The Fax By Holly Searle

Pixie Watkins had been a full time extra for the past ten years. Now however she was a part time extra and a full time mother to a 16 month old baby.

Although she loved being a mum, she was knackered and so when her agent had called her to say that she had a job for her, she jumped at the chance of a day away from it all.

She had been in the business for what seemed like a lifetime and although she reasoned that she would probably never win a BAFTA, she had been invited by them to attend the screening of a film that she had once had a small part in. How many people could make that claim she thought as she finished applying her make-up. She smiled at her reflection and thought with all things considered, she looked acceptable.

With her baby in the care of her mother, she made her way to the airport, where she boarded a small plane that took her on the very short blink or you'll miss it flight from London to Plymouth.

On arriving in Plymouth, she hailed a cab, gave the cabbie the address of the location and they set off to find the film crew.

A local regional news reporter's busy schedule had been her gain it would seem as her role for today was to act as her stand in so that the reporter could be released to read the early evening news.

Pixie didn't mind. It was just good to be able to have some time to herself for a few hours and to be part of the familiar buzz of a film set.

She always loved the way the passing public would stop to look to see what was going on. Did they wonder who she was she thought and smiled to herself. She was no great actress, but they didn't know that and it didn't really matter in the scheme of things, it was just exciting to be part of it all.

The filming was taking a little longer than anticipated and the assistant director came over to inform her that as it was now too late to fly back to London they had booked her into the local four star hotel for the night. She knew him from other jobs she had been on, so he suggested that she join him and some of the crew for dinner and drinks later that evening at the hotel.

After they wrapped, cabs were called and people were ferried to the hotel. Pixie checked into her room and plonked her bag on the floor and gave the en suite a quick once over before sitting on the bed.

She picked up the telephone to call her mother to see how the baby was and to inform her that she wouldn't be home until tomorrow afternoon.

She then called her boyfriend Stan, a photographer's assistant, life long Smiths fan and practical joker.

After two rings he answered. "Mark Redman and Associates, Stan speaking, can I help you?"

"Hellllooooo Stan, I am sure I can think of a few ways that you could."

"Well helllooooooo Miss Watkins, I am sure I could if I so wished, but I have to warn you that I am very expensive and charge by the hour. Whats up?"

"Oh, not much. The filming ran over sooooo, I am staying in Plymouth for the night. Shame you're not."

"Oh, I see, that's exciting for you. Are you in a hotel?"

"Yes I am. Why?"

"Oh nothing, just wondered. What are you going to do then?"

"Have dinner with Sean and the rest of the crew from Reels and enjoy myself."

"Oooooohhhh, get you! Well don't enjoy yourself too much."

"Oh give me a break!"

"Oh alright then. Look have a great time. Mark and I are off for a mince in the local, what's the number there? Actually, do they have a fax number?"

"Why?"

"Oh, never you mind. Maybe a fella might want to send his gal a special something later."

"Stan, don't muck about."

"I am not mucking about, I am being serious, just give it to me doll face."

"Okay, but I am trusting you not to do anything bloody stupid. It's 01752 661 610 for the hotel and the same for the fax accept that there is a one at the end of that number instead of a zero."

"Cool beans. Yeah, don't worry, I promise I won't."

"Okay. Don't drink too much. Love you."

"Yeah, laters."


Pixie replaced the handset and laid down on the bed. I am going to regret that she thought.


Later that evening she joined Sean and the others for dinner. It felt bloody odd to be sitting at a table with other adults instead of sitting at one and feeding the baby. At least this is evening she wouldn't end up with food all over her.

Sean told her to order whatever she wanted. She sensed that he felt at bit responsible for her being there, but after a few glasses of wine, she didn't mind. Just relax and enjoy it, she told herself, it's an evening off and when was the last time you had had one of those?

She couldn't remember. As a consequence, she ate and drank far too much. She thanked Sean and excused herself from the table and even though they wanted her to stay for more drinks, she doubted that she would still be upright after one more, so she made her way up to her room where she just managed to make it to her bathroom, before throwing up.

She sat on the bed. She had succeeded, she thought, in over doing it and that wasn't enjoyable. She turned her attention to the tv, staggered over to it and switched it on. There was laminated card resting on the top of it. She picked it up and returned to the bed which she proceeded to lay on in order to read it the card.

The card listed a selection of movies that could be accessed via the in house hotel film channel, most of which Pixie had seen. Her attention, however, was drawn to those listed under the Adult section and one in particular entitled Pinocchio made her raise her eyebrows. Curiosity got the better of her and she pushed herself off of the bed and gently made her way back to the tv. She found the remote, sat back down on the bed and followed the instructions on the card.

The film started just as the telephone rang.

She press pause and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hellooooooooo...”

“Oh, Stan, it's you. I am a bit drunk, no, I am a lot drunk..and I am just about to watch a film, so..”

“A film eh? Did you get my fax?”

“Are you drunk, you sound it. No, what fax?”

“I sent you a little something, just like I promised I would.”

“Oh God! No! I haven't had a fax. Where did you send it?”

“To the number you gave me.”

“Well, I have no fax, but I have a film too watch. I shall let you know if I ever get it. Bye!”

Stan was laughing “Yes do, as I want to hear what you think of it. Byeeeeee!”


After several attempts, Pixie successfully replaced the handset. Where was I, ah, yes. She turned back towards the tv, located the remote and pressed play.

She focused her attention on the film. Porn was probably the best kind of genre to watch especially if you found yourself alone and drunk in a hotel in Plymouth as the storyline was pretty thin and the end result a given.

She was quite looking forward to it when there was a knock at the door. She frowned. She looked at the tv grabbed the remote and swiftly ended the movie.

“Hold on, I am just coming.”

She caught a quick glimpse of herself as she passed the full length mirror on the wall. God she looked rough and contrary to her earlier thoughts, she had ended up with food on her clothes post throw up. Jesus, she thought, one night away from home and your attempts to tick every box on the form entitled Human Degradation and Embarrassment is nearly full.

She opened the door to find two police officers standing there, one WPC and one PC.

“Yes, is everything okay?”

“Good evening Miss, no far from it. Do you know a Mr Mark Redman Miss?”

“Yes, my boyfriend works for him, why?”

The PC looked as though he was going to break out into fits of laughter, the WPC didn't.

“Well Miss, they have received a rather offensive fax in reception and they called us.”

“Offensive? Do you have it with you?”

“No Miss, but if you could speak to your boyfriend and ask him not to send any further faxes Miss, we would appreciate that Miss.”

Pixie mentally ticked another box on the form.

“Yes, I shall do that right now officer.”

The WPC just looked at her.

If looks could kill Pixie thought, I would be toast. “Thank you Miss.”

She looked from one to the other and nodded at them both and then shut the door.

She made her way back to the bed and sat on it and dialled Stan's number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, what exactly was in this fax you sent me?”

He started to laugh.

“Why, haven't you got it?”

“No, I haven't got it, but two members of the Plymouth Police force have just paid me a visit and have informed me that it is rather offensive.”

He was still laughing.

“It's not funny Stan, now tell me what was on it?”

“Oh it was just a photo I thought you might like, that's all. A nice young man, just your type.”

“Right, well, what can I say other than cheers for embarrassing me.”

“Oh, come on, don't be like that Pix, I thought it would make you laugh.”

“Laugh? Yeah, it's hilarious, enjoy the rest of your evening!”

She hung up. She was furious, not so much about the fax, but due to the fact that her evening off had been ruined with her over indulgence and because she would never get to find out what Pinocchio was capable of.

She decided just like Scarlet O’Hara that tomorrow was another day and went into the en suite to get ready for bed.

After cleaning herself up, she felt a little better. Snooze time she thought. She turned off the lights and snuggled down until she found her favourite sleeping position.

She was just starting to relax when she heard a shuffling sound outside her door. Her heckles suddenly went up. Then came the sound of muffled laughter as something was pushed under the door.

She got up and walked over to the door. There on the floor was a plain brown envelope. She returned to the bed, sat down and opened it. Inside there was a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and there sitting on an Emmanuel styled round backed wicker chair was a man, a naked man. A naked man with a huge erection that you could have hung a coat on. Written across the top on the fax in magic marker were the words How about this boy then? Stan xxxxx

Everyone’s a comic she thought. She folded it and pushed it back in the envelope and went to sleep.


