Starting with the cover this time.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Publications by S.B. Borgersen
Available now from www.lulu.com
Rejected
Summer Shorts
Bites
Light Cycle
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Story of the Day
Heartthrob
by
S.B. Borgersen
His name is Rodney. And tonight's the night.
I’m humming as I get ready for the youth club dance. I’ve stiffened my petticoat with sugar and it has drip-dried in the showers. “Sorry Matron,” seems to placate the old girl. The petticoat has curtain wire threaded through the hem. When I sit down the hem lifts up around me; an overwhelming arch of pink frills.
...tonight you’re mine, completely...
Matron is standing at the door, “I hope you girls will behave at this dance,” she says with a half smile.
“Yes, Matron,” we chorus.
...you give your love...
I am wearing a cotton satin dress patterned in huge red roses, and a white angora bolero. The stiffened petticoat brings the full circular skirt up to horizontal. I swallow hard with anticipation of the night ahead.
...so sweetly...
“Can I borrow your lipstick,” asks Chrissy. who is wearing the turquoise twinset she knitted herself by torchlight after lights out.
...is this a lasting treasure or just...
I’m applying my Yardley’s Nippy Beige while humming in my head, so I give Chrissy the nod.
...tonight, you're mine...
Rodney is already on the bus, sitting near the back with Leslie. Story of my life. The stiff petticoat has a job making it down the aisle, but I’m chuffed to grab the empty seat across the aisle from my heartthrob.
I sit. The petticoat lifts the skirt of my dress, showing my navy school knickers and suspenders.
...will you still love me tomorrow...?
© SB Borgersen July 2011
by
S.B. Borgersen
His name is Rodney. And tonight's the night.
I’m humming as I get ready for the youth club dance. I’ve stiffened my petticoat with sugar and it has drip-dried in the showers. “Sorry Matron,” seems to placate the old girl. The petticoat has curtain wire threaded through the hem. When I sit down the hem lifts up around me; an overwhelming arch of pink frills.
...tonight you’re mine, completely...
Matron is standing at the door, “I hope you girls will behave at this dance,” she says with a half smile.
“Yes, Matron,” we chorus.
...you give your love...
I am wearing a cotton satin dress patterned in huge red roses, and a white angora bolero. The stiffened petticoat brings the full circular skirt up to horizontal. I swallow hard with anticipation of the night ahead.
...so sweetly...
“Can I borrow your lipstick,” asks Chrissy. who is wearing the turquoise twinset she knitted herself by torchlight after lights out.
...is this a lasting treasure or just...
I’m applying my Yardley’s Nippy Beige while humming in my head, so I give Chrissy the nod.
...tonight, you're mine...
Rodney is already on the bus, sitting near the back with Leslie. Story of my life. The stiff petticoat has a job making it down the aisle, but I’m chuffed to grab the empty seat across the aisle from my heartthrob.
I sit. The petticoat lifts the skirt of my dress, showing my navy school knickers and suspenders.
...will you still love me tomorrow...?
© SB Borgersen July 2011
Monday, July 11, 2011
Story of the Day
Boogie
by
S.B. Borgersen
“He’s scarpered again,” I yell up the stairs, my voice sliding back down over the varnished anaglypta.
I get a grunt in reply so I have no choice. I take off down the towpath in my red tartan carpet slippers and dressing gown, a pink spider-webby hairnet pulled tightly over my hedgehog rollers. “Boogie,” I yell, up and down the canal. I haven’t had my cornflakes yet and it probably shows in my voice. “Boogie,” I try to sing out before trudging back to the cottage through last night’s towpath litter decorating the canal bank: a couple of condoms, something akin to a bank statement, and a purple lace brassiere. I push at that with my toe and consider its worth. Picking it up with one strap I find it is a 42DD and ram it into my dressing gown pocket.
Boogie’s a good dog really, it’s just this early morning lapse when I open the door to bring in the milk; he darts between my legs like Ballabriggs out of the gate at the Grand National. Of course he’s nothing like a race horse with his shaggy black coat and white ruff. His plumpness is not his fault either, but that of His Nibs Indoors who insists on sharing everything from bacon and eggs, to fish and chips with the little blighter.
We love the bugger to bits and wouldn’t be without him. At nights he sits between us on the settee watching Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, licking His Nibs’s Bounty Bar, growling at the music and wagging his tail at the applause.
