Once upon a Time (Rant Alert - on rape)

Once upon a time, a man wearing an expensive watch, drove his fancy car into town and bought himself a fine meal. In the restaurant, his expensive watch and tailored clothing caught the attention of another man, who followed him back to his home. The other man was jealous, and angry, and hated the man for having money and wealth and showing it off, and resolved to teach the rich man a lesson. So he broke into the rich man's home while he slept, stole his watch and clothes, beat him, and drove off in his car.

When the rich man went to the police, they asked him why he'd worn the clothes and the watch, and why he'd driven his car, and eaten his meal in front of his attacker.

In court, the attacker wept. 

"I couldn't help it," he said. "He was dressed like he wanted me to do it. He's rich. Everyone knows they want it, no matter what they say."

And the judge and the jury looked at the rich man, who now walked with a cane because of his beating, and hardly slept at all because the sound of the wind scuttling over his window made him fearful,  and shook their heads in disapproval. 
The media made much of the fact that he'd worn a fancy suit, and a fancy watch, and that the man who attacked him was now in trouble because the rich man had provoked him.

When the not guilty verdict came in, the attacker turned triumphantly in court and smiled at the rich man, and he limped alone out of the court room, knowing that the next time he heard scuttling over his window, his attacker would be in his home again.

He was right.


                                                  ******************************
That little story doesn't make much sense, does it? In our world, if you beat and steal from someone and say you did because they were rich, because you couldn't help it, the judge and jury will probably slam you into prison so fast you'll bounce. At the very least, you'll end up with court mandated psych sessions along with your sentence.

How about this one:

Once upon a time, a woman got dressed up and went into town and went dancing. She felt pretty, and her dress was nice, and she had a lovely time. In the club, her laughter and dancing and pretty blue dress  caught the attention of a man, who followed her back to her home. The man was jealous, and angry, and hated the woman for having the confidence to go out by herself, to look pretty and show it off, and resolved to teach the woman a lesson. So he broke into the woman's home while she slept, ripped up the pretty blue dress, beat her, raped her, and left.

When the woman went to the police, they asked her why she'd worn those clothes and how much make-up she'd had on, and why she'd danced and laughed front of her attacker.

In court, the attacker wept. 

"I couldn't help it," he said. "She was dressed like she wanted me to do it. She's a woman. Everyone knows they want it, no matter what they say."

And the judge and the jury looked at the woman, who now walked with a cane because of her beating, and hardly slept at all because the sound of the wind scuttling over her window made her fearful,  and shook their heads in disapproval. 

The media made much of the fact that she'd worn a pretty dress and make-up, and danced alone, and that the man who attacked her was now in trouble because the woman had provoked him.

When the not guilty verdict came in, the attacker turned triumphantly in court and smiled at the woman, and she limped alone out of the court room, knowing that the next time she heard scuttling over her window, her attacker would be in her home again.

She was right.

                                                        **************************
Think I'm exaggerating? Have a look at the media coverage of the Steubenville rape. A lot of the mainstream media made much of the fact that two "promising young men had their lives destroyed," a phrase which hopefully made a number of people throw up. 

Have a look at the media coverage on almost any rape case. Unless the victim is left fighting for his or her life, the victim is inevitably put on trial. (yes, male rape victims happen. This isn't about sex, something the media and defence lawyers choose to ignore.)

I've never heard of burglary victims having to defend against character assassination on the witness stand. 

I've never seen coverage of a vehicle hi-jacking explaining just why the owner chose to drive that oh-so-sexy mint-green BMW.

"I couldn't help myself" and "They asked for it" is not an excuse in any other crime.

Teaching women that they are responsible for attacks on them is a double-insult; it implies that women are stupid and irresponsible, the ultimate evil that renders "good men" insane - and it reduces men to the level of rabid jackals. 

Bull shit.

Rape is about power. The only thing it has in common with sex and sexual attraction are the body parts involved. I(t's been used as a weapon both domestically and in war for centuries, and if anyone thinks a male soldier is saved from rape because of his gender, I've got a lovely little palace in London I could sell you.)

We need to educate both men and women. Men to understand that when someone says "She asked for it," they've just been insulted on every level. They've been told that because they are male they are unable to control themselves, they are unable to say no, and they are easily manipulated. They've just been reduced to walking, talking life-support systems for an erect penis with no conscience.

Women need to understand that they are not responsible for someone else's actions. They need to be told that the automatic response to penetration is lubrication, and that this is something they have no control over, because it's a bodily function, kinda like breathing. They need to know they have a right to exist and live side by side with the males of the species without being blamed for have ovaries and a pair of breasts. They need to know that most men are not rape-happy cavemen, waiting for the chance to pounce. 

Both men and women need to learn that neither gender is dirty, or shameful, or looking to hurt you, but when someone is raped it hurts all of us. It reduces us to throwing stones at a victim, or picking sides when there is no side to be picked.

A crime was committed. Making the victim pay is senseless.

The Great Pigeon Coffee Enema Moment - London Pigeon War update

I was at Euston station bright and early (7:30 a.m) for a trip up to Liverpool today. Usually, the Pigeon Wars are fought in cities large and small across the UK. They involve pigeons either defecating, regurgitating or dive bombing me, while I shake my fist and fantasise about growing my own pair of wings some fine day. Payback, honey. With bells. (Although with my luck, I'd end up flying into the side of a building.)

And then things like this morning happen. I'm going to call this one a draw.

I reached Euston with about a half hour to spare before the train left, so I went outside to the little coffee area. If you don't know it, it's set up with a row of assorted booths (pies, donuts, sausages, sushi) opposite a chain coffee shop and a diner. In the middle are poured cement benches and bolted-down tables, since in this part of London NOT bolting down tables would result in a sudden and abrupt lack of them. Everywhere sells coffee, from the little pie place to the donut counter. Since I love my coffee, this makes me happy.

