Writing is Next to Godliness!

Ever wondered what it would be like to be God, even just for a day? In my own writer’s fictitious world, I am God. I create my own world, although it takes a lot longer than seven days and there’s precious little rest at the end of it.

Just as in the Bible, my world is peopled with  seducers and lovers (Adam and Eve), with  murderers and victims ( Cain and Abel). There are patriarchs, (Abraham), matriarchs, (Sarah), power-hungry death-mongers,(Herod), heroes, (Jesus), traitors, (Judas), arch-villains, (Satan and his legions), and snakes galore, (David Cameron! Just put that in to annoy my Tory-voting husband!). I get to perform miracles too, although  for the following reasons, I have never parted the Red Sea:

A.   I live nowhere near it

and

B.   I was  never quite sure from whom it needed parting.

On many an occasion, however, I have parted red wine from a bottle and made it disappear like water down my throat. A very neat trick also known as my party-piece.

As creator of my world, I am judge, jury and Terminator. I get to mete out the kind of justice of which the judiciary in the real world seem quite incapable.  Baddies always get their comeuppance, plus a long stay at one of HM’s splendid custodial establishments to reflect upon  their Strangeways. Life in my world, means  life! There is no get-out-early clause for good behavior, that  good behaviour in my book, literally, coming far too late!

In Tara-world, the hero always gets the girl.  She might not be the girl he wanted but, by golly, she’ll be the girl he needed!  Good inevitably triumphs over evil. (You can take the girl from the convent, but you can’t take the nuns-beat-it-into-me Catholic doctrine from the girl). Mysteries never go unsolved (unless a sequel is in the offing) and, best of all, the reader gets to say  ‘huh! I knew it was the one with the squint all along’, thus destroying hours of complex plotting and back-breaking, red-herring scattering in the space of a caustic breath.

Yeah, verily, I say unto you, in my world the author is God! And that’s the way, I like it, uh, huh, uh, huh. Apologies to KC and the Sunshine Band if I have just infringed copyright. Actually, scrap that. I’m God – so, sue me!

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The Mystery of the Disappearing Woman

Well it’s finally happened. I’ve disappeared. Fallen beneath the radar.  Technically, I’ve not yet flat lined, in so much as I still have a pulse. But in terms of sex appeal and visibility, I am body-bagged and on my way to the morgue. Bye bye, Louis Vuitton. Au revoir mon amie, Chanel. From now on it’s toe-labels all the way and a nice line in grey plastic, with a full length zipper.

I was warned it would happen, of course, by ‘women-of-a-certain-age’ sidling up with bitter faces and sepulchral voices. I didn’t notice them at first, which is exactly the point they were trying to make. They were ‘the disappeared’. No one noticed them anymore. Men, in particular, looked past, even men so pig ugly they’d be lucky to attract the attentions of a pig ugly lady pig. Why? Because they had committed the cardinal sin of reaching (be still my hyperventilating heart) the age of . . .  no! I’m not going to tell you that.

‘Be gone, crones!’ I ordered, smug in the knowledge that, unlike those wrinkled old escapees from the wonderful world of moisturiser, I was forever beyond obscurity. I would always be seen, heard, lusted after and counted, which is why it came as something of a shock to find myself ignored in the supermarket the other evening as Chantelle gossiped with Tracey Anne, over on t’other till. Judging by the way Our Trace looked straight through me and my basket of shopping, I had become invisible. This suspicion grew legs when a bus sped merrily past me at the bus stop, though I stuck my hand out in the required fashion and performed an impromptu Saint Vitus dance for emphasis. Bemused, I trudged two miles home, unaware that a hole had developed in my plastic shopping bag and that I was leaking great globs of cottage cheese.  Home, sweet home, where, at least, I was assured of a warm welcome. The front door opened upon my approach releasing a whirlwind that knocked me and my leaking shopping bag flat on my back. Seems, I had become invisible to my son too, who shot off with nary so much as a grunt of apology. Neither did things improve when a couple of God botherers showed up at the door. Ironically, I was actually pleased to see them, although the feeling was not mutual as they looked straight past to my husband, who has effortlessly retained his visibility, despite being a full ten years older than yours truly.

Ignored by the JWs. That’s got to be a first. Seriously upset, I downed a bottle of wine – yes, a full one, and took myself off to bed where I had my Road to Damascus experience. Strictly speaking, it was a Road to Oblivion experience.  What I had failed to appreciate is that I am actually standing on the threshold of a whole new world. A world of infinite and exciting possibilities. A world of guilt-free shoplifting, a world of meddling in other people’s affairs, a world of committing the most heinous of crimes and getting away scot-free. For I am one of the newly ‘disappeared’ shrouded in a cloak of invisibility.  And, who you gonna call? Ghostbusters?