The following morning when she woke up, she suddenly developed a healthy attack of paranoia as she recalled in the cold light of the morning the events of the previous evening. God The team on reception would know all about the activities of the guest staying in her room and the fact that she had tried to watched Pinocchio. God The film crew that would be paying for her room would know about it as well. God

She switched on the tv. On the breakfast show they were running a feature on the 80's pop star Yazz. They were playing her hit The Only Way is Up.

Life mocks me once again she thought.

She got dressed and packed her things away and decided that the best course of action was to adopt the guise of a fleeing criminal. So she called reception and asked them to arrange a cab for her. When it had arrived, they called her to let her know, at which point, she made a dash for the lobby, left the keys on the front desk and jumped into the waiting cab.


She arrived home to find a bunch of flowers waiting for her from Stan.

The note with them simply read "Forgive me?"

She called him.

"Thanks for the flowers, you are forgiven, although I am still slightly annoyed with you."

"Ah, don't be annoyed, it was a well intended joke. I am sure you'll look back on it in a few days time and laugh about it."

"You think?"

"Yes, be guided by your conscious."

"What? Are you telling me to that I should always let my conscious be my guide?"

Pixie laughed.

"And why exactly is that funny?"

Marmalade By Holly Searle

I love marmalade, especially Tiptree. I place my love for this bitter sweet jelly firmly at the feet of my father who introduce me to it many years ago. Even now, when I feel like treating myself I will spend quite a while pondering the vast selection on display at the supermarket until I select one that I either a) feel happy with or b) I have never tried before.

I then look forward to eating it, on toast, the following morning for breakfast. Bliss.

I was so taken with it, that one year I decided to make my own. How hard could it be I wondered ?

It was an exercise that I soon discovered required a lot of deconstruction in order to reconstruct something else.

It took a long time. The process involved sourcing not only the ingredients, but also vast amounts of jars into which the eventual product could be housed.

It was a labour of love, one that was hard work, but nevertheless, productive and enjoyable with a positive outcome in the end.

In May 2010, I became very unwell. At first, I didn't realise how unwell I was, but looking back now, I can clearly see just how sick I was. I suffered both a mental and physical breakdown. It wasn't nice and it was the bleakest moment in my life.

When something like that happens to you, you have no control over it at all. One moment you are spinning plates and juggling balls and then the next you are scratching your head and staring at the floor wondering why there are broken pieces of china and balls all over the place.

You have no recollection of who you are.

At that moment, everything came to a full stop in my life and I spent the days, weeks, months and years that followed, deconstructing it all, in order to reconstruct something else. I started making marmalade.

The day I first went to see my GP, I was on autopilot. She is and will forever remain the primary heroine of this tale to recovery, because without her help, I doubt I would be telling you this story today. She took me in hand and offered me all the support I needed.

I didn't want to take any medication as I was having trouble at that point even remembering where I lived. It was pretty scary stuff. I have no recollection to this day of the first few weeks after its initial occurrence at all. All that I had known, simply vanished.

Time passed and I returned to see my GP again. I was still raw and incredibly vulnerable and at that point she introduced the idea of speaking to someone that would assist me further. I agreed and it was arranged.

What you need to understand, is that I was this powerhouse of a human being. I had a well paid job in which, I was seen as a productive asset. My life was fixed and regimented and for five days a week, it was the same. Get up, get dressed, get my son ready, walk him to school, walk to work, work, walk home, collect my son from his after school club, walk home, make dinner, bed, sleep. Next day, repeat. At the weekends I cleaned up and prepared for the following five days.

I would take a holiday twice a year during April and August, months with only A's in I used to joke. I was a hamster spinning in a wheel, that span and span and span, until one day it fell off its axle.

When you suffer a breakdown, your mind goes blank. It is like your hard drive has been wiped clean and you have to learn how to function all over again.

A good day for me consisted of being able to do a load of washing successfully. I was so tired. I became scared of leaving the house as the thought of taking a bus or a train or even having to speak to other people was a nightmare. My actions became over exaggerated and I found it hard to even speak to anyone on the telephone.

I lost all sense of myself completely.

The appointment to see the counsellor was horrific. I walked into the office and felt ashamed for being there. I had no idea what to expect and I wasn't prepared for what did.

The man who I saw, asked me to explain to him why I was there. So Told him that several weeks before, I had been up a ladder clearing my loft. My daughter was helping me. I had been passing down boxes to her that needed sorting through and she observed how I much stuff there was. At that point, I thought “Well it is a good job I am sorting this all out now as I am not going to be here much longer.”

I cried when I told him that. He then asked me to outline my life in the remaining forty minutes of the session. A big ask. I gave him the abridge version. We made another appointment during which he ripped me to pieces. How a person can do that after only spending just over an hour with a stranger is still beyond me.

However, out of a negative a positive follows. He gave me a booklet that listed all of the local Mental Health organisation and suggested I call one in particular as “They always answered.” So I did. I called them and that is how I started to get better.

Meeting my first counsellor was the best thing that could have happened to me. To be able to speak to someone who was not there to judge me, was the most liberating experience I have ever had. It enabled me to share with them things that I couldn't share with anyone else. I was astonished at the amount of stuff I had to get off my chest. My mind palace had become a rather unsavoury squat in which all sorts of insecurities and hoarded unwanted rubbish had began to pile up. It wasn't pretty, but speaking to her, helped me to make sense of it all and taught me how to tidy up and put things in order.

There were peaks and troughs, it wasn't a sprint, it was a long distance race with no clearly determined finishing line.

I was devastated when I could no longer see her as she had finished her six month intership at the institution. I still needed help and I eventually met the second person who enabled me to see that the end of my journey was both plausible and possible.

From beginning to the end, I spent over 18 months seeing my counsellors. When I arrived, my life was drained of colour, when I eventually felt ready to leave, the world looked bright and vivid to me like a new place that I had never seen before and I wasn't scared any more.

They extended an open invitation to me too return if I needed too and that was the most apt safety net that anyone could have strung below my tightrope wire.

And here is what I learnt. The recipe I had been following to make marmalade was all wrong and I had to find a new one. So I used my recovery time wisely. I did all the things I hadn't been able to do before because I was constantly caught in a series of ever decreasing circles. I reconnected with old friends, I went to places I had never been before, I made new friends, I started living again and more importantly I began to rebuild my life.

Even though I lost my job, I didn't loose my home and I am proud of the fact that throughout this whole process I never once miss a payment on my mortgage. The most import and astonishing thing I realised, was that certain aspects and functions of my old life were so unnecessary and without them, I still able to maintain a reasonable standard of living without all the stresses of the hamster wheel. The fear that had kept me imprisoned for years was just that, a fear, as the reality of no longer living under its regime was surprisingly manageable.

It has been a long journey that at times has been incredibly painful and relentless. It forced me to look at and to deal with situations I wasn't always ready or able to deal with. But, I am better and stronger now and if I ever feel indifferent, I recognise why straight away and by taking a mental deep breath, I am able work out how to deal with it.

I am now new and improved, a fresh batch of marmalade and a successful product of my own reconstruction and for that, I will always be, eternally grateful.

As a postscript, I would like to thank the following people, without whom I would never have got here.

Dr Lucas and Dr Pigett, my wondrous female GP tag team who put me back together.

Matt for calling me ever day to make sure I was okay. Tom for the cuddles.

The stupendous Margaret for listening and forming a super glue fixed bond that will remain with me forever.

Renee for all her vim and infectious view of the world.

All of those at the MCPS.

Yvonne for all of the support you gave me.

Red for all your endless longdistance support and love.

All of my friends who rallied around and checked in to check me out.

All my Cyberspace Pals.



And to my beautiful children, thank you for baring with me until I got all the water out of the sinking boat.

The Foreign Correspondent Years By Holly Searle

Many years ago when Child One reached a certain age, I came to realise that as our offspring enter the Autumn phase of their childhood their hormones start to kick in yelling "Winter in coming!" At which point, it's best to be prepared for all that follows in spite of ourselves.

All that has bound us to them and them to us in the intervening years, monetarily becomes redundant as we find ourselves in the company of an individual that resembles our child but whose temperament we no longer recognise.