It was pretty quiet; the main rush at Euston starts around 8 a.m. I love these little moments of quiet in the middle of London; I get to sit down with my steaming cup of liquid bliss and people watch.  This morning there was one drunk draped over a bench in the far corner, snoring happily, one large lady with an impressive set of dreadlocks and a bright pink and orange tracksuit, and two middle-aged businessmen, all scattered around the tables and watching the world rev up it's engines.

And then I heard that give-away flutter behind me. I ducked as first one, then two, then three pigeons swooped past my ear, brushing over my shoulder and the table-top before bouncing triumphantly on their toes as they landed. We eyed each other. I checked my coat for calling cards.

The pigeons took flight again, and I ducked my head, hoping this wasn't a strafing run.

I'd been in the process of adding sugar to my coffee, so the lid was off. (It was 7:30. I needed sweetening up, trust me on this.)

The first pigeon blew past my cheek again, closely followed by the second. The third had what I can only call the ultimate birdy moment of oops, and landed with its feathered butt in my coffee.

I drink my coffee black, and it hadn't had time to cool off yet.

You know when you see footage of an animal's face, and you know just what they were thinking?

Pigeon : That's... that's not right. Something went wron-HothothothotOHGAWDMYNADS!!!!!!!

Me: *Speechless*

Pigeon : OHGAWDOHGAWD Get this THING OFF ME! I'm being ATTAAAAACKED!!!

Me: There's a certain justice to this...

At which point the pigeon ascended majestically, and at roughly the speed of a pigeon with a very, very toasty rear end, and flew up over the top of the station building.

Physics being what it is, there was a certain displacement of coffee in the process. There were also feathers, some fragments of which I was still picking out of my eyebrows when I got to Liverpool just after 11 a.m. Judging by what was left in the cup, that bird puckered. Hard.

By the time I'd cleaned off both the coffee and the larger feathers in the train station (apparently some things can still make Londoners raise an eyebrow. Looking like you've just motor-boated a pigeon being one of them) my train was boarding, and there was no time to grab a refill.

So, while I'm still kinda sulking over losing my coffee, being a witness to self-administered coffee enema by one of my feathered nemesis did balance it out, hence me calling this a draw.

I do wish I'd had my phone out, though. I've never seen an expression quite like that on a London pigeon before.

Arr, Me Hearties - Let's talk about book pirates

The whole book piracy think blew up on my face-book feed last night. It's one of those things that swirls up every few months; it swims around a bit, taking chunks out of both sides, then disappears temporarily. It's the book-world equivalent of a shark attack, and it leaves people bleeding.
In a further demonstration of my sometimes stunning naivety, I'd been self-published for a couple of months before I realised that book piracy was a thing. (Before this post goes any further, I should probably make it clear that as far as I know, I've never been pirated. I think I need a few more years and a lot more name recognition before that happens.)

There are sites out there where people go to download PDF's of books. I've never quite got the logic of this - for the time and effort it takes to scan in each page and upload it, it would be a lot faster to either push the button on Amazon, or go to the local library and check it out, or just, I dunno, buy the book from a physical bookstore? Unless there's some magical ninja tech happening that I don't know about, it seems like a lot more time and effort to go to in order to make someone else's work available for other people to steal, which is probably why I'll never make master criminal status.

Perhaps surprisingly, not all authors are against this - J A Konrath has stated he believes his sales increase every time one of his books is posted on a pirate site. I've seen posts by the folks that actively do this stating that if they like the book they'll then go and buy a copy. I don't mind saying that made me twitch, because that's kind of like shop-lifting a chocolate, enjoying the taste, and then going and buying another bar because you decided it was worth your money. You still stole the first bar. (Although if Konrath is right, part of me is tempted to quietly upload one of my own books and see what the results are. Since tech and I are not friends, this likely to remain speculation.)

Another interesting thing is that the same folks downloading from these sites would react with horror and indignation if you suggested walking into a brick and mortar store and stealing a book of the shelf. I'm not sure when we came to the conclusion that writers don't deserve to get paid for entertaining us for a couple of hours, but that's the end result.

 I totally understand the frustration of not having the book you want to download available in your country. Been there, got that, wept hot salty tears over having to buy the tree-book version and wait nearly a week for it to arrive. Or not being able to read across devices. It's one of the reasons I don't have DRM active on any of my ebooks, because as far as I'm concerned if you bought my book, I want you to read it.

See the thing is, writers want readers. We want you to read our stuff, fall into our world, and hopefully come back for more. If you're an indie writer, odds are you've enrolled in the Kindle KDP programme at least once, where you get five days to give away your book for free and hopefully increase readership that way.
Most of us give away a lot of ebooks (I say ebooks because although there are plenty who give away hardcopy, I'm not one of then. To put it bluntly, I can't afford the printing and shipping costs, but it doesn't cost me a penny to push the send button on my p.c.) and those go out to bloggers, reviewers, and readers who'd like a copy.

I don't like the idea of pirating, because I know the work that goes into writing a book. When you download a PDF from a pirate site, you aren't screwing over The Man, or sticking it to the publisher; you hurt the writer, because if that writer is attached to a publishing house they are only earning a percentage of the cover price of that book any way, and that's after they've earned their advance out. Which if they're lucky, came to around $10 000 dollars. If you figure it takes about a year minimum between signing a contract and seeing your book in print, that ten grand starts seeming pretty damn small. Every single book that isn't sold officially is money that the author doesn't see, and if you don't sell enough books, your publisher will drop you so fast you get wind burn. Self-published authors have it a little better - we get 30% to 70% of the cover price - but again, only through the authorised channels. 

