It’s not seamless, but. I found myself hanging on a wall today. Still, isn’t my rabbit pretty?

He knows he’s a looker.

I want to start thinking about the cover for Doors. I need to sit down with some paper, a marker pen and some bad ideas and a can of kerosene, to try to work something out. Something simple? Nothing busy. I’ll think of something. Alex, who is kindly proofreading that most sorriest of affairs, has a new book review blog, so do check it out. As for me, it’s back to the drawing board. And by drawing board I mean sofa.

I hope Rafa’s not emotionally bereft after losing the Australian Open final yesterday (I sure am). What a Herculean contest! He’ll bounce back…hopefully with both knees intact

Nothing outrageous, but it’s a start. I’ve got some tofu in the cupboard which I haven’t worked up the courage to open, yet; one of my cookbooks has an interesting scrambled tofu recipe, but I’m intimidated. Hopefully I’ll feel up to it later this week. Sadly, girl cannot live on cake alone, though there will still be cake. And biscuits. Probably a fair amount of crumble, too. Chuck in some custard whilst you’re at it?

I’m pleased to report that Monsieur Frite survived his recent skirmishes with the veterinarian surgeon, and whilst his stomach gurglings are still under par, he’s doing better every day. Eat that gourmet hay that costs a fiver a bag, young sir, or I will eat it for you. You heard me. That’s if Jaster “hollow legs, empty head, healthy appetite” Rogue doesn’t beat me to it.

It’s almost that time of year again. I can feel it in the air: an anticipation, yearning. Building in me. Buzz buzz buzzing in my head like a fever. It’s…almost…the start…of the first slam of the year…must…sound…the…trumpets…of war… ……… …. V.. V-V-VVV….

VA

AMMO

SSSS

……….

VAMOS RAFAAAAAAAaaaAaAAAaaAAAAAaa@aaaa…!!!!!!

*ahem*

Sorry about that. Just had to get it out.

The Australian Open is about to begin. Who will win? Will Rafael Nadal shrug off 2011′s year-long slump (apart from that glorious Roland Garros win, icu bein King of Clay) and recapture his #1 ranking? Will Novak “Absolute Headcase” Djokovic destroy every living creature unlucky enough to grace the other side of the net? Will that rarely seen mythological creature, Juan Martin del Potro, make a token appearance at a tournament before limping off injured for the rest of the season? Will Andy “No Slams” Murray continue his blistering form and fail to win anything of note the whole year through, sack his coach, and blame it all on his mum? Will Federer wear cardigans emblazoned with his own initials and make his own parents wear baseball caps bearing his sigil? Will Greg “I LOVE TENNIS” Rusedski say something ridiculous during commentary, forcing me to bang my head off the wall in despair? You bet your ass he will. Hot damn. Greg sure knows his stuff.

Tennis. It’s fucking awesome serious business, yo.

Here are a few overused and meaningless words I despise:

~*Fabulous*~
Festive
Fresh
Free
Fierce

Why do they all begin with F? It makes my blood boil that anything remotely feminine deemed worthy for advertisement is either fabulous or glamorous or drowning in sequins. Festive is so liberally applied to anything within five metres of a string of tinsel that it now looks wrong when applied to any other occasion, such as Hallowe’en or Easter. There is so much emphasis on food being quality and fresh when really, there is nothing fresh about Subway. The salad comes out of a bag. There ain’t nothin’ fresh about Greggs sausage rolls or pizza slices from Ditsch or pretzels or donuts or milkshakes. Stop cramming such processed twice-digested rubbish down my throat – I know what it is, it is junk! And free? Don’t make me choke. If everything claiming to be interest free or free for the first year or available now with a free digital copy or 100% extra free was actually all it was cracked up to be, we’d all be living extravagant lives without spending a dime. It’s only free if I sign my income away for the next five years or consent to buying a box three times the size I usually do or immerse myself in an embarrassing amount of debt to a company of loan sharks interested only in finishing me off. See what I did there? FINishing me off? WOW YES. What a fierce thing to say. I am actually growling ferociously as I type this, fingernails filed down to points, my remaining teeth grinding against each other in a maddened mash of filling. I mean feeling. If that doesn’t get you cavitating, I don’t know what will.

