What do you need to be a domestic goddess?

Sometimes it can be difficult to get back on the writing track when one gets caught up in the hustle and bustle of life and living.  Sometimes the creative writing spaces becomes full with additional work schedules, visits to school, doing the laundry, trips to the dentist, the doctor and candlestick maker.  Life as a domestic goddess is not an easy one.  So where and how does one kick start the creative process again? Thankfully inspiration comes from two friends this week, both very creative ladies.


Sewing has never been one of my talents as a domestic goddess.  My domestic science teacher Mrs P would definitely vouch for that if she were around today.  I would like to state for the record that her grey hair (possibly stress induced by my particular class) had nothing to do with my unfinished sewing assignments.  No-one was happier to learn about the invention of velcro more than me!  I was very inspired however when I attended my friend Pat's creative class.  They make all sorts of things there and she has her own website called  MadebyPIN so that you can be creative at home.  Do stop by and have a look.    


Baking is another talent in the armoury of the domestic goddess.  I recall vague words from Mrs P, something about Victoria sponges, shortcrust, puff and choux pastry.  I distinctly remember the sampling stage but have no recall of the baking stage at all.  Strange that.  Thankfully my friend Di at The Bluebell Cafe, a great maker of cakes and all things delightful too, shares great recipes for banana cake and cinnamon cake.  Again worth a visit for some mouth watering treats.


Thank you ladies, how inspirational you have been.  Well that leaves a little time now to do something a little creative before my next blog post.  Now where did I leave that needle and thread?             

Troubles of a troubadour.

Picture prompt from Willow at Magpie Tales

These 'fifty something' birthday soirees are always a challenge.  Methinks, do I sing of love, romance and faraway places? Do I speak of a warm, bright and sunshine day where lovers wander in springtime meadows and see only each other in love?  I know my noble friend hath tired of the Lady Anne and seeks a more youthful companion to console and flatter his ego in his declining years although he denies that to be so. 

Whilst I play for time and inspiration, I find myself plucking a melancholy tune and note the sadness in the face of Lady Anne.  Once, she was the love and light of my master’s fond embrace and ardent attention.  Once she laughed, cajoled and flattered the ego of every man and unknowingly broke the heart of my dearest friend Sebastian.  He sits at the banquet table in the quiet hope that perhaps her attentions may once again fall upon him.  For him, it would be an honour and he vows that he would love her with all his heart.  He doth not favour the scoundrel ways of the pompous and haughty Malvelo.   

To sing and speak the truth of this love would indeed make for an engaging evening but might haste the final performance of the troubadour.  From a melancholy tune to a happier note the lute sings of this celebratory occasion and the birthday boy, Malvelo.   

Smoldering looks

Another prompt from Tess over at Magpie Tales

“Yeah, you go right ahead Joseph.  Go on.  I’ll manage.  We’ll get by … somehow”.

“But Ruth you know I’m doing it for us, all of us”.

“All of us, when did you figure that one out?  Was that before or after SHE declared that she just ‘had to have you’ to look after her precious estate?  Was that before or after she smiled that sweet demure smile in church, the one she thought I didn’t notice?”

Her mimicking of Connie Cunningham’s soft accent was most effective.  Joseph noted.

“Ruth she was only being civil.  Come on that didn’t mean anything.  You must believe that”.

“Don’t take me for a fool Joseph.  I saw that way you smiled back and how uncomfortable you were when you realised that I had noted that little moment of tenderness between you.”

“For goodness sake Ruth, there’s nothing between us.  An offer of work, that’s all!  We need the money.  I haven’t worked for months and with recent forest fires it could be some time before work comes my way again.  You know that”.  

He walked out and slammed the door behind him.

The noise woke the baby.  He cried.

Ruth picked him up to soothe him.  He snuggled against her chest into the clean gingham apron.  The smell of fresh home baking seemed somehow to placate him.  Tuesday - pies made with great creativity, lots of pastry and meagre scraps of meat in gravy, enough to last a day or two she hoped.  Heaven knows where the next meal would come from.  He did need that job and she knew that deep down.  Shouldn’t she consider herself fortunate to have a man like Joseph who did want to look after his family?  A part of her felt afraid.  What if the wealthy Connie Cunningham did entice Joseph away from her and leave her and the brood here abandoned in the charred and smoldering forest? What would become of them? 