I work a day job, and sell hand-made cosmetics on the side as well as writing to try and make ends meet each month, so every book I don't sell means I'm that little bit further from my dream of writing full time. 
Most writers never get there, whether self-publishing or traditionally published, so every time you download from a pirate site, you make the odds of that writer publishing something else a little bit higher on the negative side. It's a high price to pay to save a couple of bucks.

Here's another reason why I don't like book piracy: I don't know what the figures are. I have no issues giving my books away, but doing it through Smashwords or Amazon means that I can track the downloads. I have at least a vague idea of potential sales; if 20 people download a book this month, and ten of those read it in the next six weeks, and of those ten three people like it enough to move onto the next one, I have an idea of where I'll be in three months to two years time. 
I'll have an idea of which series is working and which isn't because although reviews are lovely and appreciated, sales figures and downloads speak a lot more. They mean the difference between eating well and stocking up on vienna sausages and cheap bread, and logging on gloomily to my bank account to watch it drop towards the minus column. It means the difference between getting medication when you get sick or trying to wait out the lovely flu-viral infection-glandular fever combo I seem to specialise in every year. 

If, on the other hand, you cannot afford or get hold of one of my books, let me know. Reading is one life's few genuine pleasures, and I'd hate to think that someone who desperately wants to read my stuff, can't. For any reason. Leave your contact details in the comments (be smart about email addresses though, let's not feed the spam bots here) and I will personally email you a copy. No review required, no quid pro quo. But when you get the chance, pay it forward, and buy an author's book (doesn't have to be mine), and make someone's day a little bit brighter. And try not to feed the sharks. Blood in the water is never pretty.

An Interview with Jeff Hollar

I've got the fantastic Mr. Hollar visiting today, with his new book, Keldane the Cursed out to buy now.

I was lucky enough to get my grubby little paws on a copy for this interview, and it's a joy. It's a collection of short stories involving Keldane, who can't stay out of trouble no matter what he does, (and it makes the very valid point that power of any sort can cause as many issues as it fixes), and I finished this with a smile on my face. It reminds me a lot of the old style fairy tales, with a lot less gore and mutilation - this is the story, this is what happens - told in a very direct and simple fashion that simply works. There is no epic horror or drama involved, but just reaches in and pokes at the right spots, and I may be in love with a vampire bat called Barnabas.
I'd recommend this especially for folks who want to introduce younger readers to fantasy, and speaking as someone who has fairly epic moments of oops, I could definitely relate.

The links to the book and Jeff's blog are here:

Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Keldane-the-Cursed-ebook/dp/B00A71KR0A/ref=sr_1_31?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1361288186&sr=1-31&keywords=Lisa+McCourt+Hollar

Amazon.co.uk : http://www.amazon.co.uk/Keldane-the-Cursed-ebook/dp/B00A71KR0A

BN: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/keldane-the-cursed-jeffrey-hollar/1113870074?ean=2940015794311

Kobo: http://www.kobobooks.com/ebook/Keldane-the-Cursed/book-09PmWNduBUqf8n5dHzrKtg/page1.html?s=u8Guwm63U0y7fQ2FZhbowQ&r=1

Jeff’s Blog: The Latinum Valult  http://www.jeffreyhollar.com

Check out the interview below, and carry on for a sneak peek at the first story:

                         *************************************************

ME: Who or what inspired Keldane, and the pretty bizarre situations he ends up in? 

JEFF: Keldane began as a character in a flash fiction story of, I believe, 150 words. Lisa Stull, briefly, sponsored a flash fiction challenge wherein the winner from the previous week got to provide the prompt for the next week. My wife, Lisa, came up with a prompt of "frogs, cats & vampire bats" and from that came the first appearance of Keldane. Like so much of my flash fiction, humble beginnings have often had the potential to be much more involved works and Keldane proved to be the first. I mentioned playing with writing in different genres and so further installments of Keldane appeared from time to time. I moved on to other distractions and gave Keldane no further attention until I became a member of the Visionary Press Cooperative. We are a coalition of writers, editors, cover artists, etc all working for the common profit and good. Blaze McRob, one of the founders of the co-op, thought it wise for us to diversify our book offerings and I brought up that I had a YA fantasy serial on tap. The rest, as they say, is history.

 ME: Who is your ideal reader for these stories?

JEFF: My ideal reader for these stories is anyone, because I believe, on some level, we can all identify with Keldane. He is sort of the Everyman character in a shorter, younger & slightly more fantastic setting. While some of the word usage makes it less-suitable for readers much below the age of 10 or so, beyond that it is for anyone who has every really screwed up but found the wherewithal to keep mucking on. These are stories of persistence against all odds and that is a great life lesson or life reminder for anyone.

ME : What is the one story you wish you'd written?

JEFF: Wow. There are so many wonderful stories out there that have captured my favor over the years. I don't think I could ever pick a single one, but whatever it was would be something that far outlived the author but is still attracting and captivating readers. Think of maybe Sir Arthur Conan Doyle with his Sherlock Holmes or perhaps Edgar Rice Burroughs with Tarzan. Both were hugely popular with me as a boy.

ME: Steak or chocolate?

JEFF : This question is blatantly unfair as I refuse to accept the possibility of the two being mutually exclusive. I am a confirmed carnivore and don't think that liable to every change. I grew up in the corn-fed Midwestern tradition of consuming tasty animals. Now chocolate is no less a valued member of the food community in my opinion. I most definitely have a sweet tooth and sometimes nothing will assuage it quite like chocolate. So, that being said I will have the sirloin steak smothered in onions & mushrooms and...oh...I see you have chocolate lava cake on your dessert offerings.

