bitknee peer and a tractor top billing on  celleb showbiz show, but who are they??  letter frm the back of beyond

  

Una extraña felicitación de Navidad.

 

Queridos amigos:

 

¿De qué podemos hablar en estos duros momentos, en los que la economía tiende a la contracción y sociedad a la reflexión y al ajuste?

 

No sé, podíamos hablar de Sacyr, ese valle hermoso en el que hasta hace poco tiempo pastaban alegremente las vacas. Las vacas sagradas, se comprende. Podíamos hablar de Martinsa-Fadesa, la inmobiliaria que tuvo el privilegio de ser la primera. Ya sabéis que no importa ser el último si se es alguna vez el primero. Ha sido la primera en caer, claro. Pero, antes, seguro que puso a buen recaudo los sabrosos beneficios de sus dirigentes, dejando a los acreedores el reparto equitativo de las migajas.

 

Podíamos hablar de la banca, ésa que persigue con saña los impagados y luego pide árnica al Gobierno para tapar los agujeros de la especulación. Podíamos hablar de los sueldos obscenos de los banqueros ¿Se pueden ganar 72.000.000 de euros al año y no resquebrajarse las estructuras de la sociedad? ¿Dónde está el dinero generado por la economía financiera cuando ésta dejaba suculentos beneficios? ¿Por qué no corremos a gorrazos a toda esta gente sin escrúpulos ni conciencia? ¿Por qué salimos a socorrerlos en lugar de mandarlos a galeras y tenerlos tres meses a pan y agua para que se enteren bien de qué va la cosa?

 

Podíamos hablar de los políticos, de los Hunos de Unamuno y de los Otros de Borges, todos ellos a salvo de las crisis negadas, habentes y futuras ¿Cómo se pueden ganar 100 ó 200.000 euros al mes y encima cobrar dietas por movimientos, agitaduras, manducaciones y pernoctaciones? ¿Por qué no se bajan los sueldos a la mitad para hacerse solidarios con los que no tienen ninguno o lo tienen ínfimo o sólo tienen el paro? ¿Por qué no creamos una plataforma para controlar la corrupción, que es pantagruélica, y el dispendio, que es asaz enjundioso? ¿Por qué tanto audi 8 a disposición de tanto mandatario de medio pelo? ¿No es suficiente con un audi 4? ¿Por qué tanto despacho de Madera de Boj y mármoles de Carrara? ¿Por qué van tirando el dinero en fastos y parafernalias de nuevos ricos cuando en realidad tenemos tanta miseria debajo de los manteles?

 

Podíamos hablar del Rey, pero me da mucha pena distraerle. Está tan extasiado mirando ese cuadro de tres millones de euros que acaban de ponerle en el despacho...

 

Podíamos hablar de todas estas cosas, digo. Pero de todas estas cosas están rebosantes los periódicos. Y las radios y las televisiones. Y, lo que es peor,  las sufridas cabezas de los ciudadanos que, desde el impresionante batacazo de Lehman Brothers, se han desayunado todos los días con las monumentales ****s de los financieros  (ésos que para celebrar un rescate se van al bar de la esquina y se gastan 500.000 dólares en copas), y con las mierdecitas calientes de los inmobiliarios que, con el nombre de viviendas hipotecadas, van dejando a la puerta de los acreedores.

 

¿De qué vamos a hablar, entonces? Pues, mira, no lo sé. En realidad yo empecé a escribir este artículo con la idea de hacer una felicitación de Navidad, pero pensando en los cuatro millones de euros que se ha gastado Gallardón en la iluminación de las calles de Madrid, me he quedado extasiado como el Rey ante la cúpula de Barceló, de la que dicen que recuerda a determinada cueva china. Normal, de China importamos un montón de juguetes. Este año, menos. Muchos menos. Parece que la crisis, aunque cierre algunas fábricas orientales, va a salir por fin al rescate de los niños, que están atiborrados de esa procelosa juguetería navideña que es perjudicial, que es hueca, que es vana.