There are underused words out there deserving of love. Ones beginning with F, such as FROLIC and FRENZY and FASTIDIOUS. I am also partial to the occasional utterance of FARCICAL, which sums up the mood.

It’s been lovely to have the rabbits around for Christmas. They don’t live with me so I see them when I go to my mum’s, which isn’t all that often. Christmas has been the perfect excuse to hassle them and stuff myself with good food at the same time. I have heard all about their most recent bad behaviours – Jaster helping himself to an apple, covering himself in sawdust, playing dead on the new upstairs landing carpet and thus transforming himself into an unavoidable tripping hazard, sitting in a wheelbarrow with Chip and refusing to budge, looking like lords of their own sad little kingdom of grass cuttings. Oh, to be a rabbit without rule or reason.

I didn’t sleep well on Christmas Eve. I wish I could say it was down to excitement. I think six days of book-related retail mania at work killed off bits of my soul. I got up at sevenish on Christmas Day and unwrapped a few books, mugs and bits of baking paraphenalia which I will happily put to use in the New Year. Sue and Jack did likewise; I haven’t seen much of the latter, probably owing to the fact that he now has Uncharted 3 to distract himself with. Not the kind of game you ignore!

We prepared dinner at my flat – I quickly made a round of shortbread to take back with us (YES IT WAS FRESH), and Sue started on the creme brulée. After returning to my mum’s I got started on my lovely hardback edition of Wuthering Heights and finally watched the first two episodes of Game of Thrones. Jaime doesn’t look like Jaime, I don’t like the actress playing Cersei, Jon Snow and Robb Stark look far too old, Daenarys is annoying, the direwolves are too cute, Cat has no majesty about her…but Arya is spot on, Viserys is perfect, Sean Bean is Sean Bean is The Best. So it let me down and spurred me on to pre-order the boxset, all in the space of two hours and an overdose of lengthy commercial breaks. What an emotional whirlwind.

Today we ventured into town for a walk…there were too many sale-faced bag-wielding nutters about for my liking. Sue managed to lose her bank card, and I found a nice green cardigan in Topshop to go with all my other nice green cardigans I coo over and never wear. Useful. Now I’m strapped to the settee once again, ready to watch The Borrowers with hot drink in hand and an empty head. I’m not ready for work tomorrow, but I don’t suppose any of us are ready for work. Work is something that follows you down dark alleys and looks over your shoulder when you’re desperate for privacy. Work is a life-long Nosy Parker you can only deter with carefully acquired Impossible Wealth, or a fortunate yet non-fatal injury resulting in Accidental Yet Still Welcome Impossible Wealth. How fabulous.

Burnt Sugar

Ripped paper in the morning,
burnt the sugar just past four -
now I’m sprawling, warm and yawning
thinkin there aint nothin more
I could ask of Now, this day.
Disconnected by choice,
waking only to say I am
rested, I declare myself bested by
all the festivities, the
collected best restive
you requested of me.
I have switched off the phone and
the box remains black,
finished dinner then dessert, said
Good Day to the jack of all trades
what’s gone his own Christmas Way.
The woman here is peaceful,
sits still for a change.
Watchin lights nest in branches,
knowing now it is strange to
chop trees then dress them up in this way.
Tradition I bow to ‘cos it don’t hurt and
I care not for disruption today.
I ask only to be left on my own
for this minute, the moment
containing me in it, it takes all
my restraint not to say nothin.
It feels good just to know I’m not running
for a change. Tomorrow we can stir again,
ready for a new year
what’s winging our way.
But today I aint movin or kicking,
just lickin warm custard from my spoon,
passing time without purpose,
goin nowhere
in the very best way.

25.12.2011

How about a photograph of two rogue rabbits sitting in a wheelbarrow filled with grass cuttings? No? Well, if you’re sure…

Susan’s birthday on the 22nd provided me with a good excuse to indulge in a spot of baking. I’ve had good feedback about the florentines, so I’m happy with that. In the evening we went for a meal at The Bluebrick in Wolves – I had a main off the Christmas menu and followed it up with vanilla cheesecake, which was lovely. Even Jack enjoyed the food, which is saying something; I may be picky through choice, but he is just plain old picky.