(ASIDE: Yep. No argument here.)

ME: What monster would you like to be, and why?

JEFF: There are so many really sweet monsters out there that picking just one might be an impossibility for me. Can I combine monsters? I would love to some hybrid critter that possesses all of the absolutely coolest aspects of a vampire AND a were-creature but that somehow transcends either of their potential weaknesses. I'll let you know when I figure out what to call such a thing.

 ME: Country or metal?

JEFF : That is a slippery slope. I grew up with country as THE music my father and his side of the family listened to. My mom was mostly caught in her late 50's-early 60's faves (Bobby Vee, Dion, Elvis) I was a child of the 70's who went into the 80's before I got to choose my listening choices. Now, i almost exclusively, listen to "classic rock that really rocks" as the radio bills it. If I pick a channel on my android for I Heart Radio, I favor mom's music.

ME : And finally, tell us something that would surprise people who think they know you.

JEFF: I was hoping somebody would ask me this! I am a mildly-rabid fan of Star Trek and often wondered what species/niche I would fill in that fictional setting. I decided, after much deliberation, to be a Klingorengi. (That is one half Klingon & one half Ferengi. If I have to explain these species to you it kind of ruins the impact here) I reasoned I had all of the conniving sneakiness of a Ferengi but the martial code & sense of honor of a Klingon. In any event, I have always mentioned in any space requiring a bio that I am a Klingon/Ferengi hybrid. As I have built my platform and become less obscure, I have achieved the honor that if you do a Google search of "Klingon Ferengi hybrid" I am the first four (or more depending on the week) image responses it returns. Go ahead & try it. You'll see. 

(ASIDE : Bowing. Repeated and enthusiastic bowing, and very happy geek fangirl moment.)

Thanks for the great interview Jeff!

Check out the excerpt below; from Keldane the Cursed.

                                                               *******************

The boy rose from the stool he’d been sitting on and bowed his back as he stretched. His spine cracked loudly with the relief of stiffness the stretch provided. He thought, for not the first time ever or even the first time today, ‘My father is going to kill me!’

His gaze returned to the pages of the
enormous book on the workbench before him. The runes all seemed to flow
together in a jumbled mess. With a sigh of frustration, he slammed shut the
cover of the grimoire. A plume of dust billowed from the ancient book causing him
to sneeze violently and repeatedly.

“It’s no use guys. I can’t find what I need
in this stupid book! I’ve been through it over and over and it’s just not
here!”

He spoke to the two animals sitting on the
table in front of him. The large greenish frog, Desmond, looked at him with a
mournful gaze and croaked softly. The ginger cat, Lydia, looked at Keldane with
a malevolent gaze, her tail swishing angrily from side to side.

“You guys KNOW transmogrification isn’t my
best subject. I’d change you back in a second if I could only remember the
bloody spell.”

The frog croaked more loudly and the cat
hissed menacingly as if to say nothing was Keldane’s “best subject”. Although
he was the son of THE most powerful wizard in history, Keldane was,
unfortunately, so inept even his wizarding instructors openly referred to him
as Keldane the Cursed.

*While it’s unlikely your father would
actually kill you, I doubt he’ll be pleased with this latest in a long series
of disappointments.*

The boy glanced up to the rafters at the
immense vampire bat hanging there.

“Barnabas, you HAVE to help me!” the boy
moaned, “You’ve served our family for over 20 years. There has to have been a
problem like this happen before.”

*No, I don’t think any of your siblings
quite managed an embarrassment of this caliber. Although I’m not especially
hungry, I suppose it’d be easiest to just suck them dry and you can toss the
remnants into the rubbish bin. No one need be the wiser.*

Neither the frog nor the cat was privy to
the exchange between the boy and his bat, but they WERE both a bit on edge.
Thusly, neither was as surprised as one might expect when the bat swooped down
to feed.

Before Keldane could intervene, his friends
took matters into their own hands, so to speak. Barnabas learned firsthand why
they called them “catlike reflexes” as Lydia ignominiously slapped him out of
the air. Desmond jumped on to the chest of the dazed bat and held him down
while Lydia, daintily, tore his head from his leathery shoulders.

Both animals settled back on to the bench
with expressions simply daring Keldane to protest.

“Yes indeed. My father IS going to kill
me.” The boy mused as he plopped back down on the stool.

                                                     *****************************

A short note from your plague bearer...

So I got gently, but firmly, advised to go to a doctor by a few people - my glands are still up (all of them), and I'm more photosensitive than the average gremlin, and the NHS lady I spoke to had A Moment of Excitement and raised the probability of glandular fever or meningitis.

I had glandular fever a long, long time ago, but I also had tick-bite fever & german measles at the same time, so I wasn't 100% sure which symptoms belonged to which little package of misery. The last time I had one hell of a dose of the flu and I still felt rotten the following week, I ended up making my second ever ambulance journey, so I got hold of a GP.

The good news is, I think I'm keeping this one (GP, that is). The bad news is that I've been gifted with a new dose of glandular fever as well as a minor respiratory infection. I've been given meds for the infection (glandular fever is a virus; same as the flu - no cure; no meds),  and I've just bought a whole bunch of yoghurt since being a girl and having to take certain meds almost guarantees a moment in the near future where you will shake your fist miserably at the universe and take an ice-water bath.  (Seriously - there is no way in this or any alternative time-line that thrush can be considered fair play. Just not.)