 

El Gobierno (y la oposición con todos sus políticos al frente) tendría que hacer un esfuerzo dirigido a los que tienen verdadera necesidad. Nadie debería verse privado de lo básico. Nadie debería pasar una noche al relente. Nadie debería pasar hambre. Por lo demás, y salvados estos extremos, a lo mejor nos viene bien que nos pongan un poco en nuestro sitio, especialmente a aquellos que se han salido excesivamente de madre.

 

Sería bueno que el frío de la crisis nos dejara en los zapatos un poco de recogimiento y de humildad. Desde ahí se pueden tener muy felices fiestas.

 

Pues eso: ¡Muy Felices Fiestas!

 

Mariano Estrada www.mestrada.net Paisajes Literarios

 

 

Os dejo un extraño poema:

 

Un perro en la Navidad del 66 ó 67

 

"Un día triste y con frío,

las navidades pasadas,

oí el lamento de un perro

en el umbral de mi casa.

 

Abrí la puerta y entró,

porque en la calle nevaba,

y se acostó en un rincón

sobre una alfombra gastada.

 

Yo lo miré con ternura

y le di pan con palabras.

Él levantó la cabeza

y me miró con el alma.

 

Así pasó por las horas

mi corazón, sin notarlas.

Después se fue, no sé adónde

ni sé con quién ni sé nada.

 

Pero dejó en mi recuerdo

la luz de aquella mirada,

agradecida y hermosa,

profundamente cansada"

 

Tenía yo pocos años,

y la inocencia en la cara.

Nunca han llegado a mi puerta

las navidades tan blancas.

 

Mariano Estrada www.mestrada.net Paisajes Literarios

Posdata: este poema ha sido recuperado de la memoria

y rehecho con pretensión de fidelidad. No obstante, han

pasado por él más de 40 años...

 

http://paisajes.blogcindario.com/2008/12/00310-una-extrana-felicitacion-de-navidad.html

http://paisajes.blogcindario.com

 

Mega Ran just put out this one for your listening pleasure: Grow Up (Ultraklystron Mix). Impressive work! Mega Ran is also working on some fan mixes using the MM9 soundtrack. Read about it over in his blog!

 

A movie inspired by a World War 1 Christmas truce on the Western Front Dec 25th, 1914. Scottish, French and German troops decided to lay down arms for one night truce in the middle of a long and bloody battle. I've encluded a powerful clip from the movie here in my blog. My passion for empathy and peace was satisfied by watching this beautiful movie - go find it and watch it this holiday when the benign troubles we face with dry turkeys and xmas tree needles dropping start to get to us. It may help bring some perspective.

Cheers!

Mikki - I do love my girl Mikki.  Looking back, our meeting on another recovery website has turned out to be nothing more than one big huge God shot.  She's a true blessing in my life.

Mothers - All 5,243 of them.  They do have a tendency to get on my neves, but over the course of the 10+ years I've been around the rooms, that have undoubtedly saved my life.  Multiple times.

Max - My favorite big-butt border collie.  We got him the week of my high school graduation, which means he's now just about 13 years-old.  He's heard all my secrets, and seen me threw many bad nights in my early recovery.  He is ... and always will be ... one of my main men.

Maggie - The psychotic black lab I currently reside with.  About 15 minutes ago, she sent me flying across the backyard after she decided to chase a squirrel while on her leash.  Before that, she got knocked over a huge display of The Roommate's books.  But, I still can't help by love her ... uncoordinated moose that she is.

Medicine - This really needs no explaination.  I'm able to live today and maintain a reasonable quality of life, thanks to the pills I take on a daily basis. 

Music - Music was a gift my mother gave me at a very young age.  It has, without a doubt, been one of my saving graces.  There are days when it feels as if it's my only lifeline.

 

 

 

I can do no better than to quote the words of Cori herself:

The Indie Craft Wall, IndieCraftWall.com is a site made out of  frustration over the lack of affordable advertising for Indie Crafters.  The idea is...everyone who buys an inexpensive ad block on IndieCraftWall.com then puts a link to the site on their blog or Myspace page... thus creating lots of crafty traffic.

