The Button Collector

When I was younger my mother had a cookie tin filled to bursting with buttons. I used to sit beside her while she crafted, my small hands buried in the buttons. I loved how they felt as they slid across my skin, the noise they made as they slipped and came together, passing through my fingers... I loved the way they would catch the light, rhinestones glinting, flat plastic faces reflecting my mother's work light. It soothed me.

It's no surprise, really, that I began collecting buttons myself.

It started with stealing one or two buttons from my mother's stash... Ones I didn't think she'd notice. I kept them in the back corner of my closet where I'd peeled back just the very edge of the carpet. I lined them up so that they were tight against the wall then laid the carpet back down on top of them.

I would drift off to sleep at night staring at my half-open closet door - not because I was worried about monsters but because I knew there was treasure in there, waiting for me, calling to me.

I began seeing buttons everywhere... One under a seat on the bus - a cool oval tortoiseshell button with only two holes... Another under a rack of dresses in our local department store - a plain black plastic one with three holes... They both came home with me and I added them to my collection.

Eventually, my collection outgrew the space I could get away with on the floor of my closet so I started taping them to the back of my dresser. Neat rows of buttons adorned the side of my dresser that only I saw. Before the collection got too big, I used to count them all each night before I slept and, as I drifted off, my attention now on that chest of drawers rather than my closet.

Sometimes, I would see buttons on people's coats or their clothing while I was out with my mother and I would be transfixed. A sparkly button could make my whole day and going a day without seeing a button that I deemed interesting could certainly ruin my mood. I'd be thunderous until we reached home again and I could escape to my room and my treasure.

When my mother died, I made sure that I got all of her buttons, but it wasn't difficult - neither of my brothers were interested.

My collection grew and I started housing it in a glass-fronted cabinet so that I could look at them all the time. My brothers think I'm weird but they no longer lived in our mother's house so their opinions didn't matter. I was alone there with my treasure and it was just how I liked it.

Going out to do things like grocery shopping I began to realise that the lovely buttons that I saw on other people weren't being appreciated the way that I would appreciate them if they were mine. It's wretchedly unfair so I started carrying a small seam ripper with me. I was on a personal mission to liberate unappreciated buttons.

I became quite adept at "accidentally" bumping into someone and freeing a button from their coat or sleeve. I made it into something of an art - I was like a strange little pickpocket except I never stole anything of value to my "victims", never any money or anything like that. Just buttons. Buttons they didn't even know were missing until it was too late. Buttons they must have presumed fell off of their own accord, as buttons are wont to do sometimes.

It's been a few years since I've seen any interesting buttons. I guess that's to be expected where I live now but it saddens me. I still collect them when I can but my collection is super small.

I only have three buttons now and when I'm not in my room my buttons are hidden in a pair of socks. I keep them tightly wrapped in my fist when I sleep. I dream of them. I dream of buttons, of course. I try not to dream of the woman whose beautiful button took my treasure away from me...

She was standing on the platform, waiting for her train - I had followed her into the station from the coffee shop two doors down. She had the most amazing floral buttons on her dress and I couldn't tell if they were acrylic, resin or glass but they were stunning. Hues of pink and purple petals set off against a dark green background - they perfectly matched her summery dress. I had been waiting for my moment for some time when it finally came. Her train was approaching and I slipped my seam ripper into my hand, gripping it tightly, keeping it firmly concealed. Because the platform was packed for rush hour, I knew this would be easy - I'd done it hundreds of times before.

I approached the woman as she bent to grab her bags in readiness for boarding the train and I rushed forward, pretending I was eager to be one of the first to board the train. She was significantly distracted. My hand moved in a practised motion and in one swipe the button between her breasts was mine. I pocketed the coveted button.

But she had felt her dress pull apart and she jumped back slightly, startled. I never understood how, but at that instant, as the train pulled along the platform, she was suddenly shunted forward and into me. I put my hands up to protect myself as she crashed into me and we fell to the platform.

My chest felt warm and wet and I couldn't work out how or why as I started trying to push the woman off of me when I realised people were starting to shout around us.

I couldn't hear what they were saying but there was so much warm water on me that I began to wonder if the woman had peed herself.

When I finally slid out from under the woman and stood up the shouting turned to screams and I heard the words "She's got a knife!". I looked down at the woman, confused - If she'd had a knife, I would have seen it. I'd been watching her quite closely and she definitely didn't have a knife. I knew they weren't screaming about the woman on the platform but I was then confused as to why she was still down where we had fallen together. She wasn't moving.

It didn't matter, I had to get out of there. Knife person or not, I definitely needed dry clothes.

As I approached the barrier to leave the station I turned to look back at the platform. I wasn't holding my seam ripper anymore, I must have dropped it. It was OK, I had several more at home but I wanted to see the woman whose button I had taken. I wanted to make sure she had made her train. I didn't want her to be late.

She was there but she still hadn't moved.

And there was a wet patch all around her, spreading out from under her on the platform.

