The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman

Alrighty, I have a question for you writers and aspiring writers out there or indeed anyone who knows how to make sense out of nonsense. (Not me obviously.)

Why is it, when I look around the web, that poets seem to be paid more than prose writers? For example, I just looked at one website where the fee for a poem is £25 and a prose writer is £15 per thousand words. Now I don't want to dispute the fact that any piece of writing poetry or prose takes some creativity and any numbers of hours to write. However, a poem might only be three lines, is probably likely to a "filler" and not likely to be a key feature unless it is written specifically for a poetry magazine. Further, I would suggest poetry requires little or no research as it usually contains emotional sentiments rather than facts and figures whereas the research for some articles can take ages. Or, in my case, a whole sitting on the lavatory.

So how do you balance the worthiness, financial or otherwise, of one form of writing over another?

Now I've tried my hand at poetry. It is not easy to be succinct in a few words. However, I wrote this one in about 20 mins ( I know, the quality is debatable... but then again so is a lot of published poetry!) Whereas, the majority of my for articles for The View From Here have required extensive research -for example for my Damon Galgut article I read all six of his novels! Now that might be overdoing the research somewhat - but whilst I'm quite happy to talk out my backside on my blog I wouldn't dream of talking out of it elsewhere. (Well most of the time anyway.)

Of course, it pretty much goes without saying that all writers are underpaid. Unless you get to be as successful as Dan Brown or J K Rowling you'd better get used to bread and dripping. I'm just grateful Mr T has a job and I can flirt with writing - if I actually had to make a living at it I would probably have stuffed my head in the cooker by now or died a dramatic death by first cutting off my ears, then shaving my head and finally jumping off London Bridge reciting The Ancient Mariner.

So any thoughts anyone?

Oh, out of interest one of my popular posts is my short story Caught Short. I leave it to your imagination the phrases input into Google that have made that one so popular! Let's just say that should my recent literary endeavours fall short, I have a future in "contemporary" literature.

Firstly, belated Christmas Greetings and my very best wishes for a Healthy and Happy New Year to you all.

So you want the good news or the bad news first?

Okay, so bad news is more interesting, so let's get that done with first...

Over Christmas I had a tummy bug. I'll try to put this diplomatically without offending those of you with delicate sensibilities....well you know the post I wrote here about being caught short. Well it was kinda like that - only on Christmas Day and I was just about to sit down for my roast turkey!

Now it could have been worse - I could have got the squits AND run out of loo roll. But I didn't. Hoorah!

Anyway, do you want some more bad news?

Yesterday, I started yet another diet. Groan. However, being the eternal optimist hopefully I will have more success than my Hot Dish Diet and my Mad Axeman Diet.

Yes, that's means Dear Readers you will be subjected to hideous accounts of my periodic starvation followed by even more hideous accounts of my self indulgent gorging. However, the good news is this diet will only last precisely 26 days as later in the month I am off for a family wedding - which is why I need to shift the excess pounds. Now my goal is 14lb. That's a stone or about 6.35kilos (for those of you under 40 who have no idea what I'm talking about.)

Now my first weigh-in was yesterday morning. I expected bad news and boy did I get it. I know, I know, I should have weighed less having had the runs but I encountered a small problem - or 6 - as the boys got 6 tins of chocolates between them for Christmas - and naturally I had to eat all the chocolates they didn't like- except the strawberry and orange creams which I shall be donating to the Women's Institute. I might even decorate a bra with them in the upcoming W I "Decorate a Bra Competition."  (I'm not kidding folks there really is such a competition - and believe me I have some seriously good ideas which I may inflict on you in due course. By the way, just in case you are concerned, I will not be posting pictures of myself in a bra decorated with applique patches of Daniel Craig.)

Now I can hear some of you folks out there saying 14lbs in 26 days is a totally unrealistic and unnatural target and to do that Mrs T would have to become bulimic. Now let me say that there is absolutely no chance of me sticking my fingers down my throat - I mean why would you when you can use a spoon? No seriously, I just like to set myself big targets. There's psychology involved in this - which I could explain but basically it would be far too long winded and boring so let's just say I'm nuts and let's see how it goes.

Okay for anyone whose interested I will be following the basic principles of the Dukan diet. I will, however, be upping the recommended exercise margin.

Right, I weighed in today, after just 1 day and I'm already 2lbs lighter. Onwards and upwards!

If any of you folks want to join me on this masochistic diet or perhaps share diet tips or dieting successes and failures with me then please do!

A word of warning; this is a ribald post which may offend those with delicate sensibilities. Read at your own risk!

Right, last week I had tummy trouble. Yep, you know what I mean, folks - the squits. Now, we've all experienced those gripping stomach pains and the extra long and repeated sojourns to the bathroom. It's not pleasant.

Of course, it's even more unpleasant when you aren't near a bathroom...