It is super easy to use.  You visit IndieCraftWall.com, click on a block, and instructions appear!  The hardest part is making sure that the image you upload is 4x4 inches and 72 pixels.  Anything smaller is too blurry.

Cori Crooks, a crafter and author of the art memoir "Sweet Charlotte's Seventh Mistake", came up with the idea about 2 months ago. She wanted an inexpensive way for Indie Crafters like herself to promote their shops. The ad space is $10 for 4 whole months -- that's only $2.50 a month! A great deal!

Indie Craft Wall benefits both buyers and sellers. Buyers can come to a web site that links artists directly. No supplies or antique stores -- just lots of nice photos of handmade goodness! In return sellers won't be charged crazy rates trying to get traffic to their store. 

What's also great about IndieCraftWall.com is the dedicated page that lists the clicks each artist gets! You are able to keep track of how many times someone who visited the wall went to your store!  It's totally cool!  Traffic is also driven to the site through links, site registries, Myspace gorilla marketing, and yapping about it!!! The number one rule about IndieCraftWall.com is: Talk about IndieCraftWall.com!

You can see my ad there in the lower left -- the cool thing is, if you hover over an ad at the site itself, you get to see the larger version. And it really is very affordable. Head on over to IndieCraftWall.com and check it out for yourself!

 

Saving The Environment Might Not Be As Easy As We Think

By Robert Sorley
Filed Under News & Reviews, The Big Picture | Leave a Comment

As the public ‘conversation’ about climate change and sustainable development moves closer and closer to center stage, it is now important to step away from our entrenching positions, take a deep breath, and look at a different category of ‘big pictures’.

Let’s leave the ‘skeptic-advocate’ dipole for the moment and move toward a set of principles that no sane person could seriously refute. Start with a few simple questions:

• Should governments, corporations, communities and individuals use their resources and organizations to behave in an environmentally responsible manner? Yes, of course.
• Should a new technology or initiative have the net result of greater units of greenhouse gas emissions for each unit of input? No, of course not.
• Does the state of our technology have the capacity to improve our emissions, our lifestyles and a sustainable agenda? Well, yes and no.

If truth be told, the technologies which currently have critical mass can only offer incremental improvements. A technological revolution of the scale which saw the elimination of wood burning in favor of hydrocarbon burning is still quite far away.

Several significant obstacles and large scale experiments must be addressed before the ‘non-combustion’ (ie. Wind, Water, Solar, Geothermal & Biofuel) will ever have the critical mass to truly rival the global reach of hydrocarbons.

Note the exclusion of nuclear energy from the previous list. There is a lesson to be drawn from our brief and tentative experiment with nuclear energy. Public attitudes turned against nuclear very early in its life cycle. Who is to say that nuclear’s experience will not repeat when the true and full costs of a “renewable energy” become clear?

Three problem-solving features contained in the main hydrocarbon applications are:

• Energy Density
• Transportability
• Small production area requirements

We, as a civilization, must either develop new technologies to address all three of these issues, or accept the inferiority of new technologies in these areas. If we opt for the latter, we must accept a measurable decline in our quality of life. If that’s not acceptable, we have the option to stick with hydrocarbons, as long as they are still around. But this option means that we must accept that anthropogenic-induced climate change will worsen. It may be much harder to measure the decline in our quality of life due to climate change, whereas the former will be acute.

ENERGY DENSITY

A gallon of regular gasoline holds 125,000 btu of energy content, or 34 MJ per liter. To describe this in daily terms, that gallon will propel 6 people in a 2.5T SUV a distance of 17 miles….all for a cost of roughly $3.00. Put another way, each mile costs 17 cents, so each person pays 3 cents for the benefit of moving one mile. Not even a rickshaw driver in the poorest country in the world would offer you this price!

Our academics and innovators are struggling to identify a viable alternative to the internal combustion engine when it comes to transporting people and material. The fuel cell, which once showed great promise is now dormant, wrapped up in the weaknesses of its own value chain. We may occasionally watch a 3 minute expose on the strange looking vehicles (with large surface areas) in the “North American Solar Challenge”, but we intuitively know these will never be able to carry a bevy of school children to their field trips.