Then I had the fun of watching the doc's eyebrows raise a lot when I told him I wanted to go back to work. The flu is pretty much done - the cough I have left is from the infection; and the glandular fever isn't severe enough to keep me in bed. I know I'll be tired, but the thought of being house-bound any longer makes this little plague bearer want to cry.  I heal faster when I'm not lying bed doing the woe is me thing, anyway.
So I have a letter saying I can work, since I know what the reaction to that cough is going to be, and I get to go back to the office tomorrow.

Happy days!

Salt Inhalers & other funky stuff

So, currently on day 4 of the flu - also known as the just-shoot-me-now stage, or often the I-want-my-mom phase. Skype is a blessing; it means I can whine at my mother long distance and still get the love. 

There's a big, big difference between the flu and a cold. Colds make you feel miserable, and they aren't much fun. You sneeze a bit, and make disgusting noises on public transport, and everyone avoids you.

The flu is to the common cold what a siberian wolf is to a chihuahua. Trust me, I'll take the cold over the flu anytime. 

The problem is that there is no cure. Over the counter meds help to a point; my theory is that most of the time they knock you out so you don't notice how miserable you are. For all the claims of alleviating coughs and headaches, the short term relief you get is minimal. The only thing to do is ride it out, and if you're like me, the fact that you're off work due to illness is frustrating, painful, and guilt-inducing. 

I've yet to find a cough medicine I can really tolerate the taste of in the UK. My cousin swears by the evil green stuff that looks and tastes like it was hocked up by a demented alien. Blocking my nose when taking that stuff had no effect; the gag reflex was instantaneous. I'm not a fan of meds working because I'm too scared to hiccup right after taking it, and to be honest, it didn't do much for the cough. It's pointless knocking me out if I'm still coughing in my sleep, to the point that my ribs are sore.

A little bit of research yesterday pointed me toward the salt inhalers. It's pretty much rock salt in a tube, that you suck, and is supposed to help with all sorts of breathing issues. It couldn't be less effective that the cough mixture so far, so I gave it a shot.
I got a few little bottles into make facial serums with, so yesterday I grabbed one and poured a mixture of rock salt and Himalayan salt in. I doubt there's much difference in the effectiveness between the two, despite all the hoorah over regional salt on the official inhalers.  I grabbed the Himalayan stuff because it's bigger, I didn't need to fiddle with it for much longer, and I could shuffle back to bed faster. I added three drops of essential oil (I used lemon balm), shook it up, and inhaled from the bottle for the next ten minutes. 

Interesting thing is, it seems to have helped. I'm still coughing, but I no longer sound like I'm tried to choke a yeti. I've found grabbing the bottle and inhaling seems to taper the coughing fit off faster as well. I've also found sprinkling a mixture of lemon grass and peppermint oil over the pillow case seems to help with breathing when I'm lying down. Taking a bath involves those oils, as well as lavender, ginger, and 1 or 2 drops of rosemary. I've been dabbing the balm I made up for my joints on my little red nose, and surprisingly haven't had much flakiness. It's not as red or sore as it was either, so that's a bonus.

I'm posting the recipe for the balm here for anyone who wants to give it a try. Keep in mind I'm not a doctor, so this is not medically cleared. Also keep in mind that essential oils are not always safe if you're pregnant or breastfeeding, and I have no idea how safe this is for very young kids. Essential oils, like anything else, can cause reactions, so if you're unsure or allergic to anything in it, don't use it. Never use essential oils directly on the skin as these are pure oils and can cause painful burns; always use a carrier oil. 

Achy Breaky Balm

Ingredients:

1 cup shea butter
1 tablespoon olive oil (you can also use any carrier oil here - cherry kernel or jojoba are both excellent in this balm)
1 teaspoon honey powder (you can use plain honey, but it can get sticky and tacky in the final product - be warned)
7 drops rosemary oil
3 drops lemon grass oil
3 drops ginger oil
3 drops rose otto oil (really good for the skin - I use this in pretty much every balm/body butter I make)
1 tablespoon mango butter (optional, but really softening. This balm gets solid.)
1/2 cup de-ionised water. (Tap water is more likely to contain impurities. If your local water is really hard, it will also impact the quality of the balm. If you use tap water, keep this in the fridge and use in about a week. Also, water is not necessary - you can make the balm without it, but the result will be very hard, and you'll need to literally scrape it out during cold weather. If you don't use the water, add another 1/3 cup of shea butter.)
Preservative - both honey and rosemary are natural preservatives. However, because I've added water I use Optiphen to preserve my balm. It's a ratio of between 1- 3 %, so not much at all. 

Method:

Place butters, honey powder (diluted in a little de-ionised water) and carrier oil in a double boiler to melt. I use a glass bowl over a pot. Make sure the butters have melted thoroughly; shea butter can turn grainy otherwise. I usually leave it on the heat for an additional 15 minutes to ensure that doesn't happen.


Remove from heat and add essential oils,  and beat well. I use a small electric hand-beater. You can whip it by hand, but you will feel it - it takes a bit of work that way. Then add the water, while beating further, and the optiphen. If you want to colour it, get some cosmetic safe  mica - these come in a pretty amazing array of colours, and most places that supply shea butter etc will have them. Food colouring is not advised; you'll end up staining your clothing, and possibly the kitchen ceiling if the beater gets excited.

You'll find it whips up into something that looks almost like royal icing. Do not eat the product. (It won't kill you, but it's not going to taste good.) Pour it, or scrape it if it's very thick, into the container you want to use. I sterilise my containers with the tablets used to sterilise baby bottles, but any very mild bleach disinfectant is fine. I've also found that the disposable icing bags are perfect for getting containers filled neatly.

Let it set, and use.

