Nowt.  

Barely summat.   (Bitterly reminded of a title of a book: ‘when I lay down they disappear’)

Ouch - cleavage and can’t put my arms down by my sides til the baby awakes.

Insufficient.

Barely summat.

Eleven months ago I woke so happy that I wrote a poem, using the very nice word 'fornicating'. 

It began ‘Last night I dreamt I had hip bones again. angular, skin-piercing, teenage taut.’

I put it down to watching lots of thrusting rugby thighs.

This month I find myself remembering his hip-bones. The flatness of his belly.

Put it down, almost, to self-deception, that it was ever thus.

Snowy morning brought on a two-hour school delay, so my son, sick of watching Nickelodeon, started channel surfing and came across the Insanity Workout---oh joy.

 

Though he might have two hours of bliss before school mother gets no such luxury, so while I made myself a reasonable facsimile of a woman ready to face the day, Jack stared transfixed at the infomercial.

 

"LOOK how RIPPED his ABS are!"

 

"Jack...Jack... JACK!" Huh? "That's for people who…

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Last night I dreamt I had hip bones once again.
The angular, skin-piercing sharpness of my teenage youth.
It might have been inspired by rugby thighs, by thoughts derived therefrom.
Or the fornicating flesh of Faulks’s fictional lovers on the BBC.
Or possibly pertained to last week’s pregnancy announcement.
But, last night I dreamt I had hip bones once again.

Eduarda was a truly lovely-looking Mexican girl, late twenties, married with a young daughter – what she was doing in dreary Middlesbrough goodness only knows. However we were just grateful that she was our current life model since not only did she have a good body to draw she had an eagerness and a talent for theatrical poses, frequently bringing in shawls and cushions and other props. She was also totally uninhibited, wandering round to look at everyone’s work without…

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read the full post at:

http://www.timesofmalta.com/blogs/view/20100409/tanja-cilia/mind-your-body-language

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Most of us know that it would be a faux pass for a man to kiss or hug a Muslim woman – or even to shake hands with her – even if they are related. But it stops there – because some men believe they have…

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Amy was a sensitive girl, at a sensitive time of her life: thirteen years old. Chubbier and more intelligent than her peers, she was an easy target. One Thursday afternoon after school, it became too much to bear. She rushed home, took the block of chocolate from her bag, and escaped to the tree house. She started plotting the downfall of her enemies through various acts of untraceable retaliation.



After an hour or so, the chocolate had mellowed her ambitions to academic success and… Continue