The electric car may be of interest, but that requires plugging into the mains, which requires, in turn, that the power grid be designed for the increased demand. Since most of our electricity comes from hydrocarbons (gas, coal and oil) as of this date, we may run the risk of making the problem worse – unless it is very well thought out. Of course, we could always increase capacity by installing solar panels (photovoltaic cells) and wind turbines, but hydrocarbons will remain the core energy input.
The rules of energy density relegate our transportation issue to one of incremental progress, not revolutionary step-change. The hybrid car and improved engine designs are the most realistic efforts to be made as of this date.

Note we haven’t even broached the subject of shipping or air transport which will have no access to power grids for long periods of time.

TRANSPORTABILITY
The next question that must be addressed is, once you have an energy source, how do you get it to the people who need it? Crude oil and its refined products are relatively easy to transport. So is coal. Natural gas is more difficult, but there is now good pipeline infrastructure in most countries, delivering the resource to market. Liquid Natural Gas also continues to grow as a viable transport network.

If one takes the transportability issue to the wind, solar, geothermal, hydro and tidal technologies, it becomes quickly apparent that we have an enormous challenge:

• How do you get energy from windy areas to cities?
• How do you deliver electricity from sunny areas to the northern hemisphere in winter?

You cannot package these raw materials into fuel tanks or pipelines and carry them to the places that need them – at least not in the critical masses that will be required.

An option could be to lay thousands of miles of conductive wire so that there is a “pipeline” of electrical energy running from areas of great sunlight (or wind, or tides, etc) to, say, Northern Europe. However, the raw material will have been converted into electricity close to its source (say in the Sahara), and the energy losses inherent in moving electricity over long distances may render the whole exercise too inefficient. These weaknesses will exacerbate the questionable logic of mining a bunch of copper so it can be processed into wire that connects sunny areas to cold, dark, cloudy cities.

Once again, it is more likely that the renewable energy sources will complement the core hydrocarbon power plants. Note the return of the words “incremental improvements”.

RESOURCE PRODUCTION AREA
The last issue which this commentary will address is that of production area. Put briefly, this is the ‘footprint’ we put down to access the energy that we require.

While giant oil and gas fields are expressed in billions of barrels or trillion cubic feet, the area required for production and refining facilities is comparatively small. The world’s largest oilfield, Ghawar in Saudi Arabia, is 3250 sq miles (8400 sq km) and is produced primarily by 5 production wells. Apart from Canada’s tar sands and Venezuela’s heavy oil complex, the flow characteristics of oil and gas mean that the facilities to produce and refine the resource leave a comparatively small footprint per btu or MJ of energy extracted.

This will not be the case with solar, tidal and wind technologies. While it is popular to cite the extraordinary statistics about solar radiation (174 PW, 1370 watts per sq meter, etc), the fact remains that an area of around 200,000 sq km would be required to collect enough TeraWatts to match the world’s current power consumption. That is half the state of California. The “production” areas for this kind of energy extraction will be significantly larger than anything we have seen to date.

Similarly, a modern wind turbine may be specified to produce 1.33 MW in a year. Given that the world consumes 15 TW in power per year, this would imply that we would need 11 million strategically placed wind turbines to replace the existing infrastructure. That is one wind turbine for every 600 people; every city with 1M people would require 1700 turbines. Denver would require 850 turbines, which would correspond to one every 5 sq miles. Taking an average, the greatest distance that you could place yourself from a wind turbine eyesore in Denver would be about 1 & ¼ miles. At any given time, you would thus have 37 wind turbines in your field of view, assuming a flat terrain and a short tower. The taller the turbine, the bigger the visible number of units. New York City would require 13,800 turbines, or 45 turbines per sq mile. At any given time, a New Yorker would be no more than 262 yards from a tower, and would have 2544 in the field of view (flat landscape, short towers, no obstructions assumed). That’s a veritable forest…without the benefit of any trees.

Admittedly, one could put the turbines together in a more efficient wind farm outside the metropolis, but it would still be significant footprint in someone else’s back yard.

Next question…where is the wind? Oh yes, and what about growth in population/energy requirements? (Note that the above calculations are probably conservative for US cities, since the energy consumed per head is so much higher than in other countries).