I eat my Kellogg's and wonder where he’s got to, he should be home by now. Nibsey comes down the stairs sniffing the air; his way of saying ‘where’s the bacon sarnies then?’ But he must know there’s something up because I just sit there, turning the milk bottle round and around on the Formica table. “Not come back then?” he says.
“No,” I say. It’s pretty obvious, but Nibsey is good at asking questions like that. “We should go and find him together.”
I pull on the green tracksuit I got in Oxfam last week and we go back to the canal. In three hours we talk to just a couple of people who say they haven’t seen any dogs. We shout and yell until we are hoarse. I try not to cry. Nibsey has a look that I haven’t seen since our old tomcat, Trevor, got run over and that was twenty years ago.
We go home. I boil the milk for elevenses. Nibsey still hasn’t had his breakfast, I feel so sorry for him I throw a couple of streaky rashers under the grill. I pour the milk over the Nescaff and push the mug in front of him.
“He can’t be lost, he just can’t. Not a clever dog like that. He’ll come back, won’t he?” says Nibsey.
For the first time in twenty years, we hold hands.
© S. B. Borgersen July 2011
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Destiny
Destiny
by
S.B. Borgersen
Is there really such a thing as fate
or a bullet with your name on it?
Do we travel the path that is laid before us
by fortune, misfortune or by the divine?
Do things happen for a reason
or is that a mere comfort for the inevitable?
And is fate, the path, the reason, the inevitable bullet
our Kismet, our predetermined course?
Or do we take it into our own hands?
And if we do, is that our destiny too?
© SB Borgersen 2011
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Friday, June 3, 2011
An Extraordinary View
An Extraordinary View
by
S.B. Borgersen
“We’ve got them Jo, we’re actually going,” David said, waving the tickets in her pale face.
“Hmm,” she said as she sliced fruit for the top of the trifle, carefully arranging bananas and cherries in a circle on the cream topping. “There,” she said, holding the crystal glass bowl aloft, turning it, admiring her handiwork.
She knew she had no choice, much as she disliked smarmy Paul McCartney. In July they loaded up with the limited supplies allowed for the Concert on The Commons: a sealed bottle of water; a couple of food bars (no other food was permitted); two fold-up chairs; a blanket for their knees and their rain jackets. David wore his old Beatles t-shirt. Joanna attempted smile, tried to share in his enthusiasm.
The gates did not open until four. They joined the long line of Macca fans at just after one. It snaked around Cogswell and halfway up Robie. Everyone bubbled with excitement. Joanna began to feel it too. She wasn’t sure of the exact turning point, whether it was when the sound checks were being done, or when some of the early bands started playing, but she felt something. A shudder of electricity running up her spine. The field was cordoned off, only those without chairs could go up front, close to the giant stage. From their distance, David and Joanna contented themselves with watching the ants on stage, but watching the concert on the enormous side screens didn’t quite do it for Jo.
“If this is it, we might as well not have bothered,” she said to David. “Come on.”
They left their belongings in the dark damp grass and, hand in hand, they pushed their way forward through the crowd until they were at the edge of the stage. Joanna could feel David’s pulse racing with her’s.
For over two hours they stood and absorbed the art of the great Paul McCartney. Then, he came to the edge of the stage and spoke, she thought, to her.
“Have you seen the view? It’s extraordinary. Look at the moon over the Citadel.”
Joanna turned and looked up at the moon. Then over the mass of glowing fans of all ages, and, as Paul sang Mull of Kintyre with the Pipes and Drums of the 78th Nova Scotia Highlanders, Joanna felt like bursting with overwhelming joy.
© S.B. Borgersen May 27th 2011
by
S.B. Borgersen
“We’ve got them Jo, we’re actually going,” David said, waving the tickets in her pale face.
“Hmm,” she said as she sliced fruit for the top of the trifle, carefully arranging bananas and cherries in a circle on the cream topping. “There,” she said, holding the crystal glass bowl aloft, turning it, admiring her handiwork.
She knew she had no choice, much as she disliked smarmy Paul McCartney. In July they loaded up with the limited supplies allowed for the Concert on The Commons: a sealed bottle of water; a couple of food bars (no other food was permitted); two fold-up chairs; a blanket for their knees and their rain jackets. David wore his old Beatles t-shirt. Joanna attempted smile, tried to share in his enthusiasm.