As I walked back to her, I noticed that people were moving out of my way, some were running. The whole thing was very confusing.

As I knelt down to ask her if she was OK, to ask her if she needed any help, I saw my seam ripper. For a flash I was excited. I didn't want to lose a seam ripper.

But my excitement was short-lived as I was abruptly tackled from behind. As I fell forward, smashing my face into the platform, I realised that my seam ripper was embedded in the neck of the woman with whom I had fallen. What a silly place for her to have put it!

Waiting

#FoEWritingChallenge

I watch her in her room, playing with her makeup, speaking to her toys as though they're going to respond. How ridiculous!

She acts as though she doesn't belong where she is, she dreams of places and worlds she has never visited, yet that she longs for, as though she was never offered the chance to leave the life she loathes.

I gave her the chance to escape. I moved the stars for her and she denied me. At the very end, when I thought I had offered her the very thing she begged me for, she denied me.

She claims I have "no power" over her... Yet every night she dreams of me. Every night I hold her in my arms and we dance - the masquerade masks, the music, the life for which she yearns, all within her grasp.... All she has to do is say her right words.

I have given her so much already and even though... No. In spite of her denying me, I have given her everything.

I have given her the power. The power to bend me to her whim. All she has to do is speak the words that will bring me to her once more, the words that will, once more, enslave me to her.

But she's making me wait.

And so I will. One doesn't become the King of the Goblins without learning patience, of course.

In time she will see that I am right. In time she will call for me.

She has no choice for I am hers and she is mine. Forever.

///

Written for the #FoEWritingChallenge

An homage to/story follow-on from my favourite movie.

I want...

Yesterday I paid for drugs.

Lots of drugs, actually, worth over £700.00 in total.

This fact leaves me feeling all sorts of emotions at the same time. So many that I am not sure I can articulate them coherently, but I feel I should try.

In 14 days our home will, once again, be filled with needles and alcohol wipes and my abdomen will again become filled with tiny holes. Holes through which I will inject the necessary hormones for trying to conceive via IVF.

Spouse and I have travelled this road together before. After "forever" of trying naturally, we started in October 2016. By December we learned that we'd not been lucky.

Of the eleven eggs removed; four fertilised. Two perfect embryos were implanted - and two perished before they could be frozen. The two that were implanted didn't "stick" and so the seven pregnancy tests I took that fateful day all came back negative.

No one knows why our embryos didn't "stick". I wrote cryptically about my reaction here and, to this day, the box has not been opened.

But it's not such a large box that I am unwilling to perhaps create another.

I adore my daughter; she's one of the most amazing people I've ever met, hands down, but I want a baby. I want a child with Spouse. I want to see his little face on a tiny human that he and I made together. I want to help raise amazing people who will change the world. I want to once again see my heart outside my body. I want...

I want.

The decision was fundamentally down to two things: me and finances. Spouse has been amazing throughout all of this. He cannot bear to do the injections or even watch me do them myself (I have no problem with them, thankfully), but whatever I have said, done, wanted or needed, he has been there, done that - no questions (other than the occasional checking in to make sure I'm not holding something back - I do have a tendency to do that).

As an aside, when this works and our child/ren ask where babies come from, we're going to tell them: When two people love each other very much.... Mummy becomes a pin cushion!

Or maybe not. But the chance to have to make that decision is a chance I cannot pass up.

So, I will be drugged and we will hope for "sticky" babies this time and I will be grateful that this option is available to us for we have tried and I am ageing and I want...

I want.

I wake in the night

inside my heart echoes my howling soul

beside me he sleeps, dreaming dreams I do not yet know

a simple touch, my chilled hand on his warm arm

I am stilled, my stampeding pulse calmed

I snuggle in again, welcoming sleep

I drift into morning where, 

together, we face the coming day

A weekend in pictures

Frozen "White Russian"

Enjoyed in front of a roaring fire

A chilly, wet walk along the seafront...

 With added political statements...

Before a much-deserve hot drink...

And then heading towards home...

Making my own Jarvis

There's a software development concept known as rubber duck debugging and, having been reminded of it recently, I knew having a duck couldn't hurt during times when I feel stuck with my writing.

A duck could help me work through problems with plot, characters, setting - any number of things.

Looking around, I quickly found The Perfect Duck but he is Out Of Stock and ne'er to return, very sadly. (Yes, I did ask.)

Needing a replacement, I decided to make my own Perfect Duck, one that's more me than the original would have been and hopefully, therefore, a better solution for externalising my ramblings.

I bought three white "racing ducks" from the wonderful people here (Thank you, Lynn!) and the ducks certainly lived up to their name with their arrival speed. They're actually a hard plastic, rather than "rubber" or a soft plastic and I prefer it that way, it means that their surface is more easily customised by simply applying paint or glue, I feel.

Huey, Dewey, and Louie

Wanting to customise them quite substantially, I first had to remove their cute little faces...

Acetone-free nail polish remover to the rescue!

