Tag Archives: author

Fish odor syndrome- phew!



“Thar she blows,” said the Lexicon Dragon in a husky voice. She had donned a captain’s cap in the interim and was smoking a foul smelling pipe. She resembled Captain Ahab, which by process of elimination, made me Moby Dick, or rather a large whale. I resented the comparison, but yes, I did indeed blow. Chunks of grey matter flew across the room and landed in jellied chunks on the carpet. The muse had to pick some extraordinarily gross pieces from her hair.
‘Juck,” she exclaimed, “I do believe your grey matter is rather gooey for an intelligent writer such as yourself. It should have more substance, like my upper thigh from which, I am sure, a small adult could swing.”
I paid her no mind, I was having a meltdown. Like an angry two year old, I allowed all the pent up emotions to simply boil over. If I am not mistaken I think I might have stamped my feet and rolled around on the floor for a while. Self pity is a terrible thing to witness especially if you wallow in it like a pig in mud. Eventually I flopped onto the floor, cradling what was left of my exploded head. I was overjoyed to find that my ears were still attached; my irritating, gigantic nose hung around like a lump of clay. I couldn’t get rid of the thing!
I was slapped out of my stupor by an evil odour. I could see it hanging green and sluggish in the middle of the room.
“Did the cat catch one of the Koi again? Who forgot to take it out?” I asked as I glanced around at the characters present. They all shrugged, but were wrinkling their assorted noses in disgust.
“What died?” asked the muse, she was never one to mince words.
“Not me. Not yet anyway.”
“Damn, it’s disgusting!” All the voices were raised in unison and I could feel a headache coming on. Heaven knows why I always had to solve everyone’s problems.
“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” she of the jiggling bottom said.


Exploding head syndrome- KABOOM!:


exploding head

“Did I tell you to make it part of your very public blog?” she asked and I had to admit that it was due to my own stupidity that the world now knew that I had the dreaded M. I could hear my eggs shrivelling up and calling for help. I did not want any more children, so why on earth was I feeling sad about the approach of the dreaded M?
“It’s the loss of the possibility of having a child,” said the muse, once more in her intelligent Einstein phase. I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy towards her; she understood after all.
“Imagine two more of you running around and driving us all to drink?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What is wrong with being a little eccentric?” I could feel the heat rising in my neck and settling in my cheeks. Due to the chaotic pole dancing of my hormones, anger came easily, bouts of crying was a close second. She of the bounteous bust took one look at me and bounded (the walls shook and bits of plaster cascaded form the ceiling) to the light switch. With a smirk she turned on the ceiling fan and whistled loudly. A white elephant appeared which duly flapped his large ears at her command. A cool breeze floated across my burning cheeks.
“Have you no sympathy woman?” I asked, “Just wait until you find yourself in this same aging boat.” By this time I was livid, the roots of my hair had turned red and smoke escaped the top of my head. If I was a cartoon character, you would have heard a loud, echoing whistle as I let off steam.
“Everyone, dive for cover!” she shouted. “Her head is about to explode- go to code red immediately! She is about to give new meaning to the phrase waking up with a bang!”
“Once again…NOT FUNNY!”
“Run for your lives!” This was the last thing I heard before a loud explosion filled the room.


Dystonia with menopause on the side



“Please keep in mind that I want this to be a serious discussion about a serious disease,” I asked for the umpteenth time. Even while I said it, I knew that the battle had already been lost. The characters in my skull were a comedic bunch and I waited for the penny to drop.
“Well, its’ a twisted story,” the muse was the first to succumb.
“That’s awful,” I sputtered, feeling rather embarrassed.
“Dear, I am sure that these sufferers have a hell of a time dealing with the illness, but I think one should rather focus on the positive. They say that five minutes of laughter a day can extend your life by at least ten years.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure that it is no laughing matter. Have you seen how contorted their bodies become? Uncomfortable in the extreme,” I argued.
“Their bodies can’t be as distorted as your mind, dear?”
“How did we get from Dystonia to the state of my mind?” I asked, knowing that she had something up her very large sleeve as usual.
“Sometimes you twist and contort and stuff us into tiny holes. You have Dystonia of the mind, dear.”
“Only when you disobey or become erratic.” I felt the sudden need to defend myself against the rallying hordes.
“Sometimes I need some space and time to think, and you know that you carry on,” I said glaring at her.
“Me?” she asked innocently.
“Of course, you know that you do.” I could feel myself becoming hot under the collar.
“Oooh, the temperature around here is definitely rising,” she said, fanning her face melodramatically.
“Are you sure you aren’t experiencing early menopause, dear?”
I hated the fact that she could read me like a comic book. Yes, I was a woman of a certain age and the hot flushes were rightfully, dreadfully mine, but was it really necessary for the entire bloody world to know about them?

