Thursday, May 20, 2010

Bum In Seat Time: The Breakdown

The First Five Minutes

Lots of wiggling around. No serious writing ever done at this stage. May check email and adjust underpants. Very easy to bail out in favour of Maltesers. And, oh, look — my pint of tea is down to the last two inches. Better go and make another one...

Twenty Minutes In

Ischial tuberosities firmly grounded in seat and all farts dispensed with. Whoops, no. Surprising what gets trapped by the air bubble posse behind those colonic folds. I wonder how long my intestines are. Is it true, all that stuff about football pitches laid out end to end? No, that’s your lungs isn’t it? All this bloody research to do. Drives me crazy.

Notes from previous sessions read. May be well into a new paragraph and impervious to all inner tugs of my blogroll checker. Apart from one or two favourites. Now drinking water instead of tea. To stop myself from dying of tannin poisoning. How many times can you visit the loo in one morning? Looks like I’m about to find out.

The First Hour

This is more like it. Look, look, everyone — I’m like a proper writer now, possibly one with a moustache. It’s England, it’s 1799, and I’m sat in the study of my country home, overlooking the grounds of my estate. Servants wax my moustache as I put pen to paper — and captured enemies to the sword. Hmm, I quite like this. Tomorrow I may try out a female. From 1922.

Usually productive with no breaks for cups of tea. Cellular consistency of all buttockular tissue firm. Everything gluteal is relatively pain-free, especially if I’ve accidentally sat on the cat. She may be small but she’s very padded. Like a beagle, touched for the very first time...

OK, so I’m up and dancing to Madonna. Take a break after an hour. It’s an EU directive. It’s party time. It’s not bad, this purple leotard. But at my age, expect no splits like Margaret Kebab, Merde Honour herself. Ok, maybe a tear in the gusset of my underwear as I try to wrap my legs round my neck. Which reminds me — they sure missed a trick in the cruelty stakes during the filming of Casino Royale, you know, the scene where 00Craig is strapped to a chair frame with his bollocks dangling loose at the mercy of a ferociously whipped leather belt. What they should have done is tied him up with his legs behind his head and then rolled him down that hill in Gloucestershire where they do that cheese thing.

The Second Hour

Very much depends on my review of Hour One. If I’ve not done very well, this next 60 minutes can be agony. Agony to rival the 00Craig cheese thing. As goats watch. And mock. Orchestrated mocking led by Graham Norton and the nine unsuccessful Wild Card Dorothys.

So we’ll assume it’s gone well. What then? Aha! Entrenchment! Which is good for word count, voice and pace — but less good for what’s happening in my pelvic region. Beleaguered muscular tissue may now be pounding at the skin close to my hips, forcing it over the edge of my seat...into oblivion. Which is why I gave up typing in tights very early on. Too much give. Wear only nylons, and before you know it, your flesh is dangling loose to either side of the seat like a cockerel’s throat, or 00Craig’s scrote. Not good. Stout dungarees are where it’s at. Stout dungarees with the straps pulled tight over a corset.

The Third To Fifth Hour

Total bodily degeneration and skeletal reorientation prompts deployment of armoured exoskeleton. It’s a great title and I may use it in a flash fiction piece about a sexually depraved Con-Dem MP who accidentally kills himself during an auto-erotic episode before a carnival mirror.

Tempting to begin editing things here, but I know I mustn’t. That’s for your alter ego. The serious one, the cruel one who torments you and keeps you incarcerated here.

Not had any liquid for a couple of hours and it’s all going fuzzybuzzy.