Continuing with the theme of food, I got my first Graze box this week. Graze is a “healthy snacking” company (now really, is there any such thing?) that send you weekly or fortnightly boxes containing four snack-sized punnets. You can rate the foods you receive according to how often you’d like to have them, and bin ones you dislike or don’t want to try at all. I had a voucher for a free box, so I’m giving the vegan-friendly options a go. That’s going to be my New Year’s resolution, by the way – I’ve been meaning to try for a few years now, and in January it finally happens. I want to see how it feels and what I think, then after a couple of months make an informed decision. We’ll see. Same goes for Graze – do I really need boxes of nuts and seed posted to me? Could I not just go to Holland & Barrett on my way to work and get it from there instead? Will she ever stop asking questions she never intends to answer? No. No she will not.

This beasty folder contains my darling Doors, double-spaced and single-sided and rather more dramatic at first glance than in reality. I dragged a copy to Birmingham a few days ago so I could give it to poor Alex, who has “volunteered” (some might say “surrendered after polite bullying”) to proofread. He did a splendid job with Revolve so I’m really grateful he’s on board. My brother, currently in the process of setting up his own sound studio, wants to collaborate on an audiobook recording next year, too. The excitable control freak in me wants to get started on it NOW RIGHT NOW goddamnit.

Tomorrow should be good. I hope you, reader, enjoy your Christmas and unwrap lots of nice things get what you want, whether that’s a thing or food or some other thoughtful fancy. Me, I would like a solid night’s sleep and a day disconnected from the rest of the world. I think that would be nice, so it’s what I’m going to shoot for. I don’t care if you don’t “believe in it” or celebrate or care, I’m wishing you a Merry Christmas anyway. Now shoo, there’s pie to be eaten.

Mad Rabbit: A summer of bad behaviour

• Somewhere out there is a salad box, momentarily left unattended. Close behind is Jaster, star of the show, ready and willing to stick his head in and snaffle the lot whilst your back is turned.
• He will climb boxes. He will sit on your bed. He will wait for you. He will watch you until you lift him up and back onto the floor. He will repeat until you are sick to the teeth of rabbits and all that they stand for.
• He picked a fight with a brush, once, and scared the crap out of Jack in the process.
• Somewhere in the back garden, where a shed is being constructed, two paw marks are forever installed in a bed of concrete. Just leaving a mark for future generations of rogue rabbits, you know.
• Speaking of sheds, Jaster appears to have a fondness for them. He made his way into the coal shed one time, and hid out there until he was found by anxious eyes.
• I’m pretty sure he fell tumbled rolled down the stairs a few times.
• Sometimes he gets angry and Hulks out, throwing his food bowl around. In fact, he doesn’t stop at food bowls – if he dislikes something in general, it will be thrown.
• Unfortunately he does not realise his own girth, and tries to squeeze into spaces too small for his rotund size. Cue clumsy shuffling as he tries to back himself out of whatever trouble he’s got himself into this time.
• He hid behind the bath for an hour or so. Frantic searches were conducted by his concerned owners pet humans – if Scotland Yard could’ve been drafted in, they surely would’ve been – and all the while he was snug in his cozy nook of cobweb, laughing at us all. The swine.

Good job you’re so cute, son, otherwise you’d be out on the streets.

Before we get started, Revolve is now available for Kindle. Enjoy.

Now then. Mad rabbits. Do you have one? I do.

I named him Jaster Rogue because I knew he’d be trouble (and I was playing Rogue Galaxy on PS2 at the time). Little did I know what a pain in the backside he would grow up to be. He was such a cute baby, too.

The purpose of the Mad Rabbit posts will be to collect together all of the crazy things he does, and they’ll be worth reading, because believe me when I say there has never been a rabbit like this one. He won’t live very long in the grand scheme of things (each day I expect him to meet a suitably bizarre end) so I want to get it all written down and maybe turn it into a story eventually, or some sort of sick, twisted kids’ TV show. Y’know, whatever works. Then when he’s gone we can get him stuffed and use him as a draft excluder. He’s certainly big enough.

To get the ball rolling, here’s a rundown of his bad behaviour for the past year and a half.