The gates did not open until four. They joined the long line of Macca fans at just after one. It snaked around Cogswell and halfway up Robie. Everyone bubbled with excitement. Joanna began to feel it too. She wasn’t sure of the exact turning point, whether it was when the sound checks were being done, or when some of the early bands started playing, but she felt something. A shudder of electricity running up her spine. The field was cordoned off, only those without chairs could go up front, close to the giant stage. From their distance, David and Joanna contented themselves with watching the ants on stage, but watching the concert on the enormous side screens didn’t quite do it for Jo.
“If this is it, we might as well not have bothered,” she said to David. “Come on.”
They left their belongings in the dark damp grass and, hand in hand, they pushed their way forward through the crowd until they were at the edge of the stage. Joanna could feel David’s pulse racing with her’s.
For over two hours they stood and absorbed the art of the great Paul McCartney. Then, he came to the edge of the stage and spoke, she thought, to her.
“Have you seen the view? It’s extraordinary. Look at the moon over the Citadel.”
Joanna turned and looked up at the moon. Then over the mass of glowing fans of all ages, and, as Paul sang Mull of Kintyre with the Pipes and Drums of the 78th Nova Scotia Highlanders, Joanna felt like bursting with overwhelming joy.
© S.B. Borgersen May 27th 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Closing Time
Closing Time
The monotonic tuneless song
that tells of life and things gone wrong
and blouses with their polka dots
you listen when they are torn off
where dancers bring the drinkers cheer
who laugh and cry into their beer
and fiddlers fiddle till they stop
so men can dance on the polka dots
it groans of naked summer moons
swimming faster not in tune
galloping to his acid end
the rugged handsome singer bends
yet croons of loneliness and love
of damaged hearts and Him above
beating speeding into frenzy
a cry, a sigh, as in a daze he
tells us that it’s closing time
that nothing’s happening, life’s divine
we’re left hungry parched and breathless
in the silence that he’s left us.
The monotonic tuneless song
that tells of life and things gone wrong
and blouses with their polka dots
you listen when they are torn off
where dancers bring the drinkers cheer
who laugh and cry into their beer
and fiddlers fiddle till they stop
so men can dance on the polka dots
it groans of naked summer moons
swimming faster not in tune
galloping to his acid end
the rugged handsome singer bends
yet croons of loneliness and love
of damaged hearts and Him above
beating speeding into frenzy
a cry, a sigh, as in a daze he
tells us that it’s closing time
that nothing’s happening, life’s divine
we’re left hungry parched and breathless
in the silence that he’s left us.
© S.B. Borgersen May 2011
Bird Feeder?
This is the latest in squirrel proof bird feeders. I've just sent this photo to the suppliers!
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Problem solved
Sorry for the delay - the Blogger problem is now solved. New updates to Elemental Legacy on my artysue blog, follow link above.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
New Shows Opening at Swoon
Swoon is pleased to present three new solo shows:
Elemental Legacy - Wearable Art in Fine Silver by S.B. Borgersen
Maritime Flavour - Paintings by Dorothy Mosher
Murmurs Of Granite - Sculptures by Rosemary Metz
Join us for the Opening Reception - Sat. June 4th, 2pm-5pm
Show continues until July 3rd.
If you are unable to attend all the work will be on the website once the shows open!
Elemental Legacy - Wearable Art in Fine Silver by S.B. Borgersen
Maritime Flavour - Paintings by Dorothy Mosher
Murmurs Of Granite - Sculptures by Rosemary Metz
Join us for the Opening Reception - Sat. June 4th, 2pm-5pm
Show continues until July 3rd.
If you are unable to attend all the work will be on the website once the shows open!
Facebook Invite:
See you swoon!
Swoon - Fine Art, Antiques & Fashion
902-444-8279
www.swoonfineart.com
902-444-8279
www.swoonfineart.com
Monday, May 16, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Verdict
The Verdict.
He charmed, you loved him. He punched, you crawled. He thumped, you cringed. He spent, you scrimped. He guffawed, you smiled within, keeping notes; a daily journal, with photos, secreted beneath the boards.
You cried, he lashed. You shared, we schemed. You smiled within, as over the edge we pushed. He lay, mouth agape with sorry, secreted beneath the boards.
The jury is still out.
