The first time I took off my clothes in front of him I felt cold. Cold like blank paper discarded on the floor, lifeless, empty. He surveyed me forensically as I slowly, deliberately removed each garment feeling confident that was what he wanted. He took no pleasure in the revelation, he could have been waiting for a doctor’s appointment but his eyes never left my body.

“Dear god!” a man’s orgasm boomed through the walls at us. He didn’t blink; he just stared at my crotch. My thumbs slipped under my thong, let it drop to the floor. I stood motionless, waiting for the next beat of our scene.

With surprising grace, he lay down on the sofa and closed his eyes. He lay so still I wondered if he was ill but I couldn’t speak, he had drawn all sound from the atmosphere. I could hear my blood in my ears.

“Go” he whispered. I waited for a moment, uncertain if this was part of it. “Go”, he said, firmly this time then “No” jumped out of my mouth, a bright fish that leapt and fell to the ground between us, gasping for air.

He opened his eyes; I saw a glint of emotion. Was it fear or threat? He appraised me, calculating. I couldn’t hide the rise and fall of my breasts, my hands felt hot. I checked the clock.

“You have ten minutes left,” I said, apologising. “Do you want to touch me?” He closed his eyes again, “God no”

Like a painting we hung there, outside of ourselves in the endless silence. “Face the wall. Put your clothes on. Do it slowly”.

I turned away, bent down to pick up my thong and presented myself to him. I could hear his breath, the first evidence of life. As I fastened my bra his breath quickened. I pulled up my skirt, the discreet thrum of my zip aligned with his barely audible sigh, “Pick up your clothes and leave”.

His tone made my skin prickle, my cheeks washed with heat. I couldn’t remember when I’d last felt shame. I hated him for it. He was shoplifting with dirty hands from the version of myself I’d worked so hard to create. Adrift in a room I’d worked a thousand times, I couldn’t move.

“Get out!” he hissed. I turned on him and with the voice of a child who still believes the world cares for them I said, “I’ll call security”.   Then he laughed, a laugh so full and human it disarmed me for a moment. He smiled with infinite kindness, “I’ll see you next week”.

The first time I saw Paul McCartney, I was standing at the counter searching for the camera he was actually holding. He looked at me briefly, before staring off into the middle distance, something had caught his eye. I stood back, was it him I thought while turning my gaze to the direction of what was taking his attention away.

Outside the window was the most extraordinary bird I had ever seen, the bluest of blues. And in the twilight, it had almost disappeared the way a gecko would or whatever that creature is that can change itself from one colour to the next. “So beautiful,” I heard him say, “beautiful,” he whispered to himself. I took a step towards him, as he took a smaller step towards the window, looking further, squinting his eyes.

“Dear God,” he exclaimed, “that snake is the most marvellous creature I have ever seen.” I wondered what on earth he was referring too. The creature I saw had just chirped, extended a wing in a stretch before preening its stomach. As I stepped closer, I realised that he and I were concentrating our eyes on two very different things. In fact, in that Dear God moment, what he had alerted me to was indeed a snake. Its luminous body was twisting around the trunk, eyes fixed on the blue bird content in its solitude.

With a sharp ring that pierced the air, his phone announced itself. And as the words of “I told you I’m not going.” fell from his lips he slipped the phone into his pocket which missed and hit the floor, smashing to pieces and leaving shards in our path. At this moment I too noticed he had moved further towards the window, his mind fixed on the bird and the snake and the story unfolding on the tree in front of us.

Then I remembered something. He and I were both vegetarians, what the fuck were we doing? Standing to wait to see a bird be swallowed whole by its predator, I couldn’t bear the situation any further. It was time for courage; I didn’t care that this was Paul McCartney, the man who had sung Black Bird. I lunged to the window and clapped my hands together, punctuating the drama of the moment. The snake and the bird looked up. They’d not noticed our presence, the girl with the crimson cheeks, the pop star holding a camera.

In what seemed like slow motion the bird let out a squawk and flew off leaving the snake to wonder what might have been. Turning back towards Mr McCartney, I suggested, “if you’re not going to buy that camera, then I’d really like to.”

It was with some trepidation I made my way from Werribee to Carlton to lose my virginity.

My writing workshop virginity, that is.  I was Last-Minute Lucy, booking at the latest opportunity, when I couldn’t change my mind or let something else take priority. At least I didn’t look out of place, like a country mouse in the city house. We were a room full of middle-aged women upstairs in a Carlton café listening, laughing and realizing all the excuses we make for not writing are bullshit.

Dev the Diva says, in the tradition of well-known sportswear manufacturers, Just Do It.  No, it’s not selfish, self-indulgent or vain. No, you don’t need to do the ironing, wash your hair or walk the dog. No, you are smart enough, good enough, interesting enough and your story is worth telling. Life is short. Don’t be frightened – it’s not like your going to kill someone!

