Contents of a Creative Juice Box
Don't you just hate it when you spend ages writing something for your blog. You check for typos grammar and missed words. Content and format sorted, all ready to go ... push the Publish button and WHOOSH ... it disappears into the ether never to be seen again! Well that happened to me yesterday. I was not happy. I did check to see if I could find the missing scribbled piece but alas no, it was not to be found.
Today is a new day and I try again. I wanted to tell you about my friends over at
The Loving Heart Cafe and their wonderful Creative Juice Boxes. They contain all sorts of creative things - old photos, bits of paper and string, a scented candle, coloured pencils and beads, a page from a book, part of an old map ... various prompts to encourage a little creativity. For me, it was an invitation to use my imagination and write a new story. Allow me to introduce Lottie, created from the Creative Juice box.
The Loving Heart Cafe. I should mention that the opening line is from the page of an old book, author unknown.
Any thoughts on extending the story?
Saunton Downs
As he
drove, Gerald was talking about the car. He had always liked to talk about
cars. “She won’t pull, of course,” he
was saying. “This petrol knocks hell out
of the cylinders. Just muck, really.”
But she
wasn’t listening. Her thoughts were
elsewhere. They drifted back to the long
weekend at the Saunton Downs Hotel. The hotel overlooked the beautiful Croyde
Bay. They both loved Devon. When they reached the hotel, they registered
as Mr. & Mrs. Gerald Stanford. She
remembered the excitement when they pulled up at the beautiful, old country
hotel set in gardens of trimmed box hedges and aromatic French lavender. She loved how the evening wind gently wafted
the scent in her direction. How exciting. How romantic.
And a whole weekend away from her overbearing mother. She noted how the
receptionist greeted them with warmth and good grace as Gerald signed the hotel
register. The sight of Gerald, twenty
years her senior did raise a few eyebrows as the hotel staff helped them with
their luggage. He booked the honeymoon
suite. The shiny band on the finger of
her left hand hadn’t fooled the staff. Charlotte guessed the hotel accommodated
many couples like them.
“Here, you
had better put this on” said Gerald as he handed over the brass coloured
band. It looked like a curtain ring from
one of Mama’s dining room drapes.
Perhaps it was, but she didn’t care.
She didn’t
care because she knew that she would have to deal with the consequences when
she returned to London. Her parents
would be appalled. Her mother would be humiliated. It was bad enough that she had run way with a
married man, but that she had run off with Gerald Stanford, a man of the cloth
and he only recently widowed. The pious congregation at St John’s would have
much to say about this. She smiled a
wicked smile to herself. What the hell,
she was after all eighteen years old. She wondered what Madame Lidelle, her
French governess would say. Madame
Lidelle was her heroine, a woman who fought, sometimes quite literally for her
beliefs and values. Mama hadn’t been too
pleased when Charlotte announced that she and Madame Lidelle were planning to
march to Hyde Park campaigning for the rights of women. Father doubted the
intentions of the demure Madame Lidelle and wondered if his choice of governess
had been a wise one.
“You’re
very quiet Charlotte Park-Knowles” interrupted Gerald. “You okay?”
“Lottie …
it’s Lottie” she shouted. “I hate when you call me Charlotte.”
“Didn’t you
enjoy the weekend?”
“I
did. I loved every single part of it,
the walks along the Sands, the early morning swims in Croyde Bay and the little
chapel where we secretly vowed to be lovers forever. I don’t wish it to end. I don’t want to return to London. Let’s go somewhere else?’
“I’m afraid
not, my love. Time to return and face the music!”
*
* *