When this first happened, I was horrified. Where had my daughter disappeared too? Had she been kidnapped by those alien body snatchers and replaced by a doppelgänger that had been grown in a pod? She looked like my daughter, but she certainly didn't act like her.

It may be harder for the child of a single parent and the single parent of a child to deal with this transition, as the bond between them is often stronger than that of those formulated within the structure of the traditional family unit. I can only speak for myself, but ours was. We were two companions, a tag team adrift in the world, keeping it all together and exploring life on our joint adventures.

So when she did disappear I didn't know what to do or who to turn to. I thereafter came to refer to this period in our lives as the foreign correspondent years, as while she was still there in body at least, her mind was elsewhere and communication was limited. She would report back from time to time, but more often than not, it was strained and at best, we were held at the mercy of a dodgy satellite connection.

At times this was incredibly difficult to deal with for both of us. She was spreading her wings and bridging the gap between childhood and adulthood and I couldn't help her. I became a hindrance to her, the target for all of her contempt. It was heartbreaking.

When this situation first arose I panicked, but then I found it was probably best to just sit back and ride along with it in the hope that she would return relatively unscathed from her trip. Just like Steve Martin's character Gil Buckman in Parenthood, I began to see that being a parent was not dissimilar to boarding a roller coaster ride. There are ups and downs, twists and turns and sometimes you feel excited, while at others you just feel sick. But like all rides, as sure as it begins, so must it end.

I have a huge amount of respect and love for my daughter. She is an intelligent beautiful woman and the first love of my life.

After it was over, she did eventually return to me and although our relationship had altered, we became stronger for it.

In light of this experience, I have reminded myself recently that I am about to embark upon it once again with Child Two. He is after all on the verge of of this journey and I feel that the remembrance of his earlier event, will at least prepare me (and him) for it.

The early signs have already started to appear, but unlike before, I am ready, but will our forthcoming experience, mirror that of the previous one?

There are a lot of urban parental myths about babies and children. It starts from before they are even born. If you are carrying a child a certain way, you are told by the matriarchal members of your tribe that this predicts the gender of the child. I don't believe any of that. Unless you ask during the course of one of your scans, you do not know until the midwife tells you after you have delivered the baby. At which point, even though you are so tired from pushing a huge baby out through a small hole, if she doesn't, I am sure you will ask.

When I had Child One, she was the perfect baby. Even though my labour was long, she was so chilled out and relaxed, that she actually fell asleep whilst being born. She was and is so good natured, that I thought that all babies were like her. She also has a fantastic sense of humour which I put down to all of those episodes of Batman staring Adam West I watched on Night Network while I was pregnant with her.

Child Two however was a very different story altogether. He was a wriggler even before he was born. And when he was born, he was born very quickly and made such a fuss that even the midwife took offence.

Child One overhearing my labour screams later confided in me that she was “Going to adopt."

One thing I can say for absolute certainty is that their personalities are the same today as they were on the days they were born (and possibly before).

After such a long labour, Child One was taken away from me for the night so that I could get some rest. Within half an hour, the nurse returned with her saying that she just wouldn't settle, so she snuggled up with me and we both fell asleep together.

Even though she is the eldest and very independent, she will revert to this initial mode of behaviour when she needs me and that is something, that I believe was established from that moment on.

Child Two on the other hand wouldn't settle after he was born. He set a patten thereafter as being a baby that never slept. For a while he was upside down and slept during the day, but never at night. I didn't even know that I was capable of functioning on so little sleep. I don’t think I slept properly for the first two years of his life. When he righted himself, he never took a nap and when he did, he was always a fretful sleeper and still is today. He choose not to speak until quite late. He would just point at things and as we had created a language based upon his actions, I always knew exactly what he wanted or needed. Many hearing tests later, I was told that there was nothing wrong with him, he just didn't want to speak. When he did eventually start talking, it was a pleasure to hear his voice at last, especially one that was full of so much inquisition at every opportunity.

While she is the very essence of serenity, he has always been busy and not unlike the robot from Short Circuit, Johnny 5, has always required continual input. So Child Two has been filled to the brim with input and just like Johnny 5 is very smart due to the natural curiosity of his nature. Which in my mind, is a good thing and explains why he was always exploring, rather than sleeping.

He is the second love of my life and I am blessed to have two such remarkable children.

And the most remarkable thing about my children, are how these aspects of their personalities compliment mine. While I can spend a pleasurable comfortable silence in the company of my daughter, I am always able to learn something new in the company of my son.

In the Jekyll and Hyde karmatic fabric of the universe, I do therefore wonder if he will in fact coast through this forthcoming event without any disruption at all having had so many earlier on in his childhood. It is a possibility (fingers crossed).

Knowing your children is in all probability what will assist you most when they are off in the wilderness of their own foreign correspondent years.

As I have been there once before, I am blessed at least with the knowledge that something may or may not alter soon. But just to be on the safe side, I am already in the queue waiting to board the ride once more. At least from this angle I can see the roller coaster from where I am standing and it doesn't look as scary as it did before, this time it looks manageable.

Stardust By Holly Searle

For my friend Nik Ratcliffe, one of the best girlfriends I have.

Kitty Ryan's favourite Singer had been Nat King Cole. She was a girl and then a woman who embodied romantic notions of love, so when she had first heard him crooning from the radio, she knew he was the one for her. It was love at first note.

His rendition of Stardust was therefore the song she had chosen to bid her farewell on her exit from this mortal coil. At last she would be reunited with Frank in the cemetery plot that they had purchased together and in which he had been resting for the past twenty odd years.

Maybe not the most appropriate tune for a funeral Walt pondered as he sat in the church listening to Nat's melodic silken tones, but then again, why not? Who had the final word in their own ending if not for the person who had been the major participant in it? Fair play to Kitty, it was after all her day.

It summed up Kitty and all she had stood for in her 87 years on this planet Walt thought. She had always been an eternal optimist always making time for others, listening to their woes and offering a shoulder to cry on and a sympathetic ear as well as a sweet cup of hot tea. No, no one would dare voice an uncharitable word or cynical eye roll about her musical choice. Quite the opposite in fact, for if they had truly known Kitty, they would be smiling with tears in their eyes.

Walt had met Kitty after he had retired from his life in London to the seaside and moved into the modest little house opposite hers in a quiet back street in Brighton.

All the tiny Victorian cottages were painted in complementary pastel shades that would have looked out of place in any other location other than by the seaside. Walt had liked that, he felt that after all that he had seen, that the tranquil coloured houses were just what he needed. Happy houses he had thought when he had first had laid his eyes upon them.

It was after Walt had just moved in and was finally settled and unpacked, that one sunny afternoon he had first met Kitty. He was tending to the window boxes at the front of the house, when he heard a voice.

“ My Frank always loved flowers. “ it said. Walt turned towards its direction and there was Kitty with her beaming smile.

Walt moved towards her and introduced himself “Walter Hawkins” he said extending his hand out to her. “Please call me Walt.” Kitty took it and said “Katharine Ryan, Kitty, very pleased to meet you Walt.”

She was much older than Walt, mid eighties he thought, but still beautiful and well kept. She had a way about her, a friendly manner that was long gone in so many others these days. It shone out of her like sunshine he thought.

“ I saw that you had moved in, I thought that I would wait until you were more settled before I said hello.” She said “I live just opposite, in the green one.” She indicated with her hand pointing backwards over her right shoulder. “If you need to know anything about the area, who, what or where, just ask.” She continued. “Being a stranger in a new place can often be isolating and we don't want that do we?” She smiled.

“No, indeed we do not.” Said Walt smiling back.

And that was how their friendship had begun, as so many do, with a simple exchange and a smile.

After that day, Walt became more aware of Kitty and her ways. She wasn't a nosy old dear, just a genuine people person. He felt quite protective towards her as their friendship developed and even though she was very independent he would often ask if she needed anything when he was popping out to the shops, or if she needed any help.

“No Walt, I am fine thank you dear.” She would always say.

On bright clear days she would open her front window to “Let the day in and the night out and to cleanse her thoughts.” On those days, Walt would often hear the gentle sounds of Nat King Cole drifting across the road from her house to his. This was always a great comfort to him and would make him smile.

And Kitty wasn't lonely either, as there was always a steady stream of visitors of both family and friends to her home.

