The story that never wins anything....

I love this story but it's never been successful for me (I'd say it's too sentimental - my old fault) and I now regretfully have to consign it to the rubbish bin. But I thought I'd give it a last little chance of life - so over to you dear reader.

In These Shoes

            She sat for a while. Looked. Listened. It was thirty years since she had been to the city and it had changed - utterly. So many people. Busy, confident, attractive looking people.

 It did not look like Dublin anymore.

 She manoeuvred her wheelchair into the heaving shopping centre and with the instinct of a bassett hound trundled towards the shoe shop she wanted. As the shop window came into focus her heart started doing the Siege Of Ennis. She stopped, gasped in admiration.

A single suspended shoe was on display. A floating shoe. Shiny patent ruby red with a winklepicker toe and a treacherously spiked heel.

Shoes to do damage in.

Sexy shoes.

Racy shoes.

In these shoes she thought she might once again dance a tango. She could close her eyes and a straight-backed young man in a pristine white shirt and well pressed black trousers would hold her, lead her tease her; glide her across a highly polished wooden floor in time to music that filled her completely.

She watched her reflection in the plate glass window and superimposed on the elderly overweight solitary figure fumbling beneath the chair for her purse she saw a pretty girl. A pretty girl with laughing eyes and wavy dark hair. She sighed for the 4711 smell of the spirited girl; thought of her wavy dark hair,  that tight-bodiced full-skirted rose printed dress and longed for just one more day on those shapely legs in the sheerest of nylon stockings. Her arthritic knuckles found the much handled ad from a magazine. Unfolding it she laughed aloud. Yes! These shoes, the one in the window, the ones in the magazine.

Jimmy Choo shoes.

Soon to be her shoes.

Her heart was pounding - harder than it should, and she fleetingly wondered was she having a heart attack.

No matter. If she were to die they’d know – they’d all know - to bury her with her shoes on.

Cyber skating

My day has been surreal, and now I'm making it surrealer by doing something I swore I wouldn't.

Blogging.

I'll give in and buy a big telly one of these days as well. Anyway - back to my surreal day. Work was fairly normal and horribly real, then home to retired beloved sitting around making the place look untidy, waiting for rain to stop so he can go to Corballis Golf Course.

'Tis far from golf courses he was reared.

So I made dinner and cleaned up - as you do when you're the only female in a house of smelly males. Then I toddled off to Temple Bar, the sophisticated urbanite that I am, and attended the launch of Nuala Ni Conchuir's book of short stories 'Nude'. Lots of lovely short stories to read.

My pal and Listowel partner in crime - Karen O'Neill - was there, and she bullied me (yes, you did Karen) into starting a blog. Karen can be very forceful, a can-do type gal; I think Barack is headhunting her to sort out the American economy .She must be bored in work and needs something to read so it looks like she's working ( I am a clerk - I know all the dodges.) At the moment Karen is busy bringing the Luas to Swords and she's wrecked from laying all that track, but she still found time to be head chef and bottlewasher at Nuala's Dublin launch. I think I'll hire her for the book launch I may never have. So Karen, here I am - you better follow me now!

I couldn't stay to hear Nuala read because I had to lollop across town to the Irish Writer's Centre for the Davy Byrnes/Stinging Fly book launch of the six shortlisted stories in this year's fabulous competition - I can say fabulous because I wasn't on the short-list. If I ever get on a short list that merits a book launch I will of course be my usual modest self and just call it an almost good book launch.

The Irish Writers Centre was swarming with people, writerly people doing writerly things, someone said Richard Ford was there but the only famous people I saw were Bairbre Smith, Kate Dempsey (Poetry Divas) and Declan Meade (ah c'mon Declan, you're near to famous). There was a very nice small child there too. Perhaps he will grow up and write. Get 'em young. But the speeches weren't started by half seven and I had to come home to see my men and write a little before I settle into the leaba with both lovely books of short stories.

I cannot understand why publishers don't like short stories. If their marketing departmentsput even half the resources that they appear to put into some of the more garish forms of pink/misery fiction/fact I am convinced these two books would walk off the shelves. All the writers involved are so talented. After dashing about introducing myself to cyber pals I then I got into the car and switched on the radio and whowasis waffling away with great good sense but Colm Keegan! Uiscebot himself! Another famous person, there was no one in cyber space tonight. Check out Colm's blog - lots of his lovely writing there.

Colm is never off the bleedin' radio these days, he'll be after Tubridy's job next. Oh! There's a thought - a 'Late Late' devoted to a night of poetry and story-telling, hmmmmmmmm anyone got RTE's phone no?

There ye go. That's me first blog (are ye happy Karen?). Next one will be about my theory of Evolution. I think I may have discovered the Missing Link.