Introducing King Dimwit and family


king 2

As the muse will shortly be outing herself in the form of a book, I was stumped for new characters for the blog post which would be welcomed with open arms and would work as a replacement for the enigmatic figure. With her blessing she is stepping back to allow others their moment in the spotlight. I hope they make you giggle as much if not more than the muse.

Therefore meet Queen Gnol Gnireffus, which is basically long suffering spelled backwards. She has had a hard life; was forced to marry the inferior King Dimwit who was intellectually challenged and battled to understand most things in life and had a son who was so ugly that he shattered all the mirrors in the kingdom. She called him Prince Charming, he deserved something in life, and it might as well be a name. Charming he was not, neither was he handsome, hence the non existence of any reflective surfaces in the entire kingdom. He even cracked the Lake Woebegone in winter.
Queen Gnol Gnireffus forced him into the world with various grunts and groans and the prerequisite tub of warm water on a cold midwinter evening, took one look at him and subsequently fainted. Even then he was swarthy, had a hooked nose, unfocused eyes which tended to wander in their orbs, tufts of hair which grew haphazardly across his knobbly skull and skin which seemed oddly scaly. The midwife held him out to King Dimwit who merely grunted and took him out onto the balcony. He held him up for the populace to see. The king had watched Lion King a number of times and had always wanted to re-enact that particular scene. Now he could do so with his one and only offspring.

The hidden cover:


After two weeks of silence, she of the well- rounded figure is back!

“And what if I may ask are you hiding behind your copy of War and Peace?” she asked peering over my shoulder.
“Dear, nobody thinks you are intelligent enough to understand that particular piece of literature. I on the other hand am well versed in its intricasies.”
It started as a giggle, but pretty soon I was rolling on the floor, incapacitated by laughter. Between gasping for much needed oxygen, I barely managed to say:
“The only reason you have a copy in your bag is to deter any would be handbag snatchers. It is your personal weapon of mass destruction. Never mind bewaring the ‘ides of March’, they should beware the weight of ye olde War and Peace.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure to acquire the knowledge by the process of osmosis- you should read up on that you know, quite an interesting concept. I highly doubt whether I have the particular patience to imbibe my food that way,” she said staring at the last chocolate covered cupcake.
“Don’t you dare,” I warned, snatching the delectable morsel from the plate with a dexterity that surprised the usually clumsy person who went about bearing my name. I made clumsy look elegant.
“What were you hiding?” she demanded and I knew that she would not rest until she knew. She was the queen of the inquisition!
“The cover of Red Tape,” I said nonchalantly.
“Ooooh, let’s have a gander then!” she squealed in delight.



Z is for Zaftig or well rounded



“You have done it, dear. I must say that I certainly had my doubts about you,” said my zaftige Muse, rescuer extraordinaire.
“It has been a wonderful journey, hasn’t it?” I said and knew that I would miss the hectic schedule. We were still in Rabab’s house, waiting for Rageddy Andy to lead us homewards through the dark tunnels of Almost Neverland. As there are no crows here, she was spreading bread crumbs as she went; a yeasty trail for us to follow. The Muse was still naked and I knew I would have to wash my eyes out with soap. I longed to see my shabby study and hug Sir Laughalot and lose myself in a few words of another novel.
And here we are full circle, the journey has come to an end- an A-Z adventure filled with the weird, the wonderful and the decidedly crazy. I do hope you enjoyed the blogs as much as I have. I loved putting laughter in everyone’s lives and a smile to pack in your suitcase.
I am overjoyed to say that a book about the zaftige Muse is in the offing. She has approved the cover and has dictated quite a few stories for your enjoyment, none of which have been seen on the blog. I do hope you help her out in her endeavours as they are always hillarious and slightly insane.
A heartfelt thanks to everyone who has followed me during April, I hope the journey was worth it.
Love and hugs- a scatterbrained author!


C is for Cachalot or Chocolate:


Cachalot is a also a science fiction novel written by Alan Dean Foster and a six ship class mine-laying submarine of the Royal Navy.