One crisp day when Walt was on his way home from from town, Kitty called out through her front window as he was passing and asked him if he'd like to join her for a cup of tea. Why not he thought. Thereafter this became a regular thing between the two of them. Walt soon discovered why Kitty had so many friends. She was a joy and a pleasure, a treasure trove of a human being who was easy to talk to and who never tired of listening. She also had many colourful tales of her own to tell about her life both before and after Frank, that Walt adored hearing. She was a very rare thing, a true human being who made no demands on others and who was very wise. She was a gift.

Walt hadn't really wanted to reveal too much about his life before his move, but in a way it was good to share his history with a friend. Especially one that was as non judgemental as Kitty.

During one afternoon in her garden Kitty asked “Walt, forgive me, but I have to ask. You intrigue me.” Walt frowned, it was the first time he had heard anyone in his fifty years ever describe him in that way. He had always just been Walt, that reliable bloke, dedicated to his job, a good work colleague that could be trusted to do what was expected of him, but never intriguing.

“Why?” he said.

“ Well, my Frank used to say A man alone is a mystery to me and he was right. I see a man and he is on his own and that is a mystery to me because I cannot for the life of me understand why Walt?”

Walt returned her gaze as Kitty took his hand in hers “ We are friends and forgive me, but I just don't understand why you are alone. When you first arrived here, I thought to myself Oh I wonder when his wife and children will arrive? but they never did”.

“ Oh, I see, that.” Walt replied a little uncomfortable. “ Well, there is no mystery Kitty, I just never found the right woman, some of us weren't as lucky as you and Frank.”

Kitty squeezed his hand “ Weren't? Why are you speaking in the past tense? You're still a young man, handsome, caring and you like flowers.” She laughed “ Why if I was twenty-five years younger!” And they both laughed. But Walt felt the need to explain.

“I was always so busy at work, I never really had the opportunity to meet the right person.” He offered. “ I joined the police as a young lad and spent my entire career focusing on my work. I kept thinking I would meet someone, then one day I realised how much time had passed me by without even knowing it and I was shocked, so when the option to retire came up, I decided I had done enough and just wanted some time to reflect.”

Kitty raised her eyebrows and nodded her head and gave him her please continue look.

“ Well, I saw so much during my career, things I cannot even begin to talk about Kitty, so I found it hard to let anyone in. So many ugly things and situation, who else would have understood all of that? Being soft just wasn't an option. It never seemed fair to burden another person with the life I chose. In the end, I felt that I had given my all and I was so tired of it all, but now I see that it was at a cost, as I wish had found someone. Maybe I underestimated the empathy that another person could have been capable of? Maybe now is a good time to think about my Options?”

Kitty nodded and held his gaze, but Walt removed his hand from hers to give himself some space, as he suddenly felt very self conscious. He covered his action by drinking some of his tea. He felt exposed discussing personal things. He was so tired of the discomfort he felt. But is was true. Now he had retired and moved away from his previous life, his loneliness appeared to be amplified. If he hadn't made friends with Kitty, he might have gone on thinking it was okay. But now more than at any other time in his life, he didn't so much feel lonely, but just craved the companionship of another human being. God bless her caring enough to notice. Now that had he vocalised it, it sadden him, but it was also a relief.

How he wanted to break out, to be free to find a compass to guide his way forward from this point. Where was he? Adrift in a vast ocean of loneliness that's where. The only tangible thing he had was Kitty.

He was suddenly overwhelmed by this revelation and he began to cry as he mourned for all the time he had lived without that connection to another human being.

“Let it all out Walt.” Kitty soothed, “ Better out than in.” She offered up with all the knowing of someone who had also dealt their loss in the same way.

She moved closer and stroked his back and there they sat in the peace of her garden for as long as it took to dismantle the past.


Walt looked around the church. It was full to the brim. So many people, this was the measure of someone’s life he thought, the people who came for whatever reason, to celebrate the fact that you had once been here. His eyes rested on Kitty's family. Her children Nathan and Annie, their respective spouses and their children. All here because Kitty had once been. Walt felt a sudden tinge of jealousy and then ashamed to be thinking of himself on such a day.


After the funeral, Nathan and Annie had arranged a gathering at the church hall. Walt had never really spoken to them although he had often seen them when they had visited Kitty. He entered the hall and was pleased to see them welcoming the mourners at the door. He approached and introduced himself to them both.

Both Annie and Nathan gave him the same warm welcome that their mother always had.

“ I am so sorry.” Walt said extending his had towards Nathan “ She was a true inspiration, a lovely woman. I will miss her.” Nathan shook Walt's hand and placed the other on his shoulder “ Thank you mate.” Nathan replied. “ She mentioned you often and enjoyed your company and we were glad that you were there, just opposite her if she needed anything, although knowing Mum, she probably never did, but all the same.”

“The street won't be the same without her.” Said Walt. “No.” Said Nathan.


When he arrived home Walt looked out of his window towards Kitty's house. There was no music now and he wondered if there would ever be again. He blew a kiss in the direction of her house “I will miss you Kitty.”


A few weeks later, early one morning, Walt became aware of the all noise and activity across the street at Kitty's house. He looked out of the window and saw Nathan with Annie overseeing the grim task of removing items from Kitty's house. He felt for them, the thought of having to sort through someone else’s items, couldn't be a pleasant. He left them to it with a tear in his eye and a pain in his heart.

Later there was a knock at his door and Walt was pleased to see that it was Nathan.

“Hello mate, how are you?”

“ Oh, could be better. We are sorting through Mum's stuff and I found these and I wanted to give them to you in person while I was here.” Nathan handed Walt a letter addressed to him and a small flat wrapped item. Walt took both and looked at the letter. “Thank you.” He said “I will read this later.”

“Also, are you busy, can I ask you a favour?”

“Of course.” Said Walt “Please come in.”

After Walt had made Nathan a cup of tea and they had settled in the living room, Walt said “So, what can I do for you?”

“Well.” Said Nathan “ Mum said that you had been in The Police, is that right?” “Yes, thirty years service.” Replied Walt “ What do you need? ”

“Annie and I have decided to sell Mum's house, she wanted us to, but it needs a bit of work doing on it and as we aren't close by and seeing as you are and well because you knew Mum and because of what you did, we just wanted to know if you could keep an eye on the house. Please say no if you can't, we will understand.”

“I would be delighted” Walt replied “ It is the least I can do as she never allowed me to do anything for her in the, well in the past, look it will be a pleasure Nathan.”

“Thanks Walt, but only if you are sure? We can leave you a set of keys and exchange numbers? That way, I can let you know when someone is coming to quote on the work, is that okay?”

“Absolutely Nathan, my pleasure.”


Later after Nathan had gone, Walt hung Kitty's keys on a hook in the kitchen. He then picked up the letter and the package that he had also given him and went in to the garden. He sat down and placed the small flat shaped item on the garden table and then turned his attention to the letter.


Dear Walt,

I am so glad that we had the opportunity to become friends.

Our time together meant the world to me.

I have left you one of my most treasured items.

Listen in good health, especially the third song.

And please remember Walt, never say never.

All my love,

Kitty x


Walt placed the letter on the table and picked up the item. He unwrapped it and saw that it was a CD, a Nat King Cole CD. He turned it over and looked at the track listings. Track number three was When I fall in Love. He immediately walked back into the house and slipped it into the CD player and selected the track and pressed play. He then walked to the window and opened it as wide as he could and smiled.


When Nathan called Walt later that week to say that a man called Bill Masters, a local builder, would be calling in on him to collect the keys later that day, he asked him if he wouldn't mind showing him around. Walt, said it was fine and he would.

At just after seven, a van pulled up outside Walt's house and a young man in his late twenties got out. He looked at Kitty's house across the road and then at a piece of paper he held in his hand, before turning on his heels and heading for Walt's front door.

Walt grabbed the keys to Kitty's house on the way to answer the knock at the door. Bill Masters held out his hand “Hi, Walt? I am Bill from Master Builders, I understand that you have the keys to number 46?”

Walt shook Bill's hand. “Yes, I am and I do. Nice to meet you Bill. Shall we go?”


As they crossed over the road to Kitty's house Bill Said “Nice road, nice house, I understand that you were a friend of the lady that lived here?”

