost consigned to a bag in the far corner of the attic, banished, cast out, a creature of shame.
Back in 1969 I was stitched with love, red, blue, black, a jaunty bow tie, tail coat and a cheery smile; a gift for a four year old girl, made by her mother, the gentle click of knitting needles soothing the child growing within her, a longed for second child, a brother to the freckled, pig tailed, eager future big sister.
I was to become her companion, firstly as her mother disappeared quickly in the night as the pains of birth grew strong. Proudly brought to hospital to meet the wrinkled brother, I became more of a playmate than this useless squealing boy, my long knitted limbs climbing trees, tied to scooters, always off on adventures and picnics.
I had a second exciting trip to hospital, bringing comfort as the ache of tonsillectomy went undiminished by ice cream and jelly.
As she grew my smiling face and jolly clothes always brought a smile. Stabilisers came off and my soft stuffed limbs shook in the bicycle basket. I was a friend. I was loved. I belonged.
When my seams spilt my creator quickly sewed me up for my absence was noted. I was refilled and once my happy smile underwent a speedy repair.
The brother grew, and another came along. There were other toys, teddies, dolls, space hoppers, etch a sketch, Mastermind, Rubik’s Cubes, but my girl remained faithful to me.
Over time though, something changed. Not her, but those around her. The world turned and suddenly almost overnight I was banished from the street, hidden upstairs, out of sight, no longer welcome. People began to talk. My smiling jolly face was racist, reviled, contentious.
But her love remained. I sat quietly upstairs, where other toys were dispatched, thrown away, replaced by posters of pop idols, make up and white stilettos, I watched and waited as she met a boy, fell in love, got married.
As she packed to leave home she shook the dust from my curly black hair and gently placed me with her most precious things. She remembered my arrival, the curve of her mother’s full belly, my reassuring smile and soft hugs. And all the years in between.
And so I found a new home. And discovered that this new smiling man in her life also had a lifelong special companion who looked just like me. His stuffing may have long since disappeared but we are a match made in heaven it seems.
24 years, four sons, two dogs and three hens later, we are together, still smiling.