Looks like someone's been eating Cheetos/Wotsits 

Cotton buds/Q-Tips managed to get the rest of the bills off.

Now, time to get creative.

My favourite colour is Aurora Borealis (AKA: "AB" or"iridescent") and I'm a sucker for anything glitter so the idea was pretty easy and pretty obvious. These little beauties would be covered in AB glitter. Duh.

Apart from stripping off their bills and eyes, I didn't do anything to prep the ducks.

I did hot glue the ducks to the tops of soda bottles so that I could access all of the curves of the ducks without covering myself in paint/glue...

I call this "Naked Ducks on Soda"

I used a cheap, acrylic kid's craft paintbrush and applied Mod Podge Extreme Glitter by Plaid - one coat on each duck.

While I certainly got far better "glitter payout" than I expected (it's a great product), it wasn't glittery enough for me. I demand glitter. I used the Mod Podge for two more coats on one of the ducks but on two, I did a single coat more before coating them in loose AB glitter.  I did two ducks this way because I wanted to then compare a duck who had been clear-coated to adhere the glitter better to the duck versus one that hadn't been coated. I presumed the glitter would fall off of the uncoated duck but needed to see if the clear-coating would dull the sparkle of the glitter in any way before deciding which duck was perfect.

Clear-coated duck, natural sunlight, outdoors 

Clear-coated duck, natural sunlight, indoors

Clear-coated duck, "bright white" light, indoors

I've named him Jarvis and I think he's perfect. I see no loss of sparkle from under the clear coat, which is a relief!

He's much more me than the duck I had originally wanted and I still do want that duck, but not as my Rubber Duck Debugging Duck. Jarvis is the duck for me in that regard.

Do you use Rubber Duck Debugging?

How would you customise a rubber duck?

I rose.

On Saturday, 21st January 2017, I became an active part of history.

On the morning of that day, I was full of nerves, full of self-doubt. Never before had I felt strongly enough about anything to "take to the streets".

Was I doing it for the right reasons? Was I doing it at all? Why now? What's so important this time?

I don't like crowds of people. I find people, en mass, to be scared, excitable beings, prone to being startled into stampeding. That scares me. Quite substantially.

What scares me more, however, is the idea that the sexism, misogyny, racism, intolerance, disrespect will continue to worsen over the next four years. That I cannot abide.

I set aside my personal reservations and applied my lipstick (my Lips of Power) that morning with a false resolve I hoped would solidify into the real thing.

I tried to buoy myself on the journey into London. In the car, I felt an unease, a low almost thrumming in my chest that always signals an impending panic attack. The feeling never abated but it also never grew, for which I was grateful.

My early morning thoughts before applying my Lips of Power.

We parked, walked to a place to have lunch and I tried not to shove my food down my throat too quickly - I was anxious and just wanted to get going. Now that I had committed and was so close, I just wanted to be there.

Finally, we were on our way. We joined the marching and I was plainly relieved when the tight crowd parted to allow inclusion for even more supporters.

No one was angry. No one was shouting foul language. Everyone was smiling at each other, showing solidarity, kinship, welcome.

I saw people of every description that day. Every age group. Every shade and colour of skin. Every gender. Every physical ability. As far as I could see, everyone was represented and London, my darling London, the "melting pot" that it is, truly did her citizens proud.

We marched to Trafalgar Square, which was already packed. Sandi Toksvig spoke briefly, though, I'm not really sure what she said as the sound system wasn't robust enough for the message she was trying to convey, the quality of her words had diminished so much by the time it reached us that what she had said was unintelligible to us in the back.

Sandi left the stage and we were lead in a rendition of Sister Sledge's "We Are Family" - I will forever think of the 21st of January 2017 when I hear the words "I got all my sisters with me".

The song, the thousands of voices joined in expressing the perfect sentiment, was what finally broke through all of my reserve.

I'm not ashamed to say: I cried. I wept. In public.

I didn't cry for long, however. I was reminded of the reasons I was there, the reasons others were there, the reasons that so many people left their comfortable homes on a bright, cold Saturday to show solidarity, to show unwillingness to accept, to publicly decry injustices that have fallen as well as the fear of future offences.

I took one photo, the one at the top. One solitary photo. I was too enveloped in the scenes, the emotions before me to worry about getting a snapshot. I didn't need to take any pictures. There are plenty of photographers who are better than I at capturing crowds who have captured thousands of images of the day. From marches all around the world, images of my sisters, my brothers, all my siblings, worldwide who rose that day.

We decided we should leave the rally and find warmth, find food. I had done what I had set out to accomplish. I had proven, if only to myself, that what is happening in the world, what is happening in the country of my birth, was not something I could sit idly by and allow my silence to imply agreement or acceptance.

I do not accept. I do not sit. I rose and I will rise. I will go high.

I will ever send all of my love and my gratitude to every single person who made that day possible.

If you want to know what my reasons are, please feel free to ask. This, however, is not the place for my reasons for marching, so I have left them aside.