Bedtime Stories

3 May

Once upon a time, there was a girl (WOMAN.)


Once upon a time there was a woman, who knew that Midnight was The Witching Hour, that specific sliver of magic that turns us giddy with childish delight, whilst simultaneously being the deadline of submitting her agreed posting to Zoe Fell’s blog. At this juncture the author politely points out that whilst she is capable of the keyboard tinkering which brings about an umlaut, she cannot be buggered to fiddle around with it at this exact moment in time, so La Petite Fell shall have to like it or lump it.

The woman, who lived in the toppermost room of the toppermost tower (unless you count the attic which she can’t access because she doesn’t have a step ladder, and the Landlord’s a bit difficult to get hold of, and has rather unfortunately short arms like a T-Rex – that’s the woman not the Landlord. So the toppermost room that a human being can legitimately inhabit without it all going a bit spooky and Edgar Allen Poe. ANYWAY.) the woman was in something of a quandary, having fretted and fretted over the writing of the blog the whole week through.

On Monday, she thought she might write a review of something. She didn’t know what – looking from her window for inspiration she was only greeted with the sight of trees and decrepit Victorian buildings.

On Tuesday, perhaps she might introduce the readers to her lesser-known loves from the world of musical theatre, the works of Cole Porter, the comedy song. The woman had a passion for a comedy song. There is something wonderful about tunefulness and giggles neatly sewn together that is quite unlike anything else, filling your chest with happiness.

On Wednesday she had a nervous breakdown and ate an entire Hawaiian pizza and went to bed at 8pm.

On Thursday, somewhat Zen once more, she considered writing about the people who are either next door or possibly in the church hall doing cacophonous karaoke and getting on her tits. instead she shouted out of the window at them and got a torrent of abuse hurled into her face. This was, however, exceptionally therapeutic so she didn’t mind so much.

By Saturday she knew she was fucked, having exhausted all of her ideas, her creativity shot to pieces and her originality MIA for several weeks. She knew she had to accept that it had been a difficult week. That by turn she had been angry, embarrassed, nauseated and tearful, and in no fit state to create (even if that has quite a nice ring to it). She had typed at least, even if there was no passion or fire behind her words, and still on the verge of collapse into herself, on she pressed. She did wonder at this point who would still be reading her self-indulgent twaddle. She considered deleting all 517 words and replacing them with an emboldened apology, just the words SORRY ZOE in the largest font she could muster before removing herself from the world at large and having a hard think about what she had done.

So she went to her laptop and penned an apology, as the clockwork traffic of car, car, taxi, car, bus swept past her window, unseen. The karaoke had reached a crescendo by now, evidently some kind of Bank Holiday 48hr Karaoke-athon.


Katharine is very very very very VERY sorry about this blog. That is all


One Response to “Bedtime Stories”

  1. wee quine May 3, 2014 at 10:00 pm #

    Well done. Loved it.

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