© SB 2011
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Summer Shorts by S.B. Borgersen
Summer shorts - flash fiction and poetry by SB Borgersen https://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/summer-shorts/15672727
Sunday, May 1, 2011
The Colour of Music
The Colour of Music
by
S.B. Borgersen
Whitey plays his steel drums on the pink sands of Elbow Beach. He cannot see the teeming mass of sunbathing bodies, but he knows they are getting his vibrations. Occasionally he catches a burst of applause and a request for The Banana Boat Song, which he ignores
His friends think he’s crazy, beating away in the blasting heat, “Why you do it?” they ask.
Whitey shrugs, “s’good man,” his generous mouth opens in a white smile.
They wouldn’t understand if Whitey told them it’s better than ganja; seeing the colours of the music. If he told them he sees turquoise and amethyst as he plays One Love, and golden shades of autumn when he plays Buffalo Soldier. Not red but a gleaming silver when he plays Red, Red Wine and glorious purple when he plays Pass The Kouchie. Licking Stick smothers everything in emerald green and No Woman No Cry, is the yellow of tansy.
At the end of the day with his head full of colour, Whitey kicks back on his porch with a bottle or two of Red Stripe, and then and only then, does he hear the music he has played all day.
© SB Borgersen April 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Pairings
passionfruit and peppermint
artichoke with apricot
endives and blackberries
brie with a dram of whisky
sea urchin and kiwi fruit
pawpaw with fresh parmesan
coconut with crispy bacon
shiitake and Peking duck
kumquat with cardamom
dry gin and aubergine
parsley and strong black tea
Greek honey with sardines
Papua dark chocolate
with buttermilk or peas
boiled eggs with cauliflower
perfect couplings are these
© S.B. Borgersen April 12th 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Light Cycle for Kindle at Amazon
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Bites. Flash fiction for Kindle at Amazon.com
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Thursday, April 14, 2011
Title for my upcoming show in fine silver
You've no need to read the full post now, we have decided on the following title:
Elemental Legacy, wearable art in fine silver
hope you like it!
ok, ok, I'm not normally stuck for words but I am trying to come up with an eye-catching title for an up-coming show of my fine silver work - if you have any ideas, please feel free to post them, it really is appreciated. This is what we have so far (all with Wearable Art in Fine Silver as a sub heading):
Elemental Legacy, wearable art in fine silver
hope you like it!
ok, ok, I'm not normally stuck for words but I am trying to come up with an eye-catching title for an up-coming show of my fine silver work - if you have any ideas, please feel free to post them, it really is appreciated. This is what we have so far (all with Wearable Art in Fine Silver as a sub heading):
Definitely Not the Oak Island Treasure
By the Light
Elemental
legacie metallica
Consequentia
airgead
haereditas
The New Gold
Nesregron Nasus
and finally, the latest inspiration from our brainstorm
Mine to Mine
You can vote for your favourite - or add your own. Many many thanks to all you amazing people out there.
To take a look at the type (not the actual) of work - just follow the link above to www.artysue.blogspot.com, Cheers.
S
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A Little Bit of Nonsense
Letting Loose, a nonsense rhyme
by
S.B. Borgersen
Knit one purl one, said the rooster
Hoist the mainsail said the gun
Mines’s a vodka said the lobster
It’s a figment for your lace.
Said the fiddle, dig the garden
Said the flute, run the race
Said the oboe, you’re a nana
Blue is not upon your face.
Take the coat hanger round the corner
Take the lamppost for a drive
Put a penny in the banana
Peel the button human race
Jump upon the grassy blanket
Shake the dimples from your toes
Slap the puffballs and the hankies
Tie the noodles round your waist
April 12th 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
The Three Day Rule
The Three Day Rule.
by
SB Borgersen
If you could build a house in three days, on any spare piece of land you could find, then it was yours. No questions asked. Those were the rules.
Eric was relieved when Wednesday dawned bright and clear; he needed good weather to complete the job. He was also patting himself on the back for buying the Brad nailer gun. It was turning out to be an invaluable tool; it meant that joists could be nailed in place ten times as fast as with a hammer, and speed was of the essence on this, the third day.
He toiled all day until his mouth burned with parch and his heart pounded in his chest in time with the nailer gun as the clock ticked on. He knew it was only a matter of time now before they came to tell him to drop the gun. Then he and Irma and the children would have nowhere to live. But at least he could have a glass of water.
163 words
April 11th 2011
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Fancies
Fancies
by
S B Borgersen
There are times in a young man’s life
when his fancies turn to sailing away.
There are times in a young girl’s life
when she pleads with him not to go.
