Run.

Not quite The Hemingway Day today, simply because I have too many words and not enough brain power left to edit them. I think I’ll go and plug myself into the mains and get a recharge. If only.

Run.

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Her footsteps blended into the pounding of each rain drop. As each one plummeted down his cheeks, she managed to get further away.

This post was inspired by the weekly photo challenge, and the photo is a still from a short film I made whilst at university, which all seems like a very long time ago now (because I am almost thirty, and very very tired.)

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Thaw.

Shakespeare has always had my admiration, but he’s earned some extra kudos today, in the wake of my painstaking attempt at writing a traditional English sonnet… (with the theme of Future and some chiasmus thrown in for good measure)

Thaw

 

Thaw.

From shadows uncertain, a wreck you hauled

In spite of the grave that shrouded the eye.

It bore through the teeth so time further stalled

As it tore though the bones whilst age went by.

 

When twenty summers did soften the ill,

And firm dissolved what had dug so intent.

That which was irksome now deadened the chill

with which the preface of life you had spent.

 

I remember the rain had fallen sharp,

The streets cast their echoes with sombre dew.

Your fingers, ice as they prised mine apart,

yet temperate shards pierced the bitter I knew.

 

The ice within is hereafter thawing,

Warming the fire as the fire is warming.

Fickle.

Today I have been slicing words from magazines like a blackmailing pro, to create what is known as ‘Found Poetry’. Here’s what I discovered amidst the piles of paper words…IMG_3327

Fickle.

Panoramic florals amplify the monochrome morning.

You rave with that cheap thrill,

Artificial in flirtation,

A moonphase away from a world

Quilted in blue.

Home.

Day1Home

I shall be snap happy for the next few weeks for the Photography101 challenge. Day One… photograph home.

Home.

He often chuckles at the minute measure of my size threes.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/minimalist/

Can’t Buy Me Love.

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Over the coming years I was to become privy to the eccentricities of a few notable ladies, some with a surprise or two up their sartorially splendid sleeves…

In a fashion house commended for its attentive, one-on-one service, it was somewhat overwhelming when we were faced with numerous customers vying for our attention. My most challenging to date came courtesy of a woman who strutted through the door with an air of majesty, and was very much the mother hen to a clucking dozen of beautiful twenty-somethings that trailed in behind her.

Possessing a presence that overwhelmed, this lady’s polished exterior was considerably rehearsed; her morning’s dressing was done with a well informed consciousness… From her status-bearing Cartier watch and her Chanel initialled earrings, to her Prada pencil dress and the gold Bvlgari band on her ring finger, she was every inch the epitome of an elegant woman of wealth.

Instantly she sashayed towards me, and in a demanding-but-politely-so tone she told me she needed several outfits for her girls; outfits that exuded sexiness but with elegance, that made one appear youthful but accomplished, and that were classy but dangerously so.

The gaggle stood, now silent and hanging on her every word, each one a living version of the girls that graced the pages of the Vogue magazine I was about to thumb through during my lunch break.

As she sifted through outfits and passed them to each appropriate protégé, our upper floor transformed into a scene akin to the backstage dressing area at London Fashion Week; a sea of semi-naked bodies, clad in agent provocateur, hips-a-jutting and making every outfit look a million times what it was worth.

Just an hour and a hefty five figure sum later, having danced circularly within my own head, I had failed to deduce exactly why these girls were being decked out in lavish clothing and I certainly couldn’t fathom what the woman’s relationship with them actually was.

For all the inventive, off the wall scenarios I had fleetingly entertained, the most realistic reasoning I could dream up was that these girls were in fact soon to have their own place on the coveted pages of my fashion magazines, and the matriarch was indeed their agent.

Nevertheless, when I joked to her that surely models were the one envied breed that were excessively showered in complimentary attire, she replied in her plummy, husky voice “darling, I think you and I both know that these ladies are no models, and I am no booker.”

As she and her tribe departed, I couldn’t decide whether to be insulted or flattered when she handed me her business card whispering provocatively in my ear “if any of you ever fancy a change in direction…”.

The card read “Leading London Escort Agency”. Madam she was.