“That's right. “ said Walt “She was a lovely lady, I miss her very much. It is a great house, I am sure is won't be on the market long before someone puts an offer in, but I doubt they will be able to replace Kitty.”

Walt opened the door and Bill followed him in and closed the door behind him. It felt odd and intrusive to be entering Kitty's house without her being there to invite them in. It was the first time he had been there without her ever being there. He suddenly realised that it had been emptied and now all that was left was the house itself and that just felt hollow.

Bill's voice suddenly filled the void. “Shall I have a quick look round? Nathan said he thought it needed a bit of work, but to be honest, and you won't hear this from that many builders, but it looks to be in pretty good nick to me. Great house, nice original features and I bet there is a solid wood floor under the carpet crying out to be seen.”

“Yes do” Said Walt and Bill disappeared up the stairs to see the rest of the house. Walt remained downstairs and slowly walked around, he could hear Bill above him knocking on walls and opening and closing doors and windows.

Walt went into the garden and waited for Bill. After a short while he heard him coming back down the stairs. Moments later, Bill was standing next to him. “ Well, are you going to call Nathan and give him a quote for the work?” Walt asked “I think I am going to do more than that, I think I am actually going to put in an offer for the place.”
“Really?” Walt responded “For yourself or to sell on? Sorry, it isn't really any of my business.”

“No, no, not for me, for my Mum actually, Julia, she asked me to keep a look out for any properties for her to buy. Long story, which I won't go into, but she would love this house. I shall take a few photos if that is okay to show her and then, if she likes it, great, if not I will call Nathan and give him a quote for the work.”

“ Sounds like a plan, yes work away I am sure Nathan won't mind and I am sure knowing Kitty, she wouldn't have either.”

“Great.” Said Bill and “I will try not to keep you too much longer I am sure your family must be wondering if you have been abducted by now?”

“Sadly not, as I don't have one.” Said Walt “Oh, sorry mate, I didn't mean to. I mean I just assumed.” “Like you said Bill, long story. Photos?” Walt reminded him. “Yep, on it, I won't be long.” And with that Bill was off again, visiting each room to take photos to show his Mum.

Walt walked Bill back to his car, said goodbye and returned to his house.


The following morning Nathan called him. “Hi Walt, I just wanted to say thank you for showing Bill Masters around Mum's house last night.”

“My pleasure Nathan, he seemed very keen on the house.”

“Yes he was very keen, so much so, that he has put an offer in, which Annie and I are considering. Listen do you mind keeping hold of the keys for a bit longer?”

“No, not at all, just let me know if you need me to do anything else.”

“Will do. Thanks again mate, bye.”

“Bye Nathan.”

Walt replaced the handset and thought about what Kitty would think and decided that she would have liked Bill Masters.


A few days later, Walt was returning home when he saw Bill's van parked outside Kitty's house with Bill sitting in it. As he drew closer, both doors of the van opened and Bill got out of one side, while a woman got out of the other.

Bill turned and waved at Walt and Walt waved back. The lady also turned and smiled at Walt.

“Walt, this is my Mum Julia. Mum this is Walt.”

“Please to meet you Walt.” Said Julia.

“Please to meet you too.” Said Walt.

“Are you here to look at the house?” Walt asked “ Mum came down from London today, out of the blue after I had told her about it, I know it wasn't planned, but do you think it would be okay?” Asked Bill. “Let me just call Nathan” Said Walt “Great” Said Bill.

Nathan said it was fine, he also told Walt that they had decided to accept Bill's offer and said that he would call Bill in a while to tell him. In the meantime, he asked Walt to let them into the house before he called them with the news.

Walt did as he was asked and left Bill and Julia alone in the house while he returned to his own to make some lunch.

While he prepared it, he decided a bit of Nat King Cole was needed, so he went into the living room, placed the CD kitty had left him into the CD player and opened his front window and pressed play.

Just before track three started to play, there was a knock at the front door. When Walt answered it he was surprised to see Julia there. “Bill said that you were the key holder, well for now at least, so I am just returning them.” She smiled and handed them back to Walt. “Thanks.” He said “ What do you think of the house?” “It's just perfect.” Beamed Julia “And they have accepted the offer, so hopefully it won't be too long before we are neighbours.” “That's great.” Said Walt smiling back at her surprised by his own openness towards someone he had just met.

Julia smiled “ It isn't isn't it?”

“Yes” Said Walt.

“That's Nat King Cole isn't it?”

“Yes it is”

“I just adore him and this is one of my favourite songs, that's a good omen as well isn't it?” Said Julia.

“Yes” Said Walt “I believe it is.”

I Would Do Anything For Love, But I Won't Do That (And Neither Should You). By Holly Searle

I have found myself recently imagining which Dickens persona’s best match those of the people I know and love and of the people that I meet on a daily basis. Think for example about the wealth of characterisations Dickens identifies in Great Expectations (one of my favourites) and then think of all of the people that you know that you could attribute those characterisations to.

It works quiet well I find. Let's face it, we all know or are related to the likes of Abel Magwitch, Miss Havisham, Pip, Mrs Joe, Jaggers, Herbert Pocket, Estella, Biddy or Joe Gargery.

I think out of that entire list, Joe is the one character I love more than all the others. He embodies the most charitable wealth of personality traits towards Pip as he forgives him and is kind to him despite his social ladder climbing and his temporary abandonment of him. Joe's protection and encouragement of Pip can only be read as real love for him in the end as all he wants is what is best for Pip and nothing more in spite of his own needs and feelings.

Associating with various characters throughout our lives reflects some of the traits we recognise in ourselves and that is why every person that you have known, do know or will know in you life affects you in a different way. They present you with something that you can relate to and when this appreciation is reciprocated, relationships are made and bonds are forged. Some of which may last forever, some of which may not.

Pip is a very naive character. His humble beginnings and the cause and effect of his actions and the associations he is encouraged to make, lead him on a journey. As he grows, he realises that the people who care for him the most are not those whom he first suspected, but those who set him free to discover for himself who he actually is.

But what happens when you do not have the strength of character to form these realisations and when there are people who take advantage of your venerability and damn well just take you on a taxi ride going no where fast?

I have spent far too much time in my life lamenting the would have, could have and should have been disappointing relationships I have had with various chaps along the way

I think of all the heartbreak and Jane Austen rose coloured glasses I have broken along the way and it makes me quite cross now, as I realise I shouldn't have wasted so much time trying to get inside the head of another individual, but instead should have used the time to focus on more positive aspects of my life.

Let's face it, we have all been then, The Rejected (sounds like a Martin Scorsese film now I think of it),the dating road kill, left in the middle of life's highway, until we muster the strength to pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off and start all over again.

But, let's face it, we have also all also probably been the rejecter as well and the dating karmer police gets us all in the end.

Recently however,I had an epiphany with regards to all of this loves labour lost malarkey.

One evening I started to think about all of those chaps that I wasted all my time and energy mooning over. I can think of several whom I was convinced I was in love with and who had broken my heart, so I did a bit of healthy googling and opened Pandora’s box and found hope.

For what I discovered was that although hindsight may be a wonderful thing, it can also be a reality check for all of us. I found photos of one man who had professed his undying love for me and then had stamped all over my heart in a pair of Dr Marten's steel toe capped boots, looking rather bald and middle aged and well hugely disappointing.


Then it came to me, how lucky I had been not to have ended up with him. Result!

Next I discovered an ex looking bloated and shorter than I had remembered. Chalk up two lucky escapes, I was on a roll, thank you Google.

Then a manic depressive who also suggested marriage, but who then married another still sprouting negativity from the strap lines on his social networking page.

Or re-reading my diary entries (yes I keep one every year) about the man whom I thought cared for me but on reflection now appears to been nothing more than a rather sad married man who was in the throws of a mid life crisis. I forgive you.

Hallelujah, praise the Lord, I have been saved from men who devolved while I have evolved, I am a sunbeam intended for the greater adventures still to come. Make it so Number One, engage.

It makes me happy to realise my good fortune and how none of those men would have been a suitable suitor for me, but most of all it also made me realise that I will never waste time crying over another man again and why should I?

Once you adopt this approach it it so much better. Meeting a man is no longer the centre of my universe and that feels like such a relief after squatting in so many fairy tale mind towers waiting for knights on horseback to arrive to whisk me away. I am free, free to get on with my life and enjoy it without worrying about it all any more.

