The Snack Bar ConMANdrum

In the office (yes, I do have a respected profession beyond this blog) someone set a unique challenge…

1. Write a short story that in some way is connected to you based on this format:

THE STORY SPINE

STRUCTURE

FUNCTION

Once upon a time…

Beginning

The world of the story is introduced and the main character’s routine is established

Every Day…

But, one day…

The Event

The main character breaks the routine

Because of that…

Middle

There are dire consequences for having broken the routine. It is unclear if the main character will come out alright in the end

Because of that…

Because of that…

Until finally…

The climax

The main character embarks upon success or failure

And, even since then…

End

The main character succeeds or fails, and a new routine is established

2. Pick an image or photo that captures the essence of your story.

In essence I wrote a more condensed version of a previous blog post, the one about the letter to Jordan’s cereals: “Why Can’t Men be More Like Snack Bars?”

My submission went like this:

The Snack Bar ConMANdrum

Once upon a time, I used to be obsessed with eating breakfast cereal bars (like, “this girl is going to turn into Tony the Tiger” obsessed).

Every day, I’d power through multiple Kellogg’s bars, if not whole boxes of the sticky bars of milk coated treats.

But, one day my dealer (Mr. Asda Supermarket) well Asda, he only had “Frusli Bars” to offer me. They’re like cereal bars but more fruit, less cereal and more socially acceptable to eat as an adult.

Because of that, I developed an even stronger addition to the new substance. Frusli came in different varieties and kept me going when I needed the energy or strength to haul luggage across the London Underground. They were always there for me (in my bag) and didn’t give me grief when I wanted to eat something.

So naturally, because of that, my dating life went to pot.

Because of that, I wrote to the makers of Frusli, Jordan’s Cereals, with a well-constructed argument that the world would be a better place is men were more like snack bars. I kinda hoped they’d send me their equivalent of the Milk Tray man to help, but instead they sent me a three month supply of their products.

Until finally, after devouring everything Jordan’s had sent me, I realised that I needed to apply my energies into something other than consumption. But also, that stringing a funny tale together can get me free stuff and exposure.

And, ever since then I’m more open and honest with my writing and send more physical letters to the people I want to grab attention from. And trust me, it works.

sb

 

Originally drafted in October 2019 for later publication.

 

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“As Exciting as an East German Portrayal of Russian Culture in the 1970s” – MHAM Quiz of 2019

Wow, so that was 2019! That was a decade! What have we learned in that time?

a) Politicians still lie

b) The dating world is still a mess

c) I’m still incapable of getting through a coffee without spilling its contents everywhere

d) Through consumption of c. 50 gallons of coffee and tea at the start of the decade, I not only like, but have developed a mild addiction to hot caffeinated drinks.

Coffee Meme

Progress!

While my blog has only been going for five years (sor-ry for living in the dark all that time), I thought it would be a great time for a little 2019 quiz on the MHAM stats! Yayyyy! (Look, I’m working to a £0 budget here.)

My Housemate’s a Mermaid – the 2019 Quiz

Questions

  1. How many blog views (i.e. clicks on the homepage, pages and individual posts) did MHAM have in the year 2019? (To the nearest 500.)
  2. How many comments did the blog receive?
  3. Which five individual blog posts obtained the most views? (Nb this excludes views on the homepage and page tabs.)
  4. How many countries, globally, did viewers come from?
  5. Of the top ten countries for views, name three from the latter half (i.e. poled between 6th – 10th)?
  6. Name five African countries that accessed the blog in 2019.

Those are you questions. Ready? (Stop giving me that look.)

Your time starts…now!

Ooh I feel as excited as an East German portraying Russian culture in the 1970s!

(Just me then?)

Answers!

Rightyo, let’s do this.

Question 1) How many views did the blog get in 2019?

Answer – 11, 332 (put into context, that’s 31.04 views a day!)

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Question 2) How many comments did the blog receive?

Answer – 6

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Question 3) – Which five individual blog posts obtained the most views? (Nb this excludes views on the homepage and page tabs)

Answer – In order…

The Morning I Re-evaluated my Relationships with Men 373 views

A Very British Complaint Letter to Cadburys Chocolate – 350 views

The Cat’s Guide to Christmas 248 views

The Time I Discovered I was a Dominatrix…At Speed Dating 170 views

While You’re Here 166 views (I’ll discount this as it’s a self promotion piece)

Five Minute Review: What the F*** is Normal?! By Francesca Martinez140 views

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Question 4) How many countries, globally, did blog viewers come from?