It will be more realistic to use wind as an incremental addition to the existing grid.

In conclusion, each reader should ask the following question of himself or herself. How many times do you see an oil or gas production rig? How about a refinery? It is probably an uncommon event. In our effort to abandon hydrocarbons, are you prepared to look at a large photovoltaic panel complex AND several 240 ft (75m) wind towers with 300 ft (93m) rotors stirring noisily in the breeze? Note also that the land must be set aside for these energy capturing units, and the building materials must be mined, processed and assembled (probably in your back yard).

Sadly, there will be no way to make them beautiful nor to make them perfectly safe for people or wildlife.

It may all be worth it to thwart this climate change. But look at how quickly our society turned against nuclear, the ‘energy liberator’ of the 1970s. Nuclear has a lot to offer as a non-emitting technology, but its time has passed. It is not inconceivable that when the limitations of renewables become more fully understood, that there will be another outcry.

Let’s make sure that the skeptics and advocates of both existing and new technologies keep the debate open and balanced. We commoners want to do the right thing, but we’re getting a lot of bias from our green advocates, and no one would stoop to take an oil industry PR rep seriously. Now would they?

ROBERT SORLEY was trained as a Geophysicist in Canada before joining both French & Norwegian companies as a marine seismic contractor. His career has taken him to job postings and expatriations in West Africa, the North Sea, France, UK, SE Asia, Australia the USA and back to Canada. Working on the periphery of the oil exploration industry in both the developed and the developing world has introduced him to a wide range of stakeholders, nationalities and people of all walks of life, all of whom have a multitude of perspectives. Since the identification of energy resources is a strategic component of every country’s economy, Robert has frequently engaged with national oil companies, regulators and policy-makers. This, in turn, has evolved into a deep curiosity about how policies are debated, decided and implemented.

El pastor del programa de Creencias dijo que Dios hizo un mundo perfecto.

Quisiera refutarlo, diciendo que si Dios hubiese creado un mundo perfecto no habria arrependido como dice la biblia:Genesis 6:6 Y se arrepintio Jehova de haber hecho el hombre en la tierra, y le dolio en su corazon.

Solo puedes arrepintirte de una cosas imperfectas como en este caso, que trajo el diluvio por su arrepentimiento, y mas, esto prueba que Dios tampoco es perfecto.

Y además un mundo perfecto no trae problemas, com virus que matan personas y otros seres antes mismo de la existencia del hombre, el cuerpo humano no se desgataria con la vejez, etc.

Un ser perfecto crea cosas perfectas y no eso que ocurre.

Las personas materialistas son tan felizes cuando las espirituales y causaron tantos problemas cuanto ellas.  

She's looking great and sounding sane... what a vast improvement from last year.  From www.popsugar.com...

 

• On her come back: "I have 'come back' so many times, people are just like, Is this another one?... It's kind of like a joke to me now."

• On a misconception about her: "I don't like going out. I hate clubs. I hate being around too many people. I love my home and staying in bed and watching Dancing With the Stars or reading a Danielle Steel novel. I'm kind of boring."

 

• On where she wants to be in 5 or 10 years: "I would love to have a lot of albums under my belt. And a couple of movies....In five years I would like to be married and have a father figure for my kids, someone who is a provider and can be really stable."

*************************************

...Bless her heart....she's still looking favorably on marriage.  Guess she didn't take Madonna's "never get married again" suggestion to heart. 

hi

Welcome to our new Renspace group page! All current members of Ormgard and anyone interested in what we do are encouraged to join and contribute to our forum. We are a household primarily centered in the El Paso, TX area but we have friends and members all over the place. Our aims are to mentor our members and foster their skills and interests in medieval culture. We also endeavor to provide a support sturcture for each other in getting to and enjoying events, especially in these tough economic times.