Cue long-winded story

Well, over the last few months, I've been dieting and exercising almost daily. In the evenings, whilst the boys have their tennis practice, I take a hike up the local hills, which are a relatively short distance from the tennis club. So there I was last Wednesday evening, striding away at about 6pm, contemplating the larger issues in life such as;

Why do dogs always crap in the centre of the path and never on the side?

Why do some dog owners pick up the dog muck, place it in a pretty pink fragrant bag and then leave it hanging on a bush?

Why do some dog owners wait till their dog has jumped all over me before they call Fido back to their side?

Yeah, I was thinking about a lot of dog issues. It's not that I've anything against dogs. It's just sometimes it's a little hazardous along the pathways, and I don't like cleaning shoes at the best of times, especially smelly shoes. And I haven't got a foot odour problem, so draw your own conclusions.

Anyway, there I was, contemplating and power-walking along the tracks when I felt a little twinge in my tummy. I raised a curious eyebrow. ( I've always wanted to write that.)  Hmm... I thought. Can't be anything serious; I'm as fit as a fiddle. I strode onwards.

Suddenly, another sharper twinge was followed by a brief cramping pain.

Hmm...not good. Not good at all. A little alarm bell starts ringing in my head, thoughts of doggy do-dos disappear, and other more worrying thoughts materialize.

Ding-a-ling -ling Mrs. T. Ding -a- ling-ling!

By this time, I'm on the return journey and halfway up a hill. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I get a really severe cramp in my tummy. Followed by another...and another. Now the alarm bell is ringing very, very loud indeed.

DING A LING-LING MRS T. DING A LING- LING!!

It dawns on me that I'm stuck in the countryside and at least 20 minutes fast walk from a bathroom and that very, very soon I'm going to be in an acutely embarrassing situation. Another cramp hits my belly. I look up to the top of the hill - if I continue my walk, I could end up dropping my knickers at the top of the hill in full view of two adjoining towns and the flight path to Luton airport. I realise I'm in very deep shit. (Not that shit - well, not yet, anyway.) Quickly, I decided to quit my walk and head back to the tennis club as fast as my legs can take me. I am moving it.  In fact, my legs are moving faster than a rabid tortoise's as thoughts of Paula Radcliffe squatting on camera intrude into my mind. No way is Mrs T going to be caught with her knickers down in public. No way. I turn up the speed as another cramp hits me...I leave the path and cut across the hillside trying to make haste, but the tall grass and uneven ground are actually slowing me down....

Another cramp. Now I've broken out into a cold sweat: I am dripping all over as the thought begins to cross my mind that I'm still a good 15 mins away from the club and I'm feeling worse by the moment...and I might not have 15 mins. I'm tempted to break into a run, but instinct tells me that running will stop me from clenching my buttocks, and then...it will most definitely be brown trousers before I reach the safety of the undergrowth and woodland down by the disused railway track.

Yet another horrific pain hits my stomach. I finally accept the truth - I'm not going to make it back. I am going to have to do the deed - in public.

Oh God. Why me? What have I done to deserve this? I promise to try harder at housework. And cooking. And all that other stuff I'm supposed to do but can't be bothered with.

Time is against me as I make haste to the railway track. I look in my pockets. Fortunately, I have tissues. I also have a packet of chewing gum. I contemplate using the gum to plug up mon derriere and hope that'll give me enough time to get back to the club. But no, as another cramp hits me, I realise that nothing is going to stop my little problem - nature is calling and ain't nothing gonna stop her now.

So I'm back on the railway track and looking for cover. I'm pounding down the path looking for an acceptable hidey hole. I have more sweat on me than if I had done 15 rounds with Muhammad Ali. The clock is ticking away...tick tock, tick tock...I probably have about 30 seconds before an almighty explosion of gigantic proportions takes place.

I glance up and down the track. No dog walkers. Thank God. I duck under the barbed wire, and I'm into the undergrowth and bushes. I hear a rustle and have a moment of horror as I imagine a dog walker leaping out on me just as I drop my knickers...but a pigeon flies out of one of the larger bushes.  I duck under some more wire... I'm in a dark recess with tree cover.....

I tear off my tracksuit top. Rip down my tracksuit bottoms and knickers and...

You know the rest. Relief. Blessed relief.

 Alleluia!

Anyway, having hidden the evidence, I got back on the track and, for about 10 seconds, actually contemplated going back to finish my walk - that was until I got another cramp. Then, once again... I was heading back off to the tennis club at breakneck speed.

What I want to know is, am I the only one to whom these embarrassing things happen? Or has this happened to any of you folks out there? Now, I met my friend Mrs. S from The Book Club a couple of days later and felt sure she would say "Oh yes, that's happened to me". But it hadn't. In fact, Mrs. S looked mildly shocked, if not amused, at my situation. 

© Jane Turley 2009.

Caught Short is now part of my short story collection A Modern Life which can be found on Amazon. It contains thirteen short stories of varying styles, including some as equally daft as this one!