Clean up:

This part is, quite frankly, a bugger. You may have to wash your utensils repeatedly. I wash in soap, dunk in a bucket with mild bleach for a few hours, then rinse off with a mild vinegar solution. Then they get washed with soap again. Repeat as needed; if you left a lot of mix in the bowl, you will be washing for a long, long, looooooong time. So far, it's the only draw-back I've found to making these things.


It's brilliant for aching joints (and red, abused noses). The base butters and oils moisturise the skin. Honey, rosemary and ginger are all natural disinfectants and anti-inflammatories. Rose otto is another excellent skin conditioner, and lemon balm is a powerful anti-viral and anti-bacterial.  I have a friend who uses it every time she works in the garden, and swears by it. It makes a fairly mild scented balm that melts on contact with the skin and is easily absorbed.

Have fun and enjoy, and hopefully I'll have shaken this nasty bit of flu off by next week. 

One cranky little writer

There are a number of things that annoy me. 

People who are rude, and stampede over me at tube stations annoy me, especially when they're females with stilettos, mincing along with a barbie-pink suitcase on wheels behind them, which usually hits me a micro-second after afore-mentioned stiletto. (Why pink? Why, for the love of sanity, does anyone want to gallop around the bloody London underground looking like they're waiting for Ken? Answers on a post-card.)

The couple that having sucking face every time I step outside the office building annoy me. It's not so much the kissy, but the kissy noises, which do nothing for anyone's appetite. If you insist on PDA's to the point of looking like you're auditioning for a low-budget porn, please keep the noise level down. It's like listening to an octopus being flung violently against a washing machine window. It's really, really annoying. (Also, I keep wondering how the hell they breathe. There are professional free-divers who can't hold their breath for that long.)

Having a variation of the spawn of satan trundling around my bedroom annoys and terrifies me in equal measure. The last thing any arachnaphobe needs is to see part of the floor moving gently towards her bed, her wardrobe, or her giant bunny slippers. It's cruel and incites violence.

Over and above all of these, what really gets my goat, dear reader, is being sick. I've been migraine-free for weeks now (pause for happy dance), and I've loved it. And today, I've got a lovely dose of the latest flu bug. (End happy music.)

I hate feeling weak and shaky. I hate feeling like my bones have been hollowed out and filled with broken glass, and that every part of my body feels like it's been systematically pounded on by a crazed goblin with a nail-studded club.  I detest the coughing, the head-ache, and looking like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer's second removed cousin.
I sulk over the cost of medication that I know damn well won't do a thing to cure me, and at most will hopefully move the bugs out of my system faster, and I loathe being house-bound for illness. I've quite happy to curl up at home of my own accord. Take away the free-will aspect of that, and I feel like rolling on the floor and biting the carpet.

So I'm stuck in bed, feeling miserable, and entertaining the ultimate revenge fantasy: one day, I will find a way to enlarge a flu virus large enough to infect the evil thing with a human. Let's see how it likes the feeling.

Moment of Oops, multiple.

Well, let's see. There was the thing on Tuesday morning where I somehow got liquid hand-soap on my retainer.
Soap may smell great, but the novelty of having tiny bubbles escape your mouth every time you speak or breath wears off pretty fast, not to mention the taste is vile. I got onto the platform with my mouth screwed up so hard I would have scared a cabbage patch doll, and  grabbed a cup of coffee to try and get rid of the taste.
This was a mistake, since I spent the first fifteen minutes of the train commute foaming gently at the mouth while other commuters discreetly moved to a different area of the train car.

I need to remember the Cujo Janet look for next time I have to squeeze onto a packed train. It totally works.

The rest of the week was pretty mild. Then Friday happened.

My kindle died. I am technically in mourning; but at the same time I'm impressed - this little slab of plastic and tech has survived my care since 2010. They don't even make the ones with the little keyboard anymore. It's been getting slower and slower, with frequent hiccups, and at sometime in the early hours of the morning it said Fare-Thee-Well to this world. It's now a piece of plastic & tech with strange lines and marks on the screen, like an abused etch-a-sketch.
(Thankfully, Friday was also payday, so I've ordered another one. The cheap version is £69 pounds, and I'm typing this with one ear open so that I can charge the front door when the delivery guy gets here, because I'm having withdrawal symptoms.)

Then I ended up with Shake 'n Vac in my Uggs. Why? Because I thought I'd lucked out in the cheap store and found a giant bottle of talcum powder. Read. The. Label. Always, always read the label. In my case, this applies to read the label at the shelf, then again on the way to pay for it, because it's not the first time I've bought something that was actually next to the item I've wanted to buy.

So I shook the bottle into each Ugg, realised that a ton of powder had come out, and checked the label. Then I spent 20 minutes with a small puff of white powder dispersing itself upwards each time I took a step, and spent the day smelling faintly of orange blossom. (Side-note - my socks smelt fantastic at the end of the day, so I'm chalking that up in the win column.)

Apart from nearly face-planting into the toilet at work, the rest of the day was remarkably smooth.

Then I went out to dinner with Stacey and her brother, who really, really wanted to know how I fell over a car (so would I, but hey - this is me), and I promptly set fire to the menu. I didn't realise there was a tea-light candle on the table that had been lit, and I managed to rest the menu on top of it. *Sigh*
We got the flames out, and I sat and blushed while my cousins, the wait-staff, and the restaurant owner gazed at me in disbelief.

It was a very small fire, I promise.

The very nice waitress smiled sweetly, moved the candle to the end of the table far, far away from me, and build a little ceramic barricade around it with the salt and pepper pots. Then she thought about it a bit, and put the ceramic table-number holder in front of the pots, and was very... cautious around me for the rest of the evening. Sweet, but careful, the way you treat new dogs and strangers who probably should be on medication.