 

Thorhild Sigurdsdottir

Matriarch

nesesito la ayuda de 45,000 personas  me presten un dollar yo se los devolvere es para cubrir  mi  casa  yo de vovere  cada dallar.ariel arrieta acc#3000076435088 WACHOVIA. LES ERCRIBO MANANA  porque estoy en la biblioteca eltiempo se termino

 

OUR HEROINE - NARRATED BY SARAH BRAITHWAITE

 

    Some people claimed I was a heroine.  Me?  Anyone who said that should've been locked away in High Royds Asylum where they had nice comfortable padded cells for nutters.  Of course, others labelled me a villain, and maybe they had a point.  But before all that trouble kicked off, I was just a normal sixteen-year-old lass living on the Branwell council estate in Thornton, near Bradford.  Then again, my best mate Tara always used to say, "If you're normal, I never want to be!"

 

    I'll never forget that Tuesday evening in mid-September.  I stood in the hallway.  An icy draft under the front door raised goose bumps all over my legs.  I stamped my feet while I chatted on the telephone, wishing the b****y B.T. man had installed our line in the living room.  If I'd been sensible, I would've changed out of my thin white blouse and short dark-blue school skirt and replaced them with something more practical, like a warm tracksuit.

 

    I smiled.  "So, I'll see you next week before you go to HOYS?"  I pressed the yellow handset tighter to my ear, wishing it could bring Danny closer.  A strand of bleached-blonde hair fell out of my loose pony tail.  I toyed with it, twisting it around a finger.  Danny was my first proper boyfriend.  The first I... erm... went riding with.

 

    I'd met Danny down the stables where Tara kept her horse.  His mum and dad were loaded; they had four horses on full livery there.  We'd been inseparable for three years till his parents decided the grass was greener on the Emerald Isle.  They bought a small farm near Cork, and then moved there, horses and all.  Now we only talked on the phone.

 

    "Erm no, Sarah.  I won't be going to the Horse of the Year Show."  My heart leapt into my mouth.  What did he mean?  I dropped down to sit on the bottom of the stairs.  The rough fibres of the carpet scratched the back of my thighs.

 

    He coughed, and then continued.  "We've got to prepare our new stables for the winter.  Anyway, it coincides with the Sydney Olympics, so Dad reckons it'll be c**p."

 

    "If you're not going to HOYS," I asked, "are you still coming to Bradford next week?"

 

    "No, we won't be visiting England at all this year."

 

    I tried to keep my voice calm, though my hand trembled.  "So... when will I see you?"

 

    "Oh, I don't know, Sarah."

 

    Though he stood three hundred miles away, I could picture his familiar shrug.

 

    "It's not as if you're just up the road," he said, "like when I lived in Clayton."

 

    I tried to stifle my sobs.  "But I haven't seen you for two months now!"

 

    "Don't cry, Sarah..."  Someone shouting his name cut him short.  "Oh... Dad's calling for me.  I'll have to go.  Talk to you later."

 

    Without even saying, "I love you," he hung up.

 

    Absence doesn't always make the heart grow fonder.  I untwisted the tangled cord and replaced the handset.  The way he'd said, "Talk to you later," made it sound like, "We'll never talk again."  I felt like he'd kicked me and left me lying in the dirt.  Perhaps some Irish lass enjoyed riding just as much as I did.  I clenched my fists and imagined punching some pretty Irish girl.  I needed a cig.

 

    Thankful I wasn't wearing mascara, I used the cuffs of my school blouse to dry my eyes.  The rough cloth scratched my damp skin.  I stood and wandered zombie-like into the living room where the heat of the blazing gas fire did nothing to warm my heart.

 

    My little brother sprawled on the sofa, his feet up on the coffee table.  At times, Will could be a right pain in the a***.  I suppose we had a typical brother-sister relationship; we hated one another.  But if anyone threatened Will, I wouldn't stand back and do nothing.  I knew he felt the same, even if he did sometimes grass on me to Mum.

 

    Mum had set up her ironing board in the living room so she could watch her favourite soap while she sorted out our clothes.  She never missed an episode of Emmerdale.  My sister Emma had just permed Mum's light-brown hair, so it looked great.  But after what Danny had said, I wasn't in the mood to pay her any compliments.

