Corrie weekly update - pimping, stalking and going on the run

I've been writing Coronation Street weekly updates since 1995 and this week's Coronation Street update has just gone live here.

This week in Corrie, events turned very dark in the grooming storyline.

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The Paddington poem

My dear Mr Bond

I find myself putting pen to paper today

To write a few words I have oft wanted to say

About the outfit you gave me when I came in from Peru

The hat and the coat might have seemed fine to you

But the duffel didn’t fit, it was always too tight

With pockets too small for sandwiches of marmite

Oh yes, and that’s another thing! 

At Paddington station

My culinary preference got lost in translation

Marmalade’s turned me fat 
But I don’t think you care

After all, to you, I am only that bear.

Yours sincerely,

Paddington
(with a hard stare)

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From Twinkle to My Guy, my life in women’s magazines

Come with me now, if you will, on a stroll down memory lane for a look at my life through women’s magazines.

The very first mag I ever read was a comic and I can vividly remember my mum bringing in Twinkle from the shops, just for me. I must have been under ten years old. From Twinkle I graduated to reading, greedily, both Bunty and Mandy each week and absolutely loving and taking delight in the wickedly subversive Blind Bettina comic strip. There's a fab woman here called Mel Gibson (yes, really) who did her PhD on girls' comics.

Next, it must have been Jackie which became my bible for a few years, getting all the advice from Cathy and Claire that I never knew I needed. Oh, and then came the biggest leap of all. From Donny Osmond and David Cassidy pin-ups in Jackie I stepped up to My Guy, the magazine I had to hide from my mother because she didn’t approve. It was racy, was My Guy, it had snogging and girls on the pill. I learned a lot from My Guy, believe me, I did. And then through my late teen years and early twenties I was heavily into music magazines so women’s mags went by the wayside as Rolling Stone, Smash Hits, Sounds and NME became my reading of choice.

And then something exciting happened, Company magazine was launched as a magazine for the younger sister readers of Cosmo. Company magazine fired up my imagination, I copied the clothes, the make-up, I even knitted up some of their patterns in the ‘80s. I especially remember a fantastic black mohair jumper with batwing sleeves and buttons up the back. It went a treat with black knickerbockers, back-combed black hair and pixie boots. Company magazine even published an article of mine back in 1987, my first ever piece of published writing since getting a poem in my parents’ local Sunday paper.

The logical step up from Company was Cosmo which I’d only ever read – in pop-eyed shock at what women could and did do - in the hairdresser’s while waiting for my mum who was under the dryer with curlers in her hair. I invited Cosmo into my life for a few years although not in the way I had enjoyed Company earlier. Cosmo was glossier, more self-aware, more self-promoting and it carried more advertising. I think I knew then that my love affair with women’s magazines was coming to an end but when I lived overseas I still had the English Cosmo sent to me on subscription each month, preferring it to any of the no-brainer women’s magazines aimed at the Southern California market.

Back in England, Cosmo and I parted company. Part of this was wanting something real, down to earth again after living in the candy floss of La-La land. Cosmo was too candy floss. New women’s magazines had sprung up while I’d been away and Real, Red and Eve became my reading of choice until they too stayed on the shelf in the shop after I realised that I was of an age and opinion now that nothing these mags could ever say to me would be something I’d want to read.

Becoming a mature student on a journalism course involved spending time analysing print media where women’s magazines came under the academic microscope. The more I studied their appeal to the masses of misses, the more they repelled me. I don’t touch them any more, I just said no. Well, ok, that’s not entirely true.

There’s one women’s mag that I read avidly, every word, cover to cover and back again. I’ve subscribed to it since Issue 1 and was lucky enough to interview its original editor as part of my degree a few years ago. It’s Mslexia magazine, a specialist journal that comes with a tagline of “for women who write”.

Speaking of which, since I turned a full-time freelance writer in 2015 after far too many years wasting away in University admin jobs, I've been writing for women's magazines. My stories have turned up in Take a Break, My Weekly and The People's Friend. I'm very proud to say that I'm also writing a weekly soap called "Riverside" for The People's Friend, the magazine's first in its history. It's an honour indeed and a weekly writing task I enjoy immensely.

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Corrie weekly update - Farewell Freddie

I've been writing Coronation Street weekly updates since 1995 and this week's Coronation Street update has just gone live here.

This week in Corrie, Derek Griffiths left the show. Sadly, not through the round window.

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Corrie weekly update - the one with a Manchester smile

I've been writing Coronation Street weekly updates since 1995 and this week's Coronation Street update has just gone live here.

This week in Corrie, the show's most feisty female got together with its most boring bloke.

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Selection / Rejection

Life is a writer, well, it's a bit like this right now.

I've been a bit like this for some time.