My cousins took photographic evidence and posted it on face-book, and no, I don't think I'm ever going to live it down.

Mad skills, people. Mad skills.

Murder Porn & Trial by Media - This should disturb everyone.

Reeva Steenkamp died in the early hours of February 14th. Her killer is a national hero in South Africa, the blade-runner Oscar Pistorius.
So far, so horrible. One life taken, many more shattered - her family, and his, the friends, the colleagues, and because both led high-profile lives, they inevitably touched a lot of people. All of these must be affected.

What must be doubly horrifying for Reeva Steenkamp's family, not mention Pistorius's, is the trial by media. The whole bloody, gory mess is being dissected and trumpeted across the globe, and by the way, SAP - exactly who is leaking the details?
If true, a nasty tragic incident is fast becoming a brutal, cold-blooded murder. But some of these details - the shooting through a closed door, the bloodied cricket bat - should be coming up in court, not via he tabloids howling so gleefully as they paw through the remnants of two lives looking for dirt.

If not true - and having seeing what the tabloids in the UK have achieved with speculation, bias, and outright falsehood in other cases - that's also possible, then we have a man who's just been tossed to the wolves.

Whether true or not, the implications of the media details are frightening. The jury trial system in South Africa was abolished in 1969, according to Wikipedia. While this means that you cannot taint a jury, it also means that the judge on the case needs to be almost super-human not to be affected by media coverage to this degree, and the tone implied in the vast majority of them. The burden of proof in South Africa rests on the prosecution to prove it's case without doubt. Those two little words are probably behind the details we're hearing.

A cynic would wonder if the information being fed to the media is deliberate, rather than a leak. That cynic might also wonder if this is a way of ensuring public outrage; rather than a trial by jury, we have a man now undergoing trial by tabloid. Trial by television reports, by outraged sound-bites and speculation from "friends and neighbours."

The problem I have with this is that speculation is not proof. Stories of Pistorius getting drunk and doing stupid things/aggressive things are not proof. Speculation that Reeva was shot by accident, that she was deliberately hunted and killed, are not proof.

Proof is what should be presented in a court. Proof is forensic evidence and time-lines. Everything else is shadows and smoke, and sharks moving through bloody water. It's always easy to find people willing to kick someone when they've fallen from the pedestal, and right now everyone with an axe to grind against Pistorius is lining up for their 15 seconds in the media spotlight.

Trial by media is nothing new. But it taints. It takes the concept of a trial based on proof and actions, rolls it in mud, and kicks it in the teeth. The justice system is inherently flawed - I can't think of a single one currently operating that is not - but what is being done to it, not just in this case, but others before it, takes a flawed system, and twists it. It turns it into a self-feeding machine, a trash-collector, a monster that feeds off of public perception. And it forgets the victims, 9 times out of 10, or twists them just as much as the guy on trial.

One notorious red top in the UK didn't even mention Reeva Steenkamp by name, the day the story broke. They put her picture on the front page, the golden girl in a bikini - and they never mentioned her name. Not once. In all the paragraphs of lip-smacking, delicious, oh-my horror, they couldn't be bothered to put her name into it.

Murder porn sells papers. The rich and famous fallen, that sells papers. Murder in the early hours of the morning - sells. Combine all of the above - oh, baby! Have a source feeding you details that would sway the court of public opinion - more! More! Justice and fair trial? Boring as hell.

But tell me, folks - what happens when it's one of us in this situation? What happens when one of the little people get fed into the media mill? Because that, too, has happened before, and will probably happen again.

Trial by media is scary as hell. I can't think of many things worse.

But next week, we get to play feed the monster again, with a man's life and a woman's death, and the play, I guess goes on.

Special Valentine's Moment of Oops, with added Ouch

Valentine's Day is supposed to be the day you get red roses and heart-warming moments of mushiness.

Since I wasn't expecting that, I managed to treat myself to a bright red car and several pain-killers and assorted bandages.

I left the flat and headed to the station. Although there's only one main road that gets you there, as a pedestrian you cross a number of side roads. None of them have traffic lights or pedestrian crossings, but they aren't normally crazy-busy either, so although you get the odd moron who thinks stop-signs are for other people, it's not a huge issue.

I checked the road I was about to cross (I always do this, because I know how fast things go pear-shaped around me) and stepped into it. Halfway across I walked into a bright red shiny thing, and found myself cart-wheeling over a car bumper.

I looked up to see a balding gentleman in glasses, face white, mouth opened in a horrified "O", staring down at me.

I apologised for falling over his car, and went home to change my trousers and boots. (Puddles and work wear do not combine well.)

I have no idea where the bloody thing came from. I didn't hear it, but most modern cars are pretty quiet, and I definitely didn't see it. There's a chance he pulled out of a parking space after I stepped into the road, saw me, and stopped, but I honestly couldn't say.

I was wearing gloves, so I didn't even really graze myself - had itchy palms for most of the day from where I landed, but that was it.

I could feel the bruises starting, and I had a good case of the shakes, but got into work only 30 minutes late, which I put in the win column.

Unfortunately, my body disagreed.

By the end of the day I had a strapped up wrist (bruises, swelling), a strapped up ankle (more swelling!) and a hand that looked like it belonged to a cartoon, and I was limping like that guy from The Usual Suspects. Tres, tres svelte.

To ensure I damaged every joint on the same day, I managed to knock my knee on my desk drawer, and taught my team-mates how to swear in Afrikaans.