 

    Anyway, it wasn't as if she would ever pull a bloke.  I mean, she might if she lost a pound... or maybe twenty.  But she didn't often bother with makeup, and most of the clothes she threw on looked proper c***.  This time she was wearing an ugly green plastic apron.  It rose up over her tummy, making her look fat.  Any bloke who walked through the front door and saw that would keep on going and out the back.

 

    A white cloud of lavender-scented steam billowed in front of Mum as she ironed one of Will's Thornton Tornados football shirts.  He was the star striker in their under-elevens squad.  Danny used to play football with Will in the back garden while I got ready to go out.  That memory cut into my heart like a blunt knife.

 

    Mum glanced at me and smiled.  "I've got to get this ironing done, but I'm gagging for a cig.  Could you be an angel?  Nip down to Sandy's and fetch me twenty?"

 

    I answered her with silence.

 

    She looked up.  "You're not still barred, are you?  It's six months since she caught you slipping that vodka into your schoolbag."

 

    I glared at her, a single tear running down the sore skin of my cheek.  Mum frowned.  She'd told me umpteen times that things would be different between me and Danny now he'd emigrated, but I'd chosen to ignore her.  I expected her to launch once more into her 'there's plenty more fish in the sea' spiel, but I'd forgotten Emmerdale was on.  That was far too important to interrupt for a mother-daughter talk.

 

    "Never mind," she said.  "I'll send Will."

 

    "Oh Mum!" complained Will, turning to me and screwing up his nose.  "Do I have to?  I'm watching telly."

 

    "You hate Emmerdale," said Mum.

 

    She turned her back on me to focus on Will.  Though Danny had upset me, I'd never miss the opportunity to score points against my little brother.  Behind Mum's back I wet one finger and marked my latest victory in the air.  He scowled, and then turned to Mum.  Of course, I didn't win every battle with Will.  If I did, it wouldn't have been any fun.

 

    "But that thing about the Sydney Olympics starts on Channel Four in ten minutes," he whined.

 

    "The Olympics haven't even started yet," said Mum.  "You won't miss owt."

 

    "It's about Australia training for their opening match against Italy tomorrow.  Why can't the stick insect go?"

 

    "Sarah has homework to do."  Mum flashed me a dead serious look promising a kick up the a*** if I didn't get it done.  "She'll be on report again if she doesn't hand in her G.C.S.E. coursework on time.  And stop calling her that!"

 

    I grinned and escaped upstairs to my bedroom.  Once inside my own space, the full significance of that talk with Danny hit me.  I'd probably never see him again.

 

    Even in the privacy of my room, men haunted me.  Semi-naked Spikes, Angels and Xanders glared down from large colourful posters.  James Marsters looked right sexy, wearing blue jeans and little else.  And I wouldn't kick David Boreanaz out of bed on a cold winter's night.  I suppose vampires were the original bad boys.  Outdated My Little Pony wallpaper peeked out from gaps between Buffy posters, reminding me things never last forever.  I couldn't wait to leave school next June.  I wanted to do something useful for a change, like that hair and beauty course at Keighley College.

 

    After tugging the hair-band off my pony tail, I shook my head and ran fingers through tangled hair.  I opened the window and shivered.  Taking the last cig from a borrowed pack, I lit it.  Soon telltale smoke rings drifted out onto Charlotte Close.  The view of my street depressed me: a dozen run-down semi-detached houses with gardens full of weeds and car wrecks.  At least I knew everyone.

 

    Our Emma lived in one house and her boyfriend, Dave, in another.  Two of the other houses were all boarded up, but the rest had housed the same people since I was born.  Nothing ever changed on the Branwell.

 

    Me and Emma both worked part time at the chinky on Market Street, off the books.  She did a lot more hours than me so she could buy nice stuff for her daughter, our Sophie.  I only worked enough to pay for cigs and going out on Saturday nights.  That cig didn't do much for me.  It tasted cheap.  The pack I'd cadged wasn't my usual Lamberts.  I closed my window on the world.

 

    Throwing myself on the bed, I buried my face into the soft pink pillows.  They stank of b***** lavender fabric conditioner.  I couldn't imagine how things could get any worse.  My romantic dream of being swept away on the back of Danny's horse and ridden across the Irish Sea had been exposed for the childish fantasy it really was.  Unlike the true tales in Girls' Gossip magazine, my love story would have no fairytale ending.