Answer – 84 (including six views from an area referred to only as ‘European Union’)

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Question 5) Name the five countries who ranked 5th – 10th in the view list

Answer – In order… Finland, Ireland, Netherlands, Canada, Spain

2019 Top Countries
Top fifteen countries with viewing numbers

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Question 6) Name five African countries who viewed the blog in 2019

Answer – Any of the below:

  • South Africa
  • Nigeria
  • Kenya
  • Egypt
  • Morocco
  • Algeria
  • Uganda
  • Ethiopia
  • Ghana
  • Libya
  • Zimbabwe
  • Papua New Guinea
  • Sierra Leone
2019 Countries.jpg
Global heat map of views – 2019

Now wasn’t that fun? Here’s to the year and decade ahead! While I’ve written this blog post I’ve successfully managed to uncork my first wine bottle. Depending on who you are, this is either the greatest human triumph of the decade (so far) or something that makes you worried for the future state of what ‘success’ looks like in the years to come. Either way, I have wine, so…

Here’s to the roaring twenties, version 2.0

AB in Dress

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McDonald’s, You’re Missing A Trick!

It’s my birthday and I’ll have wine with my McDonald’s if I want to! A quiet in ahead of the Christmas craziness – new blog posts coming soon!

I’ll also bake for my team if I want to, even if ‘baking’ means staying up until crazy o’clock the night before to get it made to my demanding standards.

(The team valued it, I made two batches and they devoured both on a day. I was even told it posed a risk to productivity because it was so good.)

So yeah, go me. Go me and my baking and my wine-sipping awesomeness. Whoop.

A Whistle Stop Tour of Throwbacks

It’s my birthday this week (yay) so how better to celebrate me then a few personal favourites from the AEB playlist? Let’s waste no time, let’s get to it!

A Whistle Stop Tour of Throwbacks: A Playlist for Alice

Firstly, as with all things in life you have to make an entrance. I have always loved the bolshiness of Sledgehammer’s opening.

(Can we also take a moment to reflect on how ground-breaking the music video was at the time it was released?)

But where are my manners? I should probably introduce myself. I’m Alice, although Paul Simon keeps calling me different.

I’ve tried to stop him, but he really won’t give it up.

Most people, I hope, would think of me as a something a bit different to the norm, but still very much a product of the early 90s…

90s but not as you know it. You’ll find me catching up on Radio Four on the evenings and trying to make out I’m really listening to some hip new song by Ed Sheeran or Stormzy.

Sometimes I feel like my outlook on life is stuck decades older than my years so ‘1985’ seems apt on many levels (and only a year off one of my favourite novels, Nineteen Eighty-Four).

While I never prescribe myself to a ultimate favourite song (it changes so frequently) ‘My Girl’ by the Temptations will always sit in the premier league of faves. I’m also massive fan of international music which is why I’ve spent days of my life listening to both the English and Italian versions.

On the subject of off-beat and a little bit quirky…this striped back cover of a Britney Spears classic is just wonderful. Britney was my career icon for all of six months as a young child, nowadays if I want to unleash my inner sass I’ll mentally play this track in my head.

And in support of the many, many songs that were perfect just as they were…

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Bringing the pace back up while throwing the music right back, good luck trying to pin me down when The Kinks come on. I’ll have no embarrassment busting some abstract 60s moves to this:

When I get down to this it’s like Mr Tickle decided to release a fitness video, arms everywhere!

Similar with Mel Torme’s I’m Comin’ Home, a song which I first heard as part of the soundtrack for the movie An Education.

It’s a film set in the 60s involving slick men in suits dealing art. Hmm, I can’t think why I’m particularly drawn to the film…

And following on from that, I couldn’t possibly consider the soundtrack of An Education without giving a shout out to the 50s-set French film Popularie. ‘Golden Baby’ rightly deserves to sit as top bill on this film’s soundtrack.

And when I hear this next piece of piano music…for two minutes I transport myself somewhere completely other and fall in love with the idea of old fashioned romance.

 

Right, that’s enough soppiness, let’s up the tempo. Someone get the dance mat out!

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And if you really show off your moves maybe, just maybe, I’ll let you take me out.

(As long as you accept I will be singing along to the guitar solo.)

And why wouldn’t you want to spend a night hanging off my arm? I’m anything but common.

Nah, not me. I’m a one of a kind, I’m unique, I’m a classic.