There's no breakage involved (been there, done that). There is a hell of a lot of swelling, despite making friends with ice-packs and lots of anti-inflammatories, and going by the fact that I couldn't get out of bed without whimpering this morning I'd say I've pulled a few muscles. My calf muscles have also gone on strike.
I look like I've been punched by a pissed-off rainbow in a few selected places, and right now I'm pretty grateful for the additional hip padding, since it's a pretty awkward place to hurt. Sitting down currently requires advance planning worthy of a military operation. I'm not even going to talk about getting into and out of the bath last night, but there's a good chance I traumatised two bars of soap and a washcloth in the process.

The annoying thing is that I managed something similar years ago (although technically the car was parked outside an office building, and it was a black porsche. I seem to have lowered my standards as I've grown older.) and back then I brushed myself off, and apart from a couple of bruises I had no issues afterwards.

Once again, definitive proof that ageing messes with the ability to bounce. On the bright side, however, I now know I can do an assisted cart-wheel. Just don't ask me to land well.

Soap! & a minor moment of oops

No blog post over the weekend, for the simple reason that we just lost the internet. No clue why, or how, but every time I went to log on the modem hiccuped sadly and started flashing wildly, like the strange kid wandering around the school disco with Christmas lights. (You never want to see that doing the Macarena either. Just saying. There is not enough mind-bleach.)

Eventually I gave up and spent the weekend making soap, and body scrub, bath fizzies, and bath tea. So the flat smells pretty cool, and I've been lugging my stuff into the day job and flogging it for Valentine's Day.

It occurred to me this week that I've never not done additional work, except for brief periods of time - six months here and there, throughout my working life.

In my first reception job in a factory (back in the mists of time, when dinosaurs ruled the earth and I once pitched up wearing my slippers by accident), I made a few spare pennies by hand-drawing cards and flogging them to the floor staff.

In my last bar-tending job, I made more money selling lighters and loose cigarettes most nights than I made in tips. (Drunk folks like to light up, even the ones that normally view smoking as akin to offering the pope a lap dance.) I sold paintings, hand-made coasters, painted back-drop cloths for photographers.

Since I've been in London, I've been more focused on the writing side in my spare time, but I love making the soaps & body stuff. It lets the creative side out in a practical way, it's nicely regulated, which keeps my inner compliance manager happy (although certification hurt. Staying legal is pricey, sometimes.) , and it makes people happy. And I must admit, it's the best form of pocket money I've found ever. What I don't sell I can put in my stock cupboard, and if that doesn't work, I get to use it and smell good. What's not to love?

                                          *****************************
I got annoyed at the amount of time I have to wait for affordable labels to come in, so decided to try printing my own. I haven't used the printer since I moved two years ago, because (a) it's a temperamental wee beastie and not me-proof, and we both have the scars to prove it, and (b) I couldn't find ink cartridges that fit. I gave up after three different purchases that didn't work. So last week I whimpered and ordered the labels, and the last attempt at cartridges, because if these don't work the printer is going to find itself in the charity shop. Everything came in, which was great - until I realised my cable had gone walk-about. No clue where it is. It's entirely possible the Chingford spiders took it to use as a skipping rope.
Got the printer cable to today, so after posting this I'll give it a bash, hopefully without putting a hole in the ceiling, wall, or myself.

                                         *****************************

Dinner tonight was curry. It started flaking - powdery, fine snow that melts almost before it lands - and it's bloody freezing, so it's perfect weather for it.

After dinner I picked up the bowls to take them downstairs, and promptly lost my grip. I ended up juggling two bowls, two forks, me, and the carpet. All in front of a very amused flat-mate. Nothing broken, but I'm going to have a very impressive bruise on my wrist where both of the bowls attempted the Great Escape by clambering over my arm. I swear the little buggers grew legs and danced onto the carpet.

Special, special snowflake moment of Aargh

Every now and then I manage something so spectacularly crazy that it goes past a moment of oops, and into the Special Snowflake category.

Going through the wrong door in a hotel bedroom wearing nothing but a towel was one of them. Getting whiplash from a boiled egg was another. (It's complicated. Let's just say I now have an aversion to microwave egg boilers, and leave it at that, shall we?)

Everybody has their ritual for getting ready for work. Mine involves lurching down to stick the coffee on, often passing Stacey in the passage doing her own Morning Zombie Shuffle.

Then I lurch back to my room, coffee in hand, to start the underwear-deodorant-clothing process. Then I have half my coffee as a reward for not putting anything on backwards and still being upright.

My deodorant sits on top of a little plastic chest of drawers. At the moment, there are two bottles of the stuff on there, as well as eyedrops, face serum, a really cool little oriental pot that I toss my spare change into, and a bottle of liquid black shoe polish, which is pretty handy when I grab my boots and realise they need a touch-up on the way out of the door.

Until yesterday morning, this was never an issue.

I realised I was running a bit short of time, and started rushing. I grabbed a bottle from the dresser, whipped the top off, and started frantically dabbing under my arms. Then I noticed that there were two little bottles of spray deodorant still lying on the chest of drawers, and that they were spray versions. I haven't used the roll-on stuff in months, since the last one I got felt like it was gluing my armpit shut. Also, there was a strange smell coming from ... me.

I peered down at the bottle I was holding, and said a very rude word. (Actually, I said several of them, some of which haven't been used since my last spider trauma.) About twenty seconds later I was frantically lathering up my armpits in the bathroom, trying to remove the black shoe polish I'd liberally applied.

Just so you know, that stuff is a mother to clean off when it dries, and it dries pretty damn fast when it's on skin.

Eventually I gave up, used quite  bit of perfume (this was not a good idea) and left the house.

For the rest of the day, every time I moved I caught a slight whiff of shoe polish. Combine this with perfume, and the results are pretty bad.

I've rarely been so grateful to get into a bath at the end of a day.