My conformation of this is never more apparent when I see a friends stuck in the ever decreasing cycles that I was once caught up in, loathing themselves for not being good enough and inflicting unnecessary blame on themselves for not getting a text or a call from the person they have placed all of their life happiness savings upon. If they aren't responding to your messages or calls, abandon ship I want to scream and stop torturing yourself, life is passing you by at an alarming rate, please don't spend it alone at home crying into your pillow.

No, me, these days I invest all of my happiness savings into doing what makes me happy. So I spend it in the company of my family, good friends.

I have therefore returned my Miss Havisham outfit (it was getting a bit gloomy to be honest) and have developed an appreciation for my own company and just like Pip, I have finally discovered who I am because I was exhausted and eventually set myself free from it all.

I never say never to meeting someone who meets my great expectations and I have no doubt that one day I shall, but where I once I would have done anything for love, I won't been doing that, ever again and neither should you.

And I Thought My Bothered Pocket was Empty By Holly Searle

I don't know if it's because I now know what I like and feel comfortable with that makes me realise what I don't, or if it's simply because I am older, but I can tell you this for nothing, some things just make me just want to scream.

Just like Edvard Munch iconic painting, when my spidey senses start to tingle with irritation, I feel the urge to claps both hands to the side of my head and open my mouth and scream in the general direction of those who are inflicting such social bête noires within the realm my own personal life space.

And, I believe it is going to get worse, before it gets better and I shall tell you why.

Frustration. One word that sums up the state mind of most of the world's population. And why are people so frustrated? Well ostensible in the west, because they are unhappy with their lot as they have been mis sold an idealistic unobtainable ideology of the expectations of how their lives should be (and look).

And when it dawns on them that it's all just smoke and mirrors created by marketing spin doctors, they feel cheated and unhappy and frustrated.

Or they are frustrated because they are unable to afford the lifestyle laid out before them in between the covers of the glossy magazines.

In the post Gordon Gekko years we have all been lured and seduced by this ideology in one form or another, which has lead us all to be manipulated into thinking that our lives wouldn't be complete without the latest must have item.

"Greed is right. Greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures, the essence of the evolutionary spirit."

Gordon spouted out his famous “Greed is good” speech in the film Wall Street in the late eighties, an era synonymous with wealth and excess that would have made Dionysus both blush and cry with despair.

This was also a time that saw major advancements in technologies and would see the beginning of fantastical ideas like that of Captain Kirk's Communicator (minus the stun setting for now of course) starting to become a reality. And those massive 1950's computers that had taken up the space of a whole room, now were starting to be scaled down so that they could sit on your desk top.

All too cool for school, people adopted a Viv Nicholson attitude and went out and over spent, spent, spent money to acquired these items that they thought would improve their lives. Nothing new there then, but I believe this was the beginning of the end of individual social creativity and a time that laid the foundations of a much darker future regarding the way we would all eventually interact with each other.

It is after all, all about the social evolution of humanity and in the three decades plus that have lapsed since Gordon wore his braces, we find ourselves living in a Primark Nation with individuals who are void of creativity and who misappropriate the wealth of technology that Scotty would have found a much better use for by gaffer taping it to the Enterprise to enable warp speed in order to save mankind.

Social interaction via technology has replaced, well good old social interaction between actual human beings. A recent report claimed that texting has become the most popular method of contact between people nowadays. Isn't that odd?

Something went wrong somewhere post Gordon and that was the speed with which humanity was given these new toys to play with.

We are all still cave dwellers at heart that inhabit a world that is full of these toys that we do not really need or understand. Whilst I appreciate the positive attributes of technology, I do not appreciate the negative mis use of it.

My own personal displeasure with mobile phones for example, is never more apparent than when I am on public transport and a fellow cave dweller feels the need to engage in a conversation on their over expensive state of the art handset in an extremely loud voice. My mercury raises as I become an unwilling participant in their life as they feel the need to shout as loudly as possible. Social masterbation.

I once overhear a girl on a train discussing with her boyfriend what type of film they could watch that evening. “As long as it isn't any of that Star Wars rubbish, I don't care..” She ironically barked into her mobile. I stifled a Wookie yawn and continued looking out of the window.

In his speech, Gordon Gekko surmises that by embracing greed we captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit and the desire to better ourselves. But, in order to be able to embrace something, don't we have to first of all know how to use it properly?

I believe that we aren't evolving at all, but rather regressing like William Hurt's character in Altered States. We have become far too reliant on technology that we have forgotten who we all are and how to relate to each another.

Basic human interaction is paramount in our evolutionary path and yet it has been reported that more people live in isolation now than at any other time. Loneliness is probably more likely to kill you these days as smoking is.

Likewise, we live in a society now where people are defined more by their gadgets rather than their creativity.

In 1986, the now sadly departed director John Hughes gave us a gift, he gave us Ferris Bueller's Day Off in which the anti hero Ferris Bueller takes a day off school in order to cram as many experiences into one day as he possibly can. Accompanied by two friends (one a manic depressive and one a would be social princess), they embark upon a journey that characterises the real essence of the evolutionary spirit and individual creativity.

Juxapositioned along side Gordon Gekko, Ferris Bueller is our saving grace. Without the aid of an i-Anything, he uses his imagination to set up and pull off his day out. He fills his day will art, food, music and an appreciation for life. He encapsulates this ideology in his speech to camera in which he informs us that “ Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

In the end, creativity is what should defines us as greed and the desire to be something we aren't and to own trinkets that we do not fully understand, just leads to unhappiness.

Stop and look around, see the world, do something you have never done before, spend time with people you love, leave your phone at home, stop shouting on public transport and speak to a fellow commuter instead. Listen to tunes that your grandparents liked and not the ones that have no soul. Watch It's A Wonderful Life and Meet Me in St Louis every Christmas, wear what you like, visit an art gallery once in a while, and do watch all those Star Wars films whenever you can.

Now go and empty your bothered pockets and start the human revolution.

Fifty Shades of Dross By Holly Searle

In the mid eighties many women of a certain age, were suddenly prone to the odd unexpected “Ohhhhh, Hellooooo Mr Rourke”, when a film was released called 9½ Weeks

Based upon the the book by Elizabeth McNeill, 9½ Weeks was an erotic drama that featured Mickey Rourke and Kim Basinger in the lead roles as two people whom during the course of the nine and half weeks that their relationship lasted, embark upon a journey of unsolicited smutty behaviour that involved not only an appalling misuse of food, but also a private screening, that left absolutely nothing to the imagination of the voyeur.

Originally made in 1984, but released two years later, the film received mixed reviews.

It was one of those stylised MTV generational movies that had already been successfully formatted by American Gigolo that had been released several years earlier in 1980.

And just like American Gigolo , it was all about the designer clothes, the Venetian blinds, and financially successful yet unfulfilled hedonistic demographic that was endemic in the 80's.

But unlike American Gigolo, which was at its heart a thriller. 9½ Weeks had no worthy narrative content other than being a rather unfathomably soft porn vehicle in which Kim Basinger got her kit off and then mooched about in a post coital delusional haze wearing socks and watering house plants and feeding pets, that had both been neglected in the intervening weeks.

It was no big deal to us, this movie, apart from the fact that Mickey Rourke was quite fit and we all laughed about its content and then simply dismissed it and got on with our lives.

A few years later I found the original book by McNeill whilst on holiday.

I decided to read it and was slightly amused by its narrative. And while I will admit to finding some bits of it a tad erotic, it certainly wasn't a great work of fiction.

Like the movie, the book was only able hold my attention for a short period of time, before it too was stored in the dark and dusty loft space of my noggin (or a box somewhere).

Thirty years later, I am working with a small group of women. One of whom drew my attention to a book that they had all read and she asked me if I would like to borrow it.

I asked her what it was all about and she informed me, with a wry knowing smile and a glint in her eye, that it was a fictional book that featured the sexual exploits of one woman entitled The Butcher, The Baker, The Candlestick Marker: An Erotic Memoir.

I feign my interest, and as I wanted to be accepted by the group, I borrowed it thinking to myself " Haven't we all been here before?"

I was in no rush to read it.

When I did eventually pick it up to give it a go, I found that it it wasn't even worthy of its predecessor.