And then… *cough*

(Or, alternatively, stick on ANY song by Marvin Gaye. They all get a massive thumbs up in my book.)

And then…

At the same time, I’ve got a life to lead and if you can’t handle that then sorry, you’re just not the bloke for me.

Sorry, not sorry for being awesome.

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When I was born (first week of December) the UK chart number one was Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You. Ironic, most of my nights out probably end with the same song.

Everyone has a song which is so truly horrific they love it and, following a seasonal line of thought, mine has to be this gem from Squeeze.

I mean, where do you even begin to start with what’s right in that video?

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In the Cotswolds it’s not Christmas in the family household until either a) Papa Bennett has attempted to play Fleetwood Mac’s Albatross and we’ve shouted him down, b) I’ve dropped the Michael Buble CD in oil/fat or c) Celtic Christmas gets played. It’s usually a close run battle between the three.

TUNNNNEEEE!

And how better to exit the day/week/year than with ‘Bat Out of Hell’ and ‘St. Elmo’s Fire back-to-back? (Rhetorical question, there is none.)

Right, I’ve gotta dash now, real life adult stuff to do. I hope you’ve enjoyed this glimpse into my mind and music taste (and understand why asking me for my favourite genre and/or song is a pointless question, I don’t have one).

If you’re ever in a position where you’re feeling a bit low and missing my blog/real life lovin’ don’t you worry, I’m always here*.

*Swimsuit not included.

Happy birthday me!

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Lunch Break Scribbles: The Naivety of Youth

As well as other things taking shape in my life I’m also enrolled on a writing course, for which I have to submit exercises as well as sections of my novel for review. Each exercise is marked in isolation, so it’s great for giving me the freedom and discipline to write hyper-fiction (self-contained stories less than 1000 words in length).

One weekday lunchtime at work (i.e. in an hour) I wrote “The Naivety of Youth”, a first draft of a story that places sensory experience at the heart of scene setting.

While not the finished article, I wanted to make a point of how important regular breaks are. I hear so often people say that they’re either too busy or they simply don’t know what to do with themselves so don’t take the time out.

In the UK you are entitled, by law, to an unpaid break by your employer (length dependant on your contracted hours). Don’t squander the opportunity to look after your mental health, if I can write the below in an hour, then there’s no excuse! You’d be amazed what you can achieve in even thirty minutes.

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The Naivety of Youth (First Draft)

Declan landed three hard knocks on the chipped plywood door. The sound bounded around the room behind, a hollow chamber of noise swiftly chased by the crackled voice of the flat’s tenant.

                ‘I’m coming, I’m coming!’

                There was the jingle of a chain and a shunt of a bolt before the old woman pulled the door open ajar to greet her visitor.

                ‘Who are you?’

                ‘I’m Declan, I recently moved into the flat a next door…’

                ‘What are you selling?’

                ‘I’m not selling anything, I just…’

                ‘Then why didn’t you ring the doorbell?

                Declan glanced to the left. The doorbell of which the lady referred to was caked in deep dirt and grime, he hadn’t even been aware of its existence.

                ‘I tried but it didn’t work,’ he lied. ‘Thing is, I’ve been relocated here and I don’t know anyone. Can I come in? I’ve got some leftover cake from work.’ He lifted the cheap blue bag, its colour imposing on the dark brown corridor it swung against.

                The old lady looked the man up and down several times and eyed up the bag before grumbling and permitting Declan inside. Using her walking stick for support, she waddled across the square room and flicked on a light switch before approaching Declan and making a gesture at the bag. He politely handed it into her vicious grasp that made the plastic scrunch up in recoiled submission. As she headed toward the kitchenette Declan decided to make himself more comfortable and placed a hand on a sofa that faced an old box TV set.

                ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

                ‘Ruby!’ Came the muffled response. The lady was too busy staring into an empty cupboard.

                ‘It’s a…err…nice place you’ve got here…’ Declan lowered himself onto the collapsed sofa, his bum tensing and reshuffling momentarily when he happened upon a broken spring.

                ‘Don’t try softening me up, boy, I know it’s a dump.’

                Ruby placed the half-eaten cake on the stained coffee table and shoved a plate into the hands of Declan. Even though it had the appearance of being clean it still felt sticky beneath his fingers.

                ‘Is this what you call a welcome gift?’

                ‘Well, I did say it was the leftovers from work.’

                ‘You never said such thing!’

                ‘I’m sure I did?’