 

    A single loud bang from downstairs interrupted my misery.  Probably Will had slammed the door on his way out to fetch Mum's cigs.  The sound of an advert for the upcoming Olympics drifted up the stairs.  I pushed my G.C.S.E. history coursework folder off the chair at the side of my bed and grabbed the latest issue of my favourite mag from underneath.  The school year had only just begun; there was plenty of time to get all them stupid assignments done.  Anyway, what use would knowing about the Falklands War be when I came to start that hairdressing course next year?

 

    The first article in Girl's Gossip told the story of some sixth-form lass whose boyfriend went off to uni then did the dirty on her.  He sounded a right a*******.  I bet Danny was shagging some Irish lass behind my back.  I considered writing a letter to Aunt Edith at Girls' Gossip.  Maybe she would have something useful to say about my c**p boyfriend.  But it meant picking up a pen, and I couldn't be a****.

 

    An advert for Spot Assassin covered the entire next page.  If I used that cream, would it really kill all my spots?  If I had better skin, might Danny want to go out with me again?  In the dressing table mirror I counted five angry red splodges on my face.  I looked like a Pizza Passion pepperoni pizza... make that a double-pepperoni pizza.  Why couldn't I be more like Tara?

 

    I'd always suspected Danny's mum and dad wanted him to go out with Tara, not me.  Her dad had a few bob in the bank, and she looked the part with her smart clothes and pretty face.  But for some weird reason it was me he asked out.

 

    Most of us lasses on the Branwell estate looked pretty much the same: long, blonde hair from a bottle, orange fake-tan and as much chunky jewellery as we could get away with.  Lads called it the Thornton Look.  Emma said the blonde hair went right well with our blue eyes, and she should know because she was a fully qualified hairdresser.  After finishing the hair and beauty course at Keighley College, she worked for two years at Charlotte's Salon.  She only quit after she got up the duff so she wouldn't lose out on benefits.

 

    Tara looked different.  She had short bobbed mahogany-coloured hair that went right well with her brown eyes.  She didn't wear chains or rings.  Because one of her grans was Spanish or something, she had natural dark skin and never got loads of spots... jammy b****.  She looked like Faith, that vampire slayer on Buffy.

 

    I clambered off the bed and put my face up against the mirror to examine those spots.  A loud knocking noise broke my concentration.  It sounded like some idiot at the front door.  Everyone we knew used the side door into the kitchen, so it must be a stranger.  Curious, I threw my Girl's Gossip onto the dressing table.

 

    Leaning over the banister at the top of the stairs, I saw Mum appear still wearing that god-awful apron.  In her hand she clutched the I Heart Mum coffee mug Will gave her for her fortieth.  She opened the front door, and my heart leapt into my mouth.  A proper serious-looking tall woman stood there in an all-too-familiar dark-blue uniform.  I didn't recognize the hard face under that policewoman's hat, but could guess what she'd come for.  Worse, behind her she had backup.

 

    What had I done this time?  Everyone knew I wasn't the best behaved lass in Thornton, but I couldn't remember doing anything recently which would bring the police to the door.

 

    I'd had a bong at a mate's house on Friday night, but unless someone grassed the bobbies wouldn't know about that.  It couldn't be anything to do with them CDs I lifted from WH Smith's on Saturday morning, because the store detectives would've stopped me when I was leaving.  The last time the police had come to our door was when Miss Marsden caught me with a spliff in the school playground.  They only sent one bobby then.  This time I must be in some serious s***.

 

    "Mrs Brenda Braithwaite?"  The policewoman sounded ready to give someone a right serious talking to.  Mum nodded and then turned to glare straight at me.  How did she know I was watching?

 

    "Sarah!  Get down here... NOW!"

 

    My legs shook as I climbed down the stairs.  The theme music for The Bill drifted through from our living room.

 

    Mum flashed me a disappointed frown as she cradled the coffee mug in front of her chest.  "What has our Sarah done this time?"

 

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