It was, in essence, just a one dimensional series of pornographic vignettes that featured a middle aged woman involved in a sequence of rather dull and lack lustre sexual encounters.

I got so bored with it, that I skimmed it for good measure (subject to questioning) and then mentally shelved it and picked up, and got on with reading a proper book with creativity and depth.

I returned the book and thanked her for lending it to me and avoided telling her what I had actually thought of it.

And now yet again a new series in this genre has been produced.

But unlike its predecessors, it has literally, captured the imagination of a generation.

My Mother asked me if I had read it, and I said no I had no intention of doing so.

She agreed and said that she had read the first three sample pages on Amazon and it had left her cold.

We are both of us avid readers, my mother and I.

Sometimes I have several books on the go at once, while she can read that many in a week.

Information is everything to me, as are well constructed narratives and well thought out plots. To me the order of words and the delights of imagination are everything.

And the thing is, this kind of work of fiction is nothing more than a readable version of any soft porn short you can access via Porn Hub.

The general point of these tiny x rated movies (as far as I can determine) are to produce a sequence of events that eventually lead to an all encompassing and yet non emotive version of sexual intercourse and nothing more.

They do not pay host to a complex plot line interspersed with dialogue, but rather just centre around a static easily identifiable location where the action takes place.

To be honest, they are what they are and their audience accepts their content for what it is.

And guess what? They have a huge audience as do these works of fiction.

Initially I was overtly critical of this newly produced written form of this genre, as it isn't one that holds any great attraction for me other than my curiosity of why they are suddenly so popular, and more intriguingly, why now?

So let's go back to 9½ Weeks.

The 80's began as decade of Dionysian excess where money was the God that people prayed to and played fast and loose with.

But as it evolved, this was juxtaposed with the recognised fact that not everyone in the world was so fortunate. While business men got rich on stocks and shares, pop stars pleaded with the public to donate their money to benefit those who were staving to death.

Thirty years later, nothing much has changed. Business men are still rich and people are still suffering.

But, there is a financial crisis that as a direct result of this past excess, has affected us all in the present day.

The recession has hit us all. Debts pile up and as businesses fold, and more people lose their jobs, there is a general consensus, that it may be a some time before the rocky road we are all travelling on gets a smooth new coating of tarmac.

And here is what I think.

I think that this genre of books has found an audience because it is a form of escapism in this current financial climate.

It has offered an affordable treat for those who were once able to invest in a new car every year, but who now have to keep a tight hold on their purse strings.

It is as simple as that.

And so it would seem that grey times produce grey fiction for grey matter.

And for women by a woman.

It saddens me that women have taken this series of books on in the way that they have, as I wonder if it it reveals more about their unfulfilled and unexplored sex lives than they realise.

It is all very curious as are these works of fiction.

And just like 9½ Weeks, the fiction has now become film with the soon to be released screen version that features a pair of unknown actors (graduates of the porn industry no doubt) dressed I should imagine in the style of Tom Ford for good measure and acceptability.

Safe to say, I won't be queuing up to buy a ticket.

No, there is enough colour in my life and grey just isn't one of them.

You, Me and Sean Bean By Holly Searle

Don't ask me when the conversation started as its evolution is a mystery to me. But it did and as such, is an open ended work in progress even as we speak.

There is no construction to it, no solid mapped path or sense to its being and no serious point to it at all. But rather a delightful randomness that is centred around the main subject matter, that is, the one and only Sean Bean. There are a multitude of additional open ended add ons, which could be interpreted by any given stranger overhearing them, simply as the mutterings of a pair of delusional nutters who share an over active imagination in their idolisation of this actor from South Yorkshire.

That may well be, but it is funny and amuses us endlessly.

If I had to identify how and why it started, I would have to say that it was due to my friend's admiration of Sean's portrayal of Richard Sharpe, the eponymous hero from the television series Sharpe and of my own particular fondness for the character of Mellors, that he played in Lady Chatterley's Lover. It was these two specific protagonist that led him to become the object of our joint affection, and that created the firm foundation of our co-conspiratorial conversations that mutated into something more.

Voids of time are often filled either in person or via a social media internet connection of our shared harmless interest in Sean. There no intended malice, but rather an innocent inquisitorial interest in him and his antics, both on and off the screen.

He is a true patriarchal legend in both spheres, simply because there is a fine blurred line between the characters he plays and because of the man he appears to be in reality. And this, in our minds, presents an ongoing parody of who Sean Bean is and how we relate to him.

Initially, we bonded over the fact that he is probably the sort of bloke who would be a good laugh to go for a drink with as he possesses a rare rough and ready masculinity that has all but diminished in today's society. With the sort of personality traits that you could also attribute to Tom Jones or associate with the character of Gene Hunt in Ashes to Ashes or Life on Mars.

The sort of man who once wore Old Spice or Brut aftershave whilst a dolly bird draped herself all over him. The kind of bloke who drank and smoked and liked to call women 'Love' or 'Pet' rather than 'Babe' and who would have no hesitation in initiating a punch up in the event that some 'Little Git' should make the mistake of eyeing up his bird.

Men like that may be dinosaurs that have just been stored in the loft with a pile of dusty old Playboy magazines and rusty bicycle clips. But what have they been replaced with? Poor politically correct substitutes with confused dumbed-down personalities that Sean and his like couldn't even begin to understand and quite frankly would have no time for.

So we decided that was why we liked Sean. He is a man's man, a no nonsense say it like it is type of fellow, who would have a few stories to tell that would make you roar with laughter and who would make sure you got home safe at the end of the night.

Our investigations led us to the fact that Sean liked a drink in North London with his pals. We did consider our options having sourced this information (hike over there and see what transpired), but came to conclude that there were far too many unforeseen scenarios that might disrupt our quest so we left it.

AS time went on, we indulged ourselves by keeping our faith and interest in him alive, by posting status' which referred to Sean on Facebook. Then one day my phone rang and my friend's little voice said “Holly, you know that every time we mention him, it appears in a feed on his page and anyone and everyone can see it”. She laughed and I laughed as if it was nothing at all and yet something all at the same time. It wasn't serious and our friends all thought it was funny as well, or maybe they are just Goodfellowing us and just for a fleeting moment, I felt like Joe Pesci.

We have long periods of time when Sean even isn't even mentioned at all. He's not the centre of our universes after all, our own lives are. But somewhere up there in the ether he is never forgotten. We keep him suspended in a joint mental limbo until he happens to appear on a chat show, a late night movie or in a story in the press. And when he does, he is reborn in our joint consciousness once more.

During a recent trip, my friend and I found ourselves on a train diversion on our way home. We boarded the replacement bus service and during the hour it took us to get from station A to station B to reconnect with the correct train, we discussed Sean at great length.

These exchanges often follow the same pattern, that is to say I assume the role of Sean and adopt his Northern accent. I then act out what I consider his appropriate reaction would be to the main topic of the conversation that is taking place.

The phrase "You had to be there." Often enters my mind during these moments.

By the time we arrived at Station B, we had decided that Sean should in actuality employ us both. That way, we could live in his swanky villa in North London and take care of all of his needs as he is undoubtedly a busy man who is often away filming, that would be happy to know that we were there waiting for him when he returned.

After one of his many costume drama escapades on route to Mordor or Winterfell, that would last for at least a few months, we worked out that he would welcome a dinner party on his return that we would arrange. We then decided who we would invite to attend and what we would serve for supper. I thought that Chas and Dave could perhaps be persuaded to provide the entertainment as I am sure Sean would enjoy a sing along to Ain't No Pleasing You.

Of course, knowing we were all just trustworthy mates, Sean would furnish us with shed loads of cash with which to make these arrangements possible.

We also came to conclude that we would get all of this done and dusted early on prior to his return. That way, we could spend a week away before hand pampering ourselves, so that by the time he was due home and before the dinner party guests arrived, we would be well rested from the joint effort we had put in.

At that moment the train arrived and we continued on our journey and Sean was filed away.

This was the last time we discussed him at great depth or that I thought about him, until I ventured into a random bookmakers after The Grand National to collect my winnings and, I kid you not, as I approached the counter, the fellow who was standing there was his spitting image.

I smiled dumbfounded, and handed him the ticket saying that I was one of millions of people who he probably encountered at this time of the year due to the National.

He laughed and returned my banter in a Sheffield drawl. I was gob smacked.