                ‘Are you calling me a liar now?’ Ruby took the cake knife and jabbed it toward Declan. Declan instinctively jolted backwards in such speed the firm backboard of the chair cracked with the impact. Ruby cackled at the scene just as Declan bent forward in pain.

                ‘I’m not gonna stab you! Young people, so gullible…’

                ‘I’m thirty-four years old.’

                ‘You’re young,’ Ruby said decisively. ‘Now, eat this cake I’ve made you.’

                Declan decided to not challenge Ruby’s assertion, deciding that acceptance was an easier path to take. As he bit into the stale sweetness of the baked item he became aware of how dry the air was in the space between he and Ruby. It sucked whatever moisture was in his throat, it burned at his eyes. When he helped himself to the water jug he found the result even worse; the chemically treated liquid tasted of metal mixed with cleaning fluid as it fell down his gullet in haste. The air dried where the water scorched, the two worked in unison to make the effects of the other worse.

                It was when Declan stopped to look at Ruby that he realised the old woman hadn’t said a word this entire time, nor had she tasted the cake. Instead she’d quietly sat in her faded floral armchair; knife resting on lap, an unnatural smile playing on her lips.

                ‘Do you like the cake?’

                Declan suddenly fell to the floor, scrabbling at the stained beige carpet. With his knuckles he pushed back the rag rug and saw for the first time large red patches of stained blood under it. As he gasped and spluttered Ruby kicked him back so the rug returned to its rightful place.

                ‘I keep a tight ship around here, boy, one of which being the importance of keeping the flat next door clear of people like you.’

                Declan tried to utter a response, a plea, but nothing came out.

                ‘P…p…p…’

                The frail, tiny lady towered over Declan, watching and observing his slow demise. It was only sometime later a clanging buzz pieced the stillness of the room.

                ‘Open up!’ Boomed the deep voice.

                Ruby looked from the direction of the noise back to Declan’s tangled body. The corpse’s blood had started dribbling from his nose, falling onto the carpet with a muted pat, pat.

                ‘I told you,’ she stated flatly. ‘You should have rung the doorbell.’

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Betrayed by a Toblerone

he Repair Shop is on, but we can’t watch that because of your father.’

‘Is that because the clock repair guy?’

‘Yes.’

At which point Mumma Bennett quickly switched channel to the more favourable Homes Under the Hammer in case the family member suddenly made an appearance. (Although usually that occurrence is preceded with the sound of creaking floorboards and my sister calling out ‘the kraken has awoken!’ from her lady cave upstairs.)

To my dad, a clock maker, the clock repair fella on the aforementioned television program represents a sour relationship from a time now since passed. Their falling out was probably the only time I had to give counselling to my old man.

‘Perhaps I should call him again.’

‘Dad he’s not interested, if he was he’d have contacted you last week when you emailed him.’

‘But maybe he didn’t see it.’

‘Dad…I know it is hard to accept but perhaps it’s time to let go. Here, let me get you an ice cream.’

‘I’ve texted him.’

‘Right.’

And that’s the thing, to my dad the feeling of ES_c0af6c02-0371-4c24-9c11-3e51d230b6cdSELRES_bc66a467-30bb-4348-8029-e005ac1betrayal SELRES_bc66a467-30bb-4348-8029-e005ac142724SELRES_c0af6c02-0371-4c24-9c11-3e51d230wasn’t marked by a singular event but more ongoing jabs. How the other party continues to ghost my pa but happy to lap up minor celeb status as an apparent expert on horological affairs.

In a very different example people tend to interpret the Biblical Judas as a man who betrayed Jesus (I know, what a novel concept). In Christian theology Judas is seen as not a nice guy but then his actions in turning against Jesus led to the salvation of humanity. If he hadn’t turned Jesus in for 30 silver coins would we be in a better place than we are now? Would it be worse? Would Toblerones still be the same size? I guess there’s some things we’ll never know.

1200px-Toblerone_3362.jpg
Don’t, I can’t bear to look at it.

For me when it comes to defining a back-stabber I think of it as more someone that damages the reputation of oneself or one’s trade. Don’t get me wrong, when BankUK stuffed up my mortgage application I was pretty miffed about my treatment but on reflection (and having conducted a number of Financial e-learning courses) I see that what they did was incredibly immoral to the institution as a whole, as well as myself as a customer. It undermined the wider financial industry and the rules that govern lending.

I also see the creative efforts of certain authors, artists, directors etc. as a criminal act. I’m sure you can think of a multitude so I won’t name any in particular *cough* Twilight Saga *cough, cough* Burn After Reading. Such tragedies are anything but Shakespearian.