Mad Rabbit: The story begins…

• I knew something was wrong with him the moment I laid eyes on him in the pet shop. He had one ear dragging in his food bowl, the other sticking straight up in the air, and all of the other rabbits were staying as far away from him as was rabbitly possible. He was the one for me.
• Jaster sincerely believes he is a dog. He will follow you around the house, jump up on the settee, steal food from your plate, lick your hand/nose (whichever’s closest), roll on the carpet when he’s tired and lie at your feet if you let him.
• He has regular disagreements with this brass figure of a swordfish we keep next to the fireplace. It’s quite heavy but he picks it up in his mouth and flings it across the tiles. Every damn day I pick up that goddamn swordfish and put it back in its goddamn place and every day that damn rabbit comes and fights with it. WHY?
• He eats books. Indiscriminately. And DVDs. My Will & Grace boxsets are in ruins.
• When he wants to be let out of the living room (my bunnies have the run of the house - they get better treatment than my friends) he will either scratch the door or sit there thumping his leg until you come and open it for him.
• I found him, once, burrowing a hole in the kitchen wall. I do not know why. I had to clean up a lot of plaster, then chased him around so I could get it out of his fur.
• He licks the fridge sometimes. He also licks carpets.
• His favourite foods to steal from your plate include toast (seriously, do not leave toast on a plate anywhere there is even the slightest chance of him getting to. This rabbit will perform fucking aerial acrobatics if it will get him closer to toast), pizza crusts, cake , Fox’s cream biscuits and crackers. One time I had to share a lemon cupcake with him because he wouldn’t leave me alone. He then ran off with the cake case and ate that, too.
• As a baby he would get crisp packets out of the bin and run around with them on his head. Monster Munch were his favourite, which is why I’ve called him little monster ever since.
• He chewed through the pipe leading to the washing machine. The utlity room was flooded and poor Chip nearly drowned. This was despite us guarding the pipe with plastic and blocking off all possible routes leading behind the washer.
• He headbutts bins until they fall over so he can rummage through them. He pulled out a banana peel once and I had to wrestle with him to get it back.
• Speaking of bananas, he once stole mine, ran away and hid behind the television to eat it. He then came back and stuck his face in my cup-a-soup.
• He’ll also stick his face in your cup of tea if he sees opportunity.
• He’s got a thing for paper. He’ll eat newspapers, magazines, envelopes, bills, leaflets, whatever he can get his teeth into. He chewed part of my Doors manuscript and I wanted to beat him to death. Just wept, instead.
• We lost him for over an hour once. He turned up upstairs in Jack’s bedroom, underneath his bed, sitting in an empty suitcase.
• He ran into a freshly painted wall and, for a time, became the two-toned bandit.
• He enjoys dragging flowers from their vases and chewing Jack’s shoelaces.
• The other day I came downstairs to find he had chewed a hole in the food sack (we have a HUGE bag which we take their daily portions from, works out cheaper than buying small bags at a time) and was thoroughly enjoying a feast, having spread the food all over the floor, leaving me to tidy up after him. Carnage. I had to pick flakes out of his fur and patch the sack up with gaffer tape. It’s sitting on the kitchen table at the moment but it still isn’t safe there. Nothing is safe. He will find it, and he will have it.

I think that brings us up to date. The madness will go on, shenanigans will continue. I hope he stays this crazy forever, although it is bloody exhausting.

The original will be stowed away in a box file, but the copy is soon to be defaced with the first round of corrections and scribbles. I’m going to read through it in one go and correct any mistakes, then sit down and do some “serious” planning and research…I really need to develop Rusty as a character. I’m happy with him being a stereotype because that’s kind of the point when you consider the story, but he’s too flat. There’s actually no point in having both him and Dacre in the story, the way it is now, but I could never choose between them if it came to deleting one entirely. They’re both different sides of my own personality, in a way. A human being is far too complex to break down into halves but I suppose they can be just two of many aspects – Dacre being the need to chameleon, to always be moving (I should mention that he’s a cynical bastard, as well), and Rusty the miserable git in the corner. He carries the madness, also. I believe all creative people are at last a little bit mad.

Anyway…I can’t get any further into Doors without giving away the plot/getting all sensitive and liable to squirm. Writing is heartache, isn’t it? It’s the literary equivalent of running around naked singing God Save The Queen.