I left with my meagre £2.50 winnings. But my mind was rich in wonder, as I thought for a brief moment that perhaps it had actually been him researching a role.

Next a text from my friend letting me to know that Sean was being interviewed by Jonathan Ross. I switched over immediately to watched him. He is not the easiest man in the world to interview and, as I watched him that became uncomfortably apparent.

Maybe he is shy or maybe he was worried that he hadn't banked that day's takings from the bookmakers.

Then a story appeared in the press about his latest role playing a transvestite and I think that was for us the beginning of the end. Not that either of us have an issue with cross-dressing men, but rather because it showed a side of Sean that debased his masculinity in our eyes.

He hasn't really been discussed and we have both in since switched our alliances to other men that we find more suitable.

My friend was been quite taken by the scamp that is Jeremy Renner probably because he looked good in that outfit he wore in The Hurtlocker and is quite fetching as Hawkeye in Avengers Assemble.

Me, well that is for me to know, but I will undoubtedly still remember Sean from time to time with great affection and fondness, especially when I see a tree.

To Be Honest, I Would Rather You Just Made Me Laugh By Holly Searle

Earlier this year I spent the evening with the actor Jon Hamm who plays the character of Donald Draper in the show Mad Men

(Actually, that opening paragraph is a tad misleading and as I am not that sort of girl, I shall begin again).

Earlier this year in London I attended an evening hosted by BAFTA, where the actor Jon Hamm who plays the character of Donald Draper in the excellent series Mad Men was being 

interviewed to promote the up and coming fifth season of the show as it was about to air in America.

I was keen to attend this interview not because of Jon Hamm, but because I am a bit of a geek when it comes to the show in which he happens to be one of the key actors.

On arrival at the venue it soon became pretty clear that a majority of the tickets for this event had been purchased by ladies. 

Now, like me, they could have been Mad Men geeks, but after the lights dimmed in the auditorium and dear Jon made his suited and booted way onto the stage, the swooning murmurings from the masses of lasses, lead me to conclude quite the opposite.

That is fine I thought, if they want to objectify him, who am I to criticise their choice of fantasy and his role in it. Carry on girls I thought, fill your boots.

Once their beating hearts became still and a hush finally descended, I focused on the reasons why I was there and settled down and became jackanory engrossed in the interview. 

The choice of clips used to illustrate the points raised and the discussion between Mr H and his interviewer about the lives of the additional characters that also appear in the show, had me knicker-gripped to my seat.

So far, so good I thought.

It was an intelligent, entertaining and well put together interview, but I started to become aware as it proceeded (with immense irritation I have to add), that even the interviewer was taking it upon herself to use every opportunity to flirt with Mr Hamm. He in turn unashamed lapped this up and proceeded to reciprocate it when he noticed the response it was receiving from the women in the audience.

At that point Donald Draper appeared with his charming Mack The Knife smile in addition to the odd coy Bond like fiddle of his cuff links. He loved it, but alas had reverted to a type that I have no time for.

And although he had me at Hello , at that point he lost me.

The interviewer then asked the audience if there were any questions they would like to put to Jon.

Being the geek that I am, I had my hand raised before those words had left her mouth.

Of course, Mr Hamm turned to me all twinkle and expectation, but I meant business and royally rained on his parade by not asking him a question at all, but rather telling him something about Peggy Olson (another character from the show). I had no idea where I was going with my wittering observations or what the point was I was actually trying to make, but I wasn't going to lower my intellect by joining in with the general consensus of being all smarmy in order to cop a feel of his charm by flirting with him.

And at that moment, I swear I saw tumble-weed roll in the space between us.

He crumbled before me and as I didn't have him at Hello the mic was whipped out of my hand and passed too a much more acceptable sexy simpering saucy Sally example of contemporary femininity in order to reset the lust heat setting on the interview. Jon shone once more (phew), while I was left alone in the dark a little breathless and lonely (sigh).

Still, I had made my point and had had my say. And even if I hadn't played along, I was happy enough.

But, in retrospection it made me contemplate what all the fuss was about as to be honest, I don't fancy Jon Hamm or his alter ego Don at all.

He is a handsome fellow of that there is no doubt. But, I came to conclude that he just isn't my type as I would rather spend my time laughing with a man of character, rather than with one that lacks one.

Now, don't all shout at once, but he just isn't funny.

When I was a child I did a fair impression of Frankie Howard, if you twisted my arm and threatened me with court action, I would probably consider doing it for you sometime.

But let's face it, Jon Hamm is far too good-looking to be charmed by my impression of Frankie Howard and with all due respect, I am holding out for a man who might be (it isn't brilliant to be honest, so don't hold your breath).

I have a theory that we choose a type of counterpart that best compliments our own very early on and then base all future suitable mates unconsciously upon this selection. I thought about those I that I'd had crushes on and came up with the following candidates (and please bare in mind that, I could have chosen Donny Osmond or David Cassidy) Danny Partridge, Neil Reid and Harpo Marx.

For those of you who have no idea of whom I speak, Danny Partridge was Keith Partridge's younger ginger rotund brother in The Partridge Family. Neil Reid was a young Scottish lad in a kilt who won Opportunity Knocks several times singing a song called Mother of Mine. And Harpo Marx was the silent harp playing genius who appeared along side his brothers in The Marx Brothers movies.

Make of that what you will. But what I surmise from those choices, is that I was more draw to character than charisma. Danny Partridge was a bit of a cheeky scamp, while Neil Reid displayed an innocent venerable nature that played to my underdeveloped maternal heart-strings and Harpo, well, he just made me laugh.

So, in a pocket-book Freud nutshell sort of way, those characteristics appeal more to me than any others.

Like wise, all of those who idolised pretty boy pop stars, will probably be content to accept those as a trait above all others that they can relate to. But not me. I have always been more intrigued by what cannot be seen rather than what can.

As I developed so did my tastes. I will admit to once having a crush on Roy Castle and Mark Curry from Blue Peter, but then progressed onto a new phase that encompassed lookers like David Soul and Robert Redford.

However, these were short-lived phases as these types of men never fancied me (classically good-looking ones), so I left them behind in search of something else. Something more intrinsic, formidable and funny.

I had always enjoyed comedy and laughing from a very early age and this wasn't such an odd plimsoll line to reach considering that I had been raised on a diet that consisted of The Marx Brothers and Carry On films intertwined with a healthy dash of Eric and Ernie, Norman Wisdom,The Two Ronnies, Dick Emery and Dave Allen.

But as I grew I also began to appreciated the power of observational comedy and so when I encountered Bill Hicks' style, my character combined with intellect quota cup overflowed. Here was a man who was funny and smart with it. A man whose perception of the world matched mine completely. And Bill wasn't your typical looker either, but he was incredibly funny and intelligent and to me that was far more sexier than those who possess an over defined set of abdominal muscles any day of the week. I still miss you Bill,I always will.

In the wake of Bill Hicks, there were other comics, some that just didn't make me laugh or manage to cut the mustard. But that some did with their laugh till your stomach ache humour. Who can fail to laugh at David Baddiel and Robert Newman's History Today sketches, or Charlie Higson and Paul Whitehead as Ralph and Ted, or Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer doing anything and I adore the character of Angelos Epithemiou played by Renton Skinner. Frank Skinner, Paul Merton, Alan Carr and the irrepressible talent that is Stewart Lee just blows me away every time he opens his mouth and his timing is just spot on. Steve Martin, Eddie Izzard, Kathy Burke, Harry Enfield, Ben Elton, Ben Stiller, French and Saunders the list is endless.

Stand up isn't a new medium by any means, but there does appear to be a vast available wealth of comedic talent now than at any other time and that, my friend is a good thing as far as I am concerned. It is sexy, vital, accessible and real.

Laughing is so good for you and has the power to make you feel included with a majority rather than a minority, which is where I would place those who cannot see past the handsome man in the suit. Jon Hamm and his acolytes could learn a lesson or two here, but they probably never will and in a strange way, that is fine by me, for I know where I would rather be sitting.

Look at Narcissus, he fell in love with himself because that was all he could focus on. If only he had gone to a comedy night every once in a while, he might have laughed at himself instead of spending hour after hour gazing at his reflection and fiddling rather coyly with is cuff links.

So, my Frankie Howard impression then...