I thought I really should be writing in a handcrafted journal with a beautiful pen instead of thumping away on the keyboard – I can hear myself tap, tap, tap and everyone else is smooth and silent and I’m probably distracting everyone. I’m not a great typist, but I can edit as I go and what I like about the digital age is that the finished product is much neater and more accessible than my handwriting.

Perhaps you give away less of yourself when you use a keyboard – nobody can judge your handwriting or take it away to forensics and compare it to the murdering adulteress who turned her victims into soap and candles.  A typed paragraph is more anonymous, but equates to a smaller ratio of black to white on the page.

So, the message of today was to just keep writing, like Dory, just keep writing…. Don’t worry about what people think – it’s none of your business what other people think! All your misgivings, lack of self-confidence and excuses are not barriers but obstacles that can be overcome with determination, persistence and a few sticks and carrots thrown in along the way. So, in the words of that ageing musical aficionado, Do Yourself a Favour. Book in and spend the day with Dev. Eat great food. Write a bit. Then write a bit more and just keep writing.

Thanks Catherine, for sharing with us how to hack our own mind games. I hope one day I can pay it forward and give someone else the joy of reading that I have experienced.

Once upon there was. Upon a time perhaps. There was a family of individual people. The only thing they had in common was they liked to wear large black overcoats and hats – preferably top hats but bowler hats would do if you couldn’t get a top hat that fit.

This family of individual people was made up solely of males as the lady who was the wife and mother was dead. This was an unhappy event however every day the boys would look at a keepsake locket which contained a small, withered, browned at the edges, picture of the lady.

This family of individuals was distinguished by the fact that they were markedly different. The father was of average height, the first born was of a height that could at best be described as “of a small and somewhat miniature stature” and the third individual was what could only be called a “very above average stature”.

One day the two sons had started to argue over which hat was better, a top hat or a bowler, when their father walked in.

“I am the eldest, and if I say bowler hats are more comfortable, then they are. I’ve been around longer, and I know best” he said.

“You may be older, but you know nothing about hats and their wearing, as you’ve worn nowt but a bowler in your short life”, the younger brother replied. It was due to this comment, that the argument escalated, and the brothers became physical, attacking each other with gusto. The elder, wrapped his arms around the younger’s legs and, opening his mouth wide, took a great bite. And because of this, their father finally stepped in and declared “You’ll need to compromise”.

“Compromise!” spluttered the long, tall top hatted brother. “Compromise? I can’t compromise with that little weasel. He bit my kneecap!” and grunting with the effort he dragged himself over to his brother and began batting him about the head with his top hat. Determined to put an end to the nonsense, the father stepped in, shouting, “I said compromise! Not beat the living daylights out of each other”.

That was it, the final straw. The younger brother hoisted the older one under his arm, then shoved him underneath his big black coat. The older sibling squirmed and kicked but he was held fast.

“What are you doing?” screeched the father in horror. “You know he doesn’t like enclosed spaces”.

“I’m sick of this argument and I’m sick of having sore kneecaps” said the younger brother. “I’ve seen a new bespoke milliner has opened down the back alley so I’m taking the little fella there this moment. He’s jolly well getting a top hat fitted TODAY and he will jolly well like it!

“You have until ten PM before the wheels fall off”, the speaker droned on and on, same message, same monotonous tone. Was it meant to inspire them?

“This really isn’t helping” said Helen. Her feet were hurting, her sandal had broken and she’d eaten too much. Janet felt much the same but ploughed on.

“Just. Keep. Writing. We can drown in beer later” She was staring at a photo her daughter had torn from a magazine. An ape cradling a kitten. Helen looked over, “Ahhhh, cute”…

*****

Before the Magic Kingdom was shut down for animal cruelty, one of the most popular exhibits was the loved up gorilla, Maisy. The object of her affection; Jumbo the cat. Visitors flocked to see the two starts of the YouTube videos, the most popular time just after lunch, when Maisy would gently cradle Jumbo as she did a gorilla sized poo.

It was guaranteed to raise a giggle or an “Ahhhh, cute” in the assembled crowd. And enough for the welfare activists to launch a campaign to halt the embarrassing invasion of the couple’s most private moments.

But were Maisy and Jumbo any happier with the blinds drawn? Perhaps we all need an audience sometimes.

There once was a woman called Dev

Called to give wannabe writer’s a rev

The wind rushed through her fur as she ran.

Fur where the fuck did that come from, what was she?

The shot blasted over her shoulder, too close.

Adrenalin pushed her faster, now running on all fours she leaped over the creek and up the hill.

Strong muscles pumped her legs, no time to think, no time to think, shouts from behind, keep running.

Heading downhill picking up speed, she knew this place, it was familiar just up ahead was the large dead tree.

She skidded to a stop and crawled on her belly into the dark damp space, panting her tongue rolled over her bloody, razor sharp teeth.

She tried to slow her breathing she could hear the men close and their baying dogs barking wildly, fuck! her scent was strong no way they were going to miss that.

Slow the heart, clear the mind, she could do this.

Her vision blurred, her pungent smell started to fade, she fell into the blackness, she closed her eyes and let go.

Only one chance, she had better make it a good one.