Thank you for the Twitter-concern about my bunny rabbit. I don’t know why I used a sad emoticon; he’s still alive, which is what matters. He’s been having stomach problems for a few days and hasn’t been eating…anyone who’s ever kept rabbits will know how needlessly difficult their digestive systems are. In short, you have to keep them eating, and dearest Chipkin hasn’t been doing much of that because he’s in pain. I had a short, sharp panic attack, felt better when Sue took it seriously and didn’t tell me I was being paranoid, and then he was shipped off to the vet. The nice Italian vet Giuseppe checked him out, drugged him up and sent him home. We are now following him around the house and garden, listening for signs of distress (they grind their teeth when they’re hurting) and watching him eat. He only seems to want grass at the moment, and fresh vegetables. I wonder if the bagged rabbit food he eats is the problem?

Jaster, you’ll be pleased to hear, is fine. He could probably contract rabies and there would be no marked change in his behaviour. Laba‘s @reply to me on Twitter sums it up quite nicely: “I imagine Jaster is some sort of behemothic beast that nothing could destroy… don’t ruin it for me now.”

Today will be as productive as possible whilst I remain as stationary as I can. A night out with Nat, Lisa, Luke and Spiderman Dan swiftly descended from sensible cocktail consumption in Babylon to an all-out I-think-it’s-a-good-idea-to-dance-to-the-Pussycat-Dolls debacle, street-roaming and fries from Caspian included. I’m too old for this. I will recover with House of Leaves (thank you Simon!), manuscript + bic x tippex and a loooooooooooooooong bubble bath to cap it all off. Let’s hope I don’t fall asleep, slip under and drown. If I do, avenge my death.

(oh and seeing as I will reached 15,000 hits today…thank you! You shouldn’t encourage me )

14th December marked the one-year anniversary of Jaster’s crash-landing in our lives. I love my little monster because he is mad, unpredictable, loving and as free a spirit as they come. You might think that rabbits are creatures of limited intelligence with little to offer when compared with dogs or cats, and maybe in days previous I would have agreed, but since making acquaintance with this nutcase, I can safely say that rabbits are just as fiesty, fiery and fun as anything else on this Earth. I love him more than I love a lot of things, and I hope he never changes.

Whilst on the topic of animals, we have a very cute cat living with us this Christmas. My older brother Daniel (who doesn’t get mentioned here a lot because I never see him/do occasionally forget we’re related) and his girlfriend Sarah are travelling to Ireland to stay with her family, making this little lady homeless for a few weeks…until we stepped in:

Her name is Nadir. I’m really not into cats (I don’t go around kicking ones I meet in the street, but I don’t think I’d ever choose to own one) but she seems very sweet…she’s terrified of Jaster, of course. I don’t think he’s too impressed with her, either – we’ll have to be very crafty over the next few weeks and make sure they don’t cross paths. Should be fun! Nadir is currently behind me as I type this, inspecting one of my shoe-racks. See anything you like, love?

As you can see by the photos of me and Jaster, the snow is still here. Bugger off, already.

CATWATCH: She is now on my radiator.

I’m not looking forward to trying to get to work tomorrow morning…the entire country seemingly imploded yesterday, so it could be a momumental waste of effort. We shall see.

I still have a few hours of my weekend off left. I want to book the next leg of my America trip, but the airline I found which flies from San Francisco to San Antonio doesn’t accept payment from outside the US…suckssss. Maybe I’ll have to take a different route. I’ll also get a bit of writing done, hopefully. I hurt my wrist on Friday by slipping over on ice (on my way to the doctor’s, ironically enough), but it’s not as painful today. Would be my left wrist, wouldn’t it? I feel like I’m not supposed to finish this story…

Right. Best go see where this cat has got to…I’ll probably find her cowering behind the Christmas tree, being terrorised by Jaster. Too many animals to keep an eye on!!

The bunnies have moved inside for the winter. I stepped outside this morning, took one look at the dusting of snow, and thought….oh fuck. Last winter was abysmal. If you’re one of these sappy White Christmas unrealistic idealists then you can fuck off away from my website right now. Just call me Scrooge. Snow has a novelty value lasting all of five seconds, because during the sixth second one realises just how goddamn cold it is, and the seventh second is spent sizing up your suddenly treacherous commute. All buses and trains flail and fail at the first sign of snow. I hate it. No more, please, God.

This has been a bad week. I couldn’t pin it down to specifics, so don’t ask me to, and no I don’t want to talk about it. Just leave me alone, and if you can’t manage that (because though I won’t risk a full blown rant, isn’t it just that some people are unable to leave you alone sometimes? Even though every last iota of your being is inwardly begging them to?) and talk about irrelevant bullshit, instead. That’s how we cope.

That isn’t what this post is about. This post is about Marley and the project he’s just linked me to on Facebook:

1. Rusty Laughs But He’s Not Laughing [03.28]
2. Painting Lies [03.50]
3. The Police Would Do Nothing [01.39]
4. Four Eyes Wonder [03.27]
5. That Doesn’t Mean You Have to Like the Man [02.18]
6. You Wouldn’t Last a Day in Wolverhampton [00.43]
7. (Bonus) The Chemical Tides [10.15]

DOWNLOAD THE ALBUM NOW!

When I went to Marley’s house earlier in the year to record the voiceover for my book’s promotional video, we also recorded a few extracts from my current project, Doors. Download the album to hear these previews from the story’s first draft, set to some of Mr Butler’s fantastic music. He really is a genius. As a bonus you also get a recording of The Chemical Tides, mixed in with another poem of mine, Bloodsport, which Marley and I performed live a few years back. Good times. Poetry is the ultimate insight into my head. It’s like taking me hostage and making me spill all of the beans whilst simultaneously dragging the cat out of the bag. I cringe thinking about people reading it, or in this case hearing it…so if you want something highly personal and predictably pretentious, check out that last track.

…Apparently Dimitar “Couldn’t score in a brothel” Berbatov scored five goals today. So that’s it, then. The world is officially ending.

S’been a good ride.

It’s a bit sappy, but you get the drift. I’m not really feeling much of The Script’s new album (although You Won’t Feel a Thing is wonderful) but these lyrics and this particular song, Science & Faith, is an idea I really identify with. I am not a grand, spectacular mistake. Neither are you, so far as I’m concerned. You can’t break me down to chemical processes and tell me that everything I think and feel and hate and love is just a chain reaction with no deeper meaning or purpose. We’re all cutting our own path through the reaper’s corn field here (Death, you’re tha man), and I am of the unshakeable opinion that I have a point, a reason: ask me for proof and I will tell you, there as you are right now, to look in a mirror. Lookin’ pretty good, aren’t you? There you have it. There’s your grand design. We’re all so much like snowflakes in that we’re achingly individual…and I love it.

…BUT ENOUGH OF THAT!
A muggle tried to post me something from China the other day. Observe:

Next time send an owl! That would truly make my day. I’ve had quite a bit of post this week, because I’ve been gathering bits of pieces together for my Hallowe’en costume (how fast has this year gone by?). So far I have:

• White skirt
• White shorts to wear under the skirt because you can see through it and oh my I’ve never looked legitimately slutty in my life but I think this is the night folks, I really think this is the one
• White roll-neck jumper
• Red fat/quarter to cut up
• Black boots
• Black gloves
• Red lipstick
• Fake eyelashes
• Green earrings
• MEOWTH

And I still need to get:

• A REALLY BIG BADGE PROCLAIMING THE DEATH OF JAMES

…going as Jesse to a party is kind of like going as Robin and not taking Batman. It’s like Ant without Dec. Laurel without Hardy. Brad Pitt without Skeletor. BUT SOMEHOW, I WILL SOLDIER ON!

Here is Jack with my main man Jaster sitting on his lap:

Jack got a job at GAME this week. I’m really pleased for him; it’s hard without money. Hopefully he will think wisely and not blow it all on a financed car…well, I can hardly talk. I’ve taken decisive steps towards blowing my savings on America this week and set up my Caxton FX card – I’ve also tweeted Marshall about accomodation in Virginia, and told Cassie we’re going to the Harry Potter theme park together. So I guess it’s really happening! I’ve never booked a flight before in my life, though, so I might need help with that part. Oh, mother…!

Life’s like a big black tunnel but I think there are a few pinpricks of light at the end, so stick your fingers in there and have a good root around (my finger preoccupation isn’t going anywhere…I wonder if there’s a medical term for it?) Still, things could be even better I suppose – some damned lucky sod won £113m on the Euromillions lottery last night. It actually makes me feel sick thinking about it. I hope it was a syndicate of 30 people or so…good grief.