My resident hamster was running for his life as the smoke signals escaped in wispy tendrils from my overheated brain.
“Cachalot or sperm whale,” I said studiously, wiping the lenses of my new pink spectacles. My nostrils flared at the sudden sweet smell that lingered in the room. I could hear a wrapper being rolled up into a ball and tossed into the wastebasket.
“C is for chocolate, rich, creamy, melt-in-your-mouth-chocolate,” whispered the Muse. I drooled on my keyboard and watched helplessly as she bit into the Aero. I knew the bubbles would pop ever so slightly in her mouth.
I licked my lips and said: “Dark Chocolate, who is usually a solitary creature, swims in the White Chocolate Ocean and looks for Caramel Chocolate, they mate and a tiny Cadbury Flake is born. They live on Fererro Rocher.” This was what came out of my mouth, but my brain was saying; “Male sperm whales, usually solitary creatures, swim the oceans looking for female sperm whales. They mate and a single baby is born. They live on squid.”
The Muse winked slyly at Sir Laughalot who was overjoyed to take a well deserved break from the monotonous wheel. The mere mention of chocolate and my brain stood still, whether he was running or not. I admit to being a recovering chocaholic, another c-word.
I have pictured myself many times standing in front of a group, saying:
“Hi, my name is Vanessa and I am a certified chocaholic.” To which everyone would respond with a resounding: “Hi, Vanessa.” The inevitable question would be asked- when last have you had any chocolate to which the timid reply would be: “Uhmmm, yesterday…sorry and I feel sick about it!”
“Isn’t messing with her more fun than listening to her pedantic research?” she asked Sir Laughalot who nodded gleefully.
They had pulled the wool over my eyes again- I was a vulnerable idiot.
“Can we please stop having scientific lessons?” she asked, but I had to be towed away from Charlie’s Chocolate Factory which was, at least in my mind open 24/7 all the days of the year.
For boring information on the Sperm whale and nothing on chocolates, click the link- it’s easy.



B is for Balisaur (or when I was on drugs):



“Triassic, Jurassic or Cretaceous?” she asked and I was surprised at the knowledge contained in the bee hive which was still being circled by drones; their black and yellow bodies flashing in the artificial light.
“Not one of the three. It is actually a long tailed badger, ratel or moch daear. They have lived in the British Isles for between 300 000 and 400 000 years.”
“Rattle, mock deer? Are you on drugs, dear?”
“Ratels is the Afrikaans and moch daears or earth pigs is the Welsh name for badgers,” I sighed.
“You really should pay attention to enunciation,” I said pointedly. She had mangled the two words beyond belief. And she called herself an author’s muse?
“Hmf and here I thought English was the language of choice? Seems I have been sadly mistaken. Are we writing in a hodgepodge of languages now? If so, I have definitely not received the memo,” she sniffed, glaring at me over her horn rimmed spectacles. She knew I would back off; it was par for the course.
“Well, they look flea-ridden to me,” she said and whimpered at the thought of having a badger in her general vicinity.
“Contrary to your erroneous opinion, badgers are clean animals. They will not defecate in their sett and carry out old hay, grass or plastic bags to prevent the build up of fleas and lice. Thus cleaner than…well, half of the human population, I would say.”
“Trying to sound clever, are we? It only takes a nudge, dear,” she said, staring pointedly in the direction of a sweating Sir Laughalot.

For more information on the honey badger, wander over here:


The A-Z blog challenge according to the muse:


(with Camp NanoWrimo, April 2014, thrown in somewhere)