She recalled an earlier time when she too smiled at a certain Joseph Wainwright in church and he smiled back.  Five babies later and a home with a farm were beginning to take its toll.  She was so tired.  Somehow the excitement of living miles out of town had waned and rarely seeing anyone for days reinforced the loneliness she felt.  But her duty was here with the family, she knew that.  At least Joseph could escape for a day or two if only to work the land and tend the roses on the neighbouring Cunningham estate.

Breakfast at Suburbia

Breakfast  courtesy of Magpie Tales this week

Happy Easter!

"Breakfast? You must be joking. You know I never eat breakfast", she said.

"But I've made it especially for you, eggs, bacon, the lot. A surprise!", he said.

He had and the evidence of this magnificent feast littered the kitchen worktops. She cringed when she saw the remnants of an egg that hadn't quite made it into the frying pan cooking itself slowly on the heat of the stove.

But she didn't care now. She knew she wouldn't be here to clean it off and tidy it up later.

"You did remember to book the day off work? he asked enthusiastically? "I've got something special planned. I think you'll like it".

"Yes, yes I did", she answered.

Her mind drifted back to last night. What had she been thinking of? Why had she had so much to drink? It was the red wine, she knew she shouldn't drink that last glass but she did and it was then that she decided. By the end of the evening her mind had been made up. She couldn't do it any more. She couldn't pretend to be happy. She wanted to be free. Free to be herself, free to be her own person, free to hear her own voice, not the voices of her husband, her children, her family. It was all getting too much. She needed space, some time for herself. She was beginning to feel like Toby's hamster in the cage, running on that wheel, getting faster and faster and going ... nowhere. She knew she just needed to get off that wheel and lie down in a cool meadow in the peace and quiet for a day or two. She needed to collect her thoughts, to collect whatever remained of herself before life had smothered her in this domestic drudgery. Sure, she had a beautiful home, a loving husband and three reasonably behaved kids but there was nothing for her any more. She was wife, mum, sister and daughter. But who else? She so wanted to be someone else right now. She so wanted to be somewhere else right now. But where? Where would she go? What would she do? She hadn't worked since they married and that was ten years ago. Was she brave enough to go? Could she be herself somewhere else? Could she make it on her own? She knew it would be a lonely journey. She knew she had to do it. It was now or never.

If only he didn't love her so much, it would be so much easier.

"Come on, hurry up, you've got a long journey ahead of you", he smiled. 

He was so right, as always. 

How long does it take to finish something you're not working on?

daffodils by me!

“It’s amazing how long it takes to finish something you are not working on”.

R D Clyde

I know it’s been some time since I’ve blogged. 

A whole month has gone by. 

I suppose you thought I’d gone, disappeared or emigrated?

I didn’t do any of the above.

Perhaps you didn’t even notice but I did.

I quietly reprimanded myself up for not writing regularly.

Who am I to flatter myself by thinking that I’d be missed?

I wasn’t, was I?

The world goes on even in the stillness of the night.

Even in the absence of blogging. 

No excuses.

I simply got distracted, not by anything exciting.

Probably just lots of trivial stuff but it seemed to consume my blogging time.

Oh and I was so full of good intentions too.

I planned to write more and often.

But sometimes plans have a habit of becoming unplanned.

I thought I might inspire you with a beautiful poem I’d written.

But I realised that the only poem I’d written was still in my head.

It hadn’t made it to the page.

Maybe I’ll write it another day?

And now … well now it’s a challenge to get back into the writing rhythm.

Perhaps a little music might kick start the creative process?

I did consider restarting with a wonderful quotation from someone motivational and inspirational but there are so many to choose from,

I could be here some time.

I’ve got the makings of a story in draft.

But not had time to draft the ending yet.   

Think I’ll post this evening anyway

In the hope that tomorrow brings fresh thinking and creativity by the bucket load! 

Violets are blue

A little tale To celebrate St Patrick's Day -  prompted by Tess  over at  Magpie Tales  
Happy St Patrick's Day one and all!    

“Flowers?  For me?” 

She sat upright in her hospital bed.  The fall had shaken her badly and she wasn’t sure if she had broken her hip.  It was painful, she was sure of that.  At eighty two she didn’t need this and dreaded all the hassle and inconvenience this would bring to her ever so busy daughter.  Violet, who now referred to herself simply as V!  Ms V Mc Cann was a true career woman, whatever that meant.  Violet wasn’t exactly a name that could be taken seriously climbing the career ladder she had told her mother once.  Violet wasn’t the name that captured the passion, zeal and drive she used to smash through the glass ceiling to get to the top in the dog-eat-dog world of advertising.  V Mc Cann was not afraid to knock anyone down who stood in her way.  She had more or less said so when she last visited her mother.  As a daughter and a successful business woman, she was so busy in her high executive world that she no longer had the time to visit her mother in the best money could afford nursing home.

“You sure you’ve got the right person?” she asked a little nervously.

“Your name is Mrs Mena Mc Cann, isn’t it?” smiled the boy from the flower shop.

“Well yes, yes it is, but no one ever sends me flowers.  Well not for a very long time anyway” she replied

“Well they do today, Mena.  Today’s your day, African violets especially for you”. 

“Thanks, son.  They’re lovely.  But who are they from?” 

“No message.  ‘Just to deliver them to Mrs Mena Mc Cann’ he said.  He paid and then he was gone.

“He?” she asked in a bemused voice.

“He said something about it being a long time ago and that you would remember the violets, the special day and the works outing to the Altnalee Races.”

Mena Mc Cann recalled that trip to the races on St Patrick’s Day many years ago.  It was the tradition back then to celebrate the holiday by going to the local race meeting.  The factory was closed, picnics were organised and everyone went to the races. She recalled the parading of horses before the races, the wearing of bright racing colours by the jockeys and the well dressed owners in the enclosure ring.

She met a boy called Jack there. He had several winners that day and he generously shared his winnings with Mena and the girls. He had given Mena violets and made a date to see her the following week but for some unknown reason never turned up.  But that was over sixty years ago!

Mena turned to the delivery boy to ask him more about the little pot of violets.  But he had gone.

She cleared a space on the locker beside her bed for the beautiful African violets and noted the single shamrock in the pot.  Maybe it was best to simply enjoy the gift and keep her curiosity for another day.           

Magpie Tale 55 – Pancakes and Lemons

An intriguing photo from Tess over at MAGPIE TALES this week prompted this story.

“Look, all I said was, I can’t stand lemons!”

 “Are you sure that’s all you said?”

 “Positive!”

 “So what’s with the bloody fork then?

 “You sure it’s blood and not paint?”

 “I’m sure and the knife, it’s missing.  Where’s the knife?”

 “You don’t think …?”

 “No, she wouldn’t, would she?”

 “You sure that’s all you said, you can’t stand lemons?”

 “I may have mentioned the outfit.”

 “What outfit?”

 “The Carmen Miranda outfit, you know the one where she wears bananas, pineapples and lemons on her head.  Honestly, she’s such a prima donna and    no sense of humour.”

 “Don’t be so tough, she probably spent ages on that.  She’s really making the effort to get involved this year.”

 “Come on, if you think for one minute that I’m dressing up like that for a sponsored pancake race, you’ve got another think coming!” 

 “But it’s for a good cause.  Harry’s going as Count Dracula.”

 (A pained voice screams in the distance) “AGGGGHHHHHH! Stupid woman, I was only joking about the lemons!”

 “Who said that?”

 “It’s coming from the stationary cupboard.”

 “Oh dear, sounds like Count Dracula.  Looks like he’s wearing a knife in his leg! You know he’s really squeamish, can’t stand the sight of blood”

 “Pity that means our team is one man down for the pancake race this year!”