Also, why is it called “Good Friday” when something bad happened on it? I mean you don’t go ‘I’m sorry to hear of your loss Sally. Was it a “good” Monday?’ In terms of emotion I feel rather ‘meh’ today on Good Friday. More meh than good, which makes me question everything about my almost non-existent Christian card I use.

“Are you working tomorrow?”

“On Good Friday? JESUS DIED INDIA!”

“Wow…”

The concept of betrayal is more complex than we give it credit for. Does the pain of betrayal make us intelligent beings or are we human because we’ll use that intelligence to better ourselves no matter the cost? Are we no more than immature children (after all, wars have been started for little more than a perceived betrayal of treaties). I suppose it’s something scholars have discussed and argued over for many centuries and a topic that will be debated over for years to come.

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Today’s WordPress prompt was Betrayed and given today is Good Friday I wonder over the choice of daily prompt (WordPress being, after all, a forum of all creeds and faiths). This post is admittedly rather forced and not my best (starting with such a fun topic to write about is like trying to make a puppy cute when its head is already half hanging off). It’s a hard task is all I’m saying.

On a lighter note, here’s a pop video about Moscow:

 

If you were unfulfilled before I hope you are now satisfied, if you held my work in high regard before I expect your expectations have been suitably lowered. I will not pass judgement on either.

The Warm Up

SELRES_22f08f43-6593-41cb-9f21-b91401619e46SELRES_cc68d849-c635-4b2d-af09-f72ffd6f56a7SELRES_c53bcbb3-a0ce-41a4-bf69-902ae4ae27b4Her forecHer forehead encrustedSELRES_c53bcbb3-a0ce-41a4-bf69-902ae4ae27b4SELRES_cc68d849-c635-4b2d-af09-f72ffd6f56a7SELRES_22f08f43-6593-41cb-9f21-b91401619e46 with a thin layer of salt, Ellie looked down to the vinyl floor and breathed, one, two, three.

Behind the plywood doors sat a meagre crowd, the best the promoters and her friend-turned-agent could rope together off the street. Free comedy and a place to shelter from the rain, that was what they were preaching outside. But as a late comer and his dog squeezed past Ellie started to wonder what had been emitted access to the pub’s basement.

‘Word of advice,’ grumbled a deep voice whose suddenness and proximity to the newbie’s ear made her jump. ‘Don’t go there with the dog. Thought I could pull that off at a Newport gig, turns out it was a Guide Dog. Didn’t sit to well with the crowd if you know what I mean.’

The scruffy man took a long drag of his vape as if to add depth and mystery to his tale but all Ellie could think about was the smell. Cigarette smoke infused with fake strawberries, neither of which made her swoon with admiration. She glimpsed the white box sticking out of his faded evening jacket, the same jacket she’d seen in the window of Primark five years ago. One of the buttons was missing, probably from a failed exploit about three years ago to get the cheap fabric over the large belly. Instead it fell to the checked shirt to contain the bloated stomach, a task which it evidently was struggling to do effectively. Ellie looked up at the man’s bearded face, topped with a flat cap, to meet his small eyes. He winked at her whilst finishing the dregs of the clouded pint glass.

With a tinge of illness at the thought, Ellie turned back to face the chipped door. Over her shoulder the large thumps of beefy feet and crackled growls to the landlord reassured her that the headline act wouldn’t bother her again until the interval at least. Like the yellowing teeth and bony fingers of those who normally attended these gigs, Ellie tried to not think how the ghastly male in the tight fitting shirt could be the pitched as the main event.

‘Is that what I should be aspiring to?’ She thought, ‘is that what is to become of me if I’m a success, or if I am a failure? What if I can’t move past the title of “warm up”?’

Just then, a young teenager with a lengthy mop of hair broke the dimness of the setting with one word.

‘Alright?’

‘Oh, hi.’ Ellie replied, shuffling to one side.

The landlord’s son pushed the double doors open with his back, phone in one hand, the other in his jeans pocket. Disinterest and sleep deprivation hung heavy over his eyes. As he walked into the room a few shouts came from the locals, people who no doubt would rather listen to him talk for an hour than watch the warm up act for ten minutes. A few words were mumbled limply (through the door slit Ellie could see him tapping on his phone) and then she was introduced.

‘…so clap your hands for tonight’s warm up.’

One, two, three. And away she went.

 

 

(Written in response to the WordPress Prompt of the day ‘Encrusted‘)