Week 22

Always, always, always stop after the fifth hour. Bad things happen after the fifth hour, and you need to get up, take a breather, hop in a car, with the girl, the girl from the dream you had the night before, Sandy, blonde hair, 5' 8", telescopic eyes, kinda cute, and she drives you up the side of a mountain in an old Bugatti, scarf trailing in the breeze like a diaphanous speech bubble perfectly and succinctly saying, ‘words cannot describe this moment’, she sighs, opens her wings, lifts you from the Bugatti, apart from your foot which gets stuck on the gear lever, there’s a struggle, a half-kiss, an embarrassing interlude with a chamois leather and a half empty tub of Swarfega, she flies you over the mountain, like in The Snowman, only instead of snow and Santa and men, it’s just you and the girl (or, dear reader, if you’re a girl, make this a man, maybe Daniel Craig or Eric pickles or whoever takes your fancy, and the chamois leather is a lace doily, the Swarfega is melted chocolate, and the Bugatti is a horse, or a donkey if you’re feeling comedic), alone together floating among the stars, each one close enough to touch, so you do, and you burn your fingers, but it isn’t a burn kind of burn as in touching a boiling kettle or a flaming demon lord, it’s more like the heat of passion or a burger that’s been taken off the heat for a few minutes, better still a sausage, because like the girls, I’ve come over all comedic and there’s nothing so comedic as a sausage, or do I mean ‘comical’, oh I don’t care because the warmth of the stars is trickling in through my skin now and there’s a sunset and the girl (or Daniel Craig, still hopefully with bollocks not bloated like a pair of melons from belt/cheese assault, because girls, let’s face it, nothing ruins the look of a pair of skin tight sky blue bathing trunks more completely than severely traumatised genitalia that may require surgery) says, ‘next time stop after the fifth hour or this whole fuzzybuzzy thing will consume you, devour your intellect, your soul, leaving you no more than a husk, a withered husk of buttockular tissue and potential.’


fairyhedgehog said...

I had to google "Ischial tuberosities".

The degeneration that takes place after five hours comes across clearly. You have some fun dreams though.

I do hope you haven't been reduced to a withered husk of buttockular tissue and potential.

Scarlet Blue said...

Ha Ha! It's unlikely that I'd ever make it to the fifth hour, though after reading this I think I ought to try...

Whirlochre said...

Hog Of Gleeful Magicks
Ironing now. Lucky me.

We need you there, baby...

Scarlet Blue said...

Goodness! Let me dig out my La Perla Black label negligee first...

Bernita said...

I was about to ask, Whirl what ARE you on?...and then it began to make sense...
Never mind, dear, I'll do it for you...normal people have about 28 feet of intestine...
Btw, don't you need a new office chair?

jjdebenedictis said...

I hear you get your second wind around the 32nd week, but your buttocks are never in good enough shape to pass that wind, and you explode.

Let us know, if that turns out to be true.

fairyhedgehog said...

jj, I'm glad I finished swallowing my mouthful of coffee before I read your comment!

Robin S. said...

Now drinking water instead of tea. To stop myself from dying of tannin poisoning. How many times can you visit the loo in one morning? Looks like I’m about to find out. I was chortling at this and then I kept reading, and actually embarrassed myself with the laughing.

So, uh, how ARE those edits going?

Whirlochre said...

Dig out a negligee? What are you? Some kind of zombie queen?

I dub thee Chair Psychic. For the past 10 years I've been using an old dining chair which has been glued back together more times than Humpty Dumpty. It's now on its last legs and could collapse at any moment.

Full annual wind statistics will be published shortly, including belches and other miscellaneous emissions.

Mrs Nescafe Splatterer
I'm always relieved when regular visitors log on to inform me they haven't choked to death.

Bar the odd annoying sentence, I'm more or less done. Doviding my time at the moment between keeping the builders happy and narrowing down my list of hot agents to about 10.

Happy to report I won't be submitting to the agency my database summarises as cute chicks but probably fucking useless.

Robin S. said...

I should think not!!

jjdebenedictis said...

Dividing my time at the moment between keeping the builders happy and narrowing down my list of hot agents to about 10.

Ooh, good luck with the querying! I wish you every success; you're a fantastic and imaginative writer, and I do want a chance to read your books.

Whirlochre said...

Ooh, thanks...