There are times in a middle-aged man’s life
when he wants to sit in the ‘potting shed’ all day with the newspaper and his pipe.
There are times in a middle-aged woman’s life
when she’s quite glad about that, actually.
There are times in an old man’s life
when his fancies return to the fancies of his youth, and he wishes he’d sailed away.
There are times in an old woman’s life
when she’s just about had enough off all this chopping and changing and just wants them all, young, middle-aged, old, it doesn't matter a jot, to follow their fancies, go away and leave her in peace with her cuppa, her cat Smokey, a box of Black Magic and Lark Rise on the telly.
151 words
7th April 2011
© SBB 2011
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
The Dangers and Gain of Imagination
We all have it don’t we? As authors and writers. This vivid imagination. So, imagine the scene: sitting around a table at lunch with friends who we’ve helped out at some point or another.
Between the lettuce leaves and fizzy water, we innocently ask for an update and are shot down in flames, well, at least that’s how it feels. And then when we get home, we dwell on the scene, reliving every syllable and facial expression, the furrowed brows, the downturned lips, almost sneering, but not. We remember how we couldn’t taste the lettuce, or the water, all we could taste was the bitterness of rejection.
Then we continue to boil; should we make a phone call and have it out with them? Ask why they were all fuzzy and warm when they wanted something, but cutting and sniping when we express an interest in their progress?
No - of course we don’t. We are writers. We use it to the very last drop, and then some. Because that feeling, that feeling of rejection and shun cannot be imagined, and let’s face it, we will, at some time or another, want our characters to feel the same.
So we write about it. It and all the other life experiences; the good, the bad and yes indeedy - sometimes the downright ugly.
They’re worth their weight in gold.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Forgiveness v. Permission
Is it really easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission?
Here we go again with the ‘using song lyrics’ in fiction writing debate. With a little sprinkling of ‘fair use’, it gets tricky (imho).
So, I did a bit of digging and it looks like sticky ground to me. Directives are quite clear: you need permission to use lyrics in your writing, and that permission can come with a fee. An easy way out is to use the title of the song your character is listening to. That, apparently is ok.
There is also something called ‘fair use’ where a ‘blind eye’ lets a writer use about 300 words of someone else’s prose/poetry/lyrics before getting snarky.
In conclusion, is it too risky? Or would such an infringement glean a tad of much-needed publicity in this tough world of authorship?
And what if you don’t really know who wrote the darned thing in the first place? Here’s my example - if your story has a bunch of characters banging out a well known gospel ditty apparently written by Hank Williams (or is it?), where do you, as a writer, stand? The lyrics look very similar to verses from the bible to me, I wonder if Hank got permission. Or did he just ask the Heavenly Father for forgiveness?
Praise the Lord, I may have seen the light!
Monday, April 4, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
More than one way
of posting to a blog. This one is pretty nifty and will come in useful when on my travels.
Red is the colour - time for changes
Hmmm... so, I've changed up the blog look a little, just wondering if you like the red. Or is it too much 'in your face'?
Red seems to mean so many things: power, dominance, heat, love (eg red, red rose), blood and I'm sure there are loads more.
So, I'll give it a try, if you don't like it, just holler!
I am also in the process of adding pages (take a look to your right). Throughout the coming days I will be adding works of fiction, and real stuff that you can wear.
Red seems to mean so many things: power, dominance, heat, love (eg red, red rose), blood and I'm sure there are loads more.
So, I'll give it a try, if you don't like it, just holler!
I am also in the process of adding pages (take a look to your right). Throughout the coming days I will be adding works of fiction, and real stuff that you can wear.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Separating Fact from Fiction
It struck me this morning, as I drove back from the gym, that it is extremely hard to separate fact from fiction. Or is that just me? My fiction draws from my life experiences; I still have vivid recollections of the exotic places I’ve lived. Not necessarily of the tiny village in rural Leicestershire, or Slough (yes, that’s right) and seductive Sunningdale or even the rural chalk slopes of Wiltshire, steeped in ancient history as they are. No, my strongest memories are of the islands where I have lived off and on over the past sixty seven years.
From Cyprus, with its burnt landscape in September, the food I can still taste just thinking about it. Cyprus, where I ran wild and swam with the fishes in the transparent Mediterranean waters through each summer. Where I grew up and first heard Buddy Holly and where I fell in love.
To Bermuda, with its affluence, pretense and unrest, in spite of the pretty coloured houses. Where professional happily married couples played keys-in-the-middle at weekend parties, took in visiting stars at the Princess Hotel, and discoed at The Forty Thieves.