“Are we going to DO THIS?” she asked, emphasising the last two words with elaborate swishes of her newly acquired pom-poms. The noise woke up Sir Laughalot who promptly fell off his wheel. Looks like I was back to being a Neanderthal once again.
“Huh?” I answered.
“Duh,” she said helping Sir Laughalot into an upright position, ready to continue powering my brain.
“Without you she’s a tad stupid; one level removed from idiot and two from imbecile,” she whispered theatrically. Sir Laughalot smiled. He blushed deeply; beetroot red.
“I heard that,” I said, sweeping the last of the errant brain cells together. They were tough little buggers and had withstood 46 years of punishment thus far. I expected a lot of them and they knew it.
“The A-Z blog challenge, dear. I sincerely hope that it will be entertaining and not dark and dreary like the rest of your writing.” Her words hit home and I could feel the inevitable anger building up. How dare she say that my writing was dark and dreary- was that how the average reader saw it too? If it was, I was in a shitload of trouble. The self doubt crept in, eating away at my resolve to be an author.
‘Just kidding, dear,” she said, “don’t be so anal retentive. It’s merely a joke.”
“Grrrr,” I said.
“Imbecile level attained,” she whispered to Sir Laughalot.
“Grrr,” I said again.
“Back to idiocy. That was quick wasn’t it, a new record even for her.” Sir Laughalot peeked at me, gauging whether it would be alright to laugh or keep his silence. He chose the latter, though I could see his cheeks were bulging with restrained laughter. He spun the wheel, trying to help me out; he was a good soul.
“Yes, I will be doing the challenge and the camp thingy,” I said through clenched teeth.
“What did you say, dear? Your jaw seems to be locked or wired together or something.”
I huffed and puffed but could not find a house to blow down.
“You should really see a doctor about that, dear,” she said. “You look positively apoplectic. Anyway, just wanted to see if you were ready for the first of April. Don’t be a fool, dear, be prepared, readers are not stupid, you know.” She left the room with a wave of her pudgy fingers and climbed back into my overcrowded brain.
Ready or not, here I come; I thought and hoped that she would behave herself. An entire month was a lot to ask of her and me for that matter. As for the reader, I sincerely hope that you will be able to cope with both of us; it promises to be wild and enjoyable …a free rollercoaster ride with all the ups and downs that entails. Hold on tight…here we go….



The flamingo (continued)




“What?” she asked peering at me intently. For a moment I feared that I had voiced my opinion regarding the flamingo out loud.

“No, nothing,” I replied, trying to hide the huge grin on my face, which would later result in laugh lines, which I would have to remedy with a strange mixture of alligator pear (an avocado for those of you in the know), honey and water. I would liberally apply the sticky paste to my face and lie back with cool cucumber slices on my eyes. Sir Laughalot, my resident hamster, would have a fit and be unable to run on his little wheel which would leave me only slightly more intelligent than a dust bunny. Anything to prevent wrinkles; I already had a turkey neck and breasts which I could throw over my shoulder and kill any ninja assassins standing behind me. Yes, this was why push up bras were invented, they kept everything perky and exactly where they were when I was sixteen and not falling to my knees in wild abandon. Hmm, perhaps some nice scarves would hide the gobble and wobble in the neck area….perhaps…

“Drifting,” she said sarcastically.

“I don’t know why I even bother to appear, when all you do is ignore me and daydream. Really, how on earth do you get any writing done? You keep staring into the distance with several variations of dumb on your face? Would you like to know what I have learned lately?” she asked, changing direction so fast that my head spun and I looked like a bobble headed dog in the back window of someone’s awful yellow station wagon.

“Yes,” I sighed, “do enlighten me.”

“I learned how to do that hip and happening dance thingy,” she said. Just the fact that she knew the phrase ‘hip and happening’ surprised me, but dancing? Somehow I could not picture her body gyrating to any beat. It would keep on moving ad infinitum as she jiggled and bopped; her body had laws of its own.

“Which dance would that be,” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

“That gangbang style, you know: off da gangbang style, walk, walk, crawl,” she sang lustily. She immediately threw her hip to the side and moved to a beat that only she could hear. Psy, the original artist and dancer, would have had a heart attack if he could have been privy to the muse’s rendition or rather destruction of his unique moves. She looked and moved like a male flamingo, desperate to attract the attention of the unwilling female. She spread her arms to the side and strutted, lifting her dimply knees as high as they could go and looking sharply left and right. She dipped her neck inelegantly and stumbled into a faltering moonwalk. It was a rather weird and unusual mating dance and no Opan Gangnam style was present at all.

I could no longer contain the laughter that was bubbling like a volcano in my throat. I giggled hysterically, fell off my chair and rolled around on the tile floor in hysterics, spewing hot lava onto the brittle porcelain. Okay, so it was only a little spittle, but I am a writer after all.

She stopped, glared at me and sniffed.

“You never appreciate me,” she said in a teary voice and stormed off to her special corner of my brain, where she slammed the door pointedly. I could hear the echoes of her theatrical sobs for several hours afterwards. Needless to say she hasn’t shown her face since and I am left to my own devices and my stories are the worse for it. I needed her; she made life interesting, quirky and insane. If you find her wandering on the street somewhere, please return her as soon as possible to the right hemisphere, third quadrant, to the left of the Corpus Callosum and directly in front of the Thalamus of my brain. Thank you in advance…

The hilarious flamingo mating dance: