The premise is simple: We write for five minutes flat. All on the same prompt that is post on the Lisa Jo Barker’s site at 1 minute past midnight EST ever Friday. And we connect on Twitter with the hashtag #FiveMinuteFriday
No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation.
Unscripted. Unedited. Real.
I am a walking disaster. Or at least that’s what I’m told. To put this in context, over the past 18 months I have slipped a disc, dislocated my pelvis, broken my elbow, and concussed myself two separate occasions. I’ve Lao managed to give myself a few chemical burns from various hair dye and removal products which weren’t quite as successful as hoped. So this along with a couple of black eyes and a fat lip and some other minor injuries sort of suggests that I ought to lay on the floor and stay still. Don’t move. Try not to get hurt again.
But I don’t. If I’m honest, I get off on doing stuff that’s a bit outlandish and a bit dangerous (a bit. Not mountain climbing, or base jumping… Although that does sound fun…). But roller skating does it for me. Riding a mountain bike down a really steep hill, although I’m not so keen at going up. Swimming in deep water and knowing I can’t reach the bottom. LSH says I am in no way allowed a longboard. But of course what he doesn’t know…
I long for the summer when I can roll down hills with the kids, and climb trees.
It turns out, I am in fact a ten year old trapped inside a 33 year old’s body. And this ten year old is getting her skates on and practicing her moves to try out as fresh meat in roller derby in 12 months. All I need now is a name. Because even fresh meat needs a name. Frankly my Facebook friends need to let their imagination run a little freer!
If it looks like fun, yes, I’ll jump.
… Because that is exactly what LSH did today. The guy in front of us left a single bulb of garlic at the checkout.
I’ve never seen a cashier laugh so hard until my husband ran after a random stranger through a packed supermarket right up to the main doors brandishing the bulb like it was the holy grail that this guy had left behind. The kids thought it was brilliant, and the guy looked like he’d been chased down by a crazy person (not that far off then).
Job done. It just might have saved his dinner.
My husband is now also a happster.
This, and other acts of weird kindness at http://www.happster.com.
My cats teach me many lessons in life. Mainly where the food is kept…
Named after LSH as when he was born he had grey flecks all over his black fur. LSH now has black flecks all over his grey hair. I accept that this is probably down to me.
He shows me how to own the yarn.
That grumpy can quickly change to… Asleep? Happy?
Don’t be fooled by her cuteness, she is a lean(ish), mean rodent killing machine.
She shows regularly, that you don’t have to let everyone cuddle you. They’ll be REALLY impressed to deem them suitable for a bit of lap time, even if you’re doing it just for warmth.
Named after the Terry Pratchett creation. He’s not grey (often), he’s not tatty, and he’s certainly not evil. What he is, is a Hungarian Angora with all the brains of a pedigree cat. That’s to say, not many. What lesson does he bring to the table?
Home is where you choose it to be – even if that is inside the kids umbrella.
And when given the opportunity to enjoy a lie in, REALLY enjoy the rest…
Oh and that the most irritating way to wake a person up is to bat them repeatedly in the face with your giant furry paw.
After dragging my brightly coloured self off to work today, I was rewarded with an evening out with my father-in-law to watch Madame Butterfly.
It’s part of the Open Australia season where live productions are streamed around the world to various cinemas. Total kudos to them, as the show was excellent and bloody hell, her voice!
Act 1 was spent raising an eyebrow at her claim to be 15. But that aside, the innuendo was subtle enough to focus on the impending doom whilst still knowing exactly what was going on. Quite a few tears in the vicinity.
Act 2 was heart wrenching… But after a while I started to question her sanity. Why were you shocked that he returned with a wife after buggering off for three years? And why didn’t you stab HIM in the neck rather than yourself? I know it’s the metaphor of a butterfly ultimately having a pin stuck through her, but he got away with being an absolute arse whilst the teenage (?) butterfly fawns over him and dies.
The moral of this story is that men think with their penises. I’m not sure that’s a moral that puts anyone in a good light.
Amazing voices though. And Suzuki was perfect.
….and I was greeted by this.
I feel the need to ask. What did Barbie do t deserve a night in there?!