To Mauritius, ah volcanic Mauritius, I can smell the spices of your markets. I can see the lychee tree in the front garden and hear dogs yap at passing motorists through. I can hear the multiple tongues spoken by its people. And I shudder remembering how easy it was to get stoned when driving through villages of drunks.
And in all these memories, the strongest is the recollection that all I really wanted, was to go back home. I could have done more to distill the memories of the exotica: painted pictures, taken lots of photographs, kept a journal, but when you are the age I was then, life gets in the way. You want to drive the other side of the island because you’ve heard there is a consignment of tinned Walls sausages just in, or have your mini skirt taken up two more inches to keep up with the trend. You want to buy the latest LP on your Masters charge account, or you need to stay home because you’ve booked a phone call to the UK 3 days in advance.
But back to my original thought - you know, the one about drawing on life experiences in your writing - that’s what’s happening now, the more I set my fiction in these places, the more the memories come back, sharper and more colourful than they have been for years.
That’s what happens as you age I’m told. I hope I don’t remember too much too soon.
From Cyprus, with its burnt landscape in September, the food I can still taste just thinking about it. Cyprus, where I ran wild and swam with the fishes in the transparent Mediterranean waters through each summer. Where I grew up and first heard Buddy Holly and where I fell in love.
To Bermuda, with its affluence, pretense and unrest, in spite of the pretty coloured houses. Where professional happily married couples played keys-in-the-middle at weekend parties, took in visiting stars at the Princess Hotel, and discoed at The Forty Thieves.
To Mauritius, ah volcanic Mauritius, I can smell the spices of your markets. I can see the lychee tree in the front garden and hear dogs yap at passing motorists through. I can hear the multiple tongues spoken by its people. And I shudder remembering how easy it was to get stoned when driving through villages of drunks.
And in all these memories, the strongest is the recollection that all I really wanted, was to go back home. I could have done more to distill the memories of the exotica: painted pictures, taken lots of photographs, kept a journal, but when you are the age I was then, life gets in the way. You want to drive the other side of the island because you’ve heard there is a consignment of tinned Walls sausages just in, or have your mini skirt taken up two more inches to keep up with the trend. You want to buy the latest LP on your Masters charge account, or you need to stay home because you’ve booked a phone call to the UK 3 days in advance.
But back to my original thought - you know, the one about drawing on life experiences in your writing - that’s what’s happening now, the more I set my fiction in these places, the more the memories come back, sharper and more colourful than they have been for years.
That’s what happens as you age I’m told. I hope I don’t remember too much too soon.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Always questions.
So, here's another good one for you - and it all came about as I put together a handful of custom business cards for a mini show of silver work this coming Thursday at Curves. I know, sounds incongruous, but this starving artist has to grab it where she can.
So - the question: when is an author an artist and vice versa? My business cards say author and artist, should it be the other way round? Or should it just say artist. Or possibly multitasker, or even nothing at all, because, as some of you know I am ambidextrous at the best of times. Anyhow, I'll leave you with that one and go back to learning a new uke strum.
So - the question: when is an author an artist and vice versa? My business cards say author and artist, should it be the other way round? Or should it just say artist. Or possibly multitasker, or even nothing at all, because, as some of you know I am ambidextrous at the best of times. Anyhow, I'll leave you with that one and go back to learning a new uke strum.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
What is a Dongle
Here's a good one for you. I need a 'dongle' apparently for visiting a resort where they don't have wireless internet, but they have broadband. We have emailed back and forth and seem to be talking at cross purposes. The guys in Staples thought I was being rude when I asked them!!! Anyone out there got an answer? My netbook has wifi - so it's not a wifi dongle. Or is it?
A Fresh Start
Hmmm, I hear you ask. What's going on with sue's blog - what happened to The Mersey Beat? Well, dear reader, it fizzled out through lack of interest. Mostly on my part.
I'm now writing up a storm, feeling more confident with my own voice. Working up a body of silver work, teaching myself bezel setting. Teaching myself C tuning and tabs on the uke - so it can't all be bad.
I will do my best not to fizzle this time.
I'm now writing up a storm, feeling more confident with my own voice. Working up a body of silver work, teaching myself bezel setting. Teaching myself C tuning and tabs on the uke - so it can't all be bad.
I will do my best not to fizzle this time.
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