If it should change, I'll let you know.

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Flash Fiction: Cinderella

“I need to get back home soon…’
‘Stay with me, come on. It’s still early, don’t go.’
He’s kissing my neck; he doesn’t understand.
‘You don’t understand. If I don’t get back before midnight…’
‘What’s the rush, babe? Who’ll be waiting?’
He’s nibbling my ear, trying to undo my dress.
‘My two sisters need me, back home.’
His hand slides up my leg.
‘You didn’t tell me you had sisters.’
His breathing turns heavy, laboured. 
‘There are more like you at home?’
‘I need to go, really, I have to be back before twelve… before my shoes turn to glass.’

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Flash Fiction: Remote Control

“Pass the remote control,” he demanded. “The colour’s gone all wrong.”
“Looks fine to me,” she replied, squinting at the telly.
“Those trees shouldn’t be purple, look…”
She looked.
“And it’s too bright.”
She liked it bright.
Buttons were pressed, levels were changed. A smile took the place of his frown.
“See, that’s much better,” he said. “Those trees are the proper colour now.”
“Go and put the kettle on, love,” she said to him.
And when he plodded to the kitchen, she took control of the remote.
The trees were purple again.

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Flash Fiction: School Report

Susan is an enthusiastic and positive learner. Her contribution to the school netball team has been remarkable, resulting in St. Mary’s becoming national champions for the first time in its 150 year history.  Her English and Maths grades are improving.  In Science, she shows an impressive understanding of chemicals. However, she needs to learn to treat school property with respect and to be more sensitive to the opinions of others in her group..  Other than that, she gets on well, in the main, with her classmates and we trust that Keith will be out of hospital soon and his burns have not scarred too much. We also hope this might result in Susan's return from expulsion in time for the start of St Mary's netball season.

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Poem: Things I see from the Metro window

Mucky buddleia
The greyhound stadium
This is … your station
Mirrors on the platform
Overhead live wires
Silver tracks shining 
Passengers disgorging
Pylons

Passengers must not
Maximum penalty
Swaying side to side
Trying not to touch the man sitting next to me
Manspreading 
Traffic lights 
Security cameras on spiked metal poles
Abandoned garage
Sheds in gardens
Pylons

Stop, look, listen
Graffiti and bridges
Roaring and rolling and screeching and shunting
Long stay car park
Yellow and black, stand back
Bike lane, blue sign
Bobby’s Bathroom Tiles
You are here
Pylons

Trains to
Tunnel
Blackness
Escalator
All change
Disgorge
Hoovers up
Spits out


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Flash Fiction: Cell

Christening invitations had already been sent before their baby died. Eggshell blue, heavy linen cards scalloped with silver she’d designed while life was growing inside her. A cell that had split and split again, creating skin, eyes and bone. A cell that had split into two.

The christening could still go ahead, the vicar said gently - if she felt able to cope. The  funeral for his twin was arranged the same day.

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Flash Fiction: Freak show, chat show

When Joe left I cried so much my tears turned sticky and black. I went to the doc who prodded and poked and looked puzzled. He sent me to a lab where men in white coats diagnosed oil leaking from my eyes.

I was a phenomenon, they said.

I ended up on chat shows, those modern-day freak shows of daytime TV. I made the cover of OK! and HELLO and the Oil & Gas Journal. I was the crying oil lady, they all wanted to see. 

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Flash Fiction: Benji the flying dog

When Benji grew wings, the vet agreed it was unusual for a dog of his age. It troubled me more than it bothered the dog that we had to visit the vet. It was the first time in months I had left the house - but I still couldn’t make eye contact. When the vet said beware of Benji flying at night I gazed at the animal hair on the floor.

But as it turns out, the night flights are the best. Benji circles the garden, jumping and barking and just before take-off, just before, I jump on his back and we soar, the two of us laughing and barking and flying and happy. And I see all that I’ve been missing in months.

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Flash Fiction: We’ve all been there

After changing the font twice he underlined the title, made it italic and bold. Then he stared at the cursor blinking, blinking. That’s when he saw greasy fingerprints on the screen. He wiped it clean and liked how it looked, so he polished his writing desk too. And then he got the hoover out and did the whole house, knowing he’d score points with his wife who always complained he never did anything. And once the carpets were hoovered, it was time for his lunch. This was followed, as always, by his afternoon nap. Refreshed, he returned to his desk where the cursor was waiting, still blinking, blinking. Then, and only then, he was ready to start his first draft.

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Poetry - Here comes the bride

Each week I enter the Let's Twist competition in The Spectator. I've never won and I never will and that's not false modesty, I know I'm not literary enough. But each entry I send in, although it doesn't win or get published, sits on my computer wanting its day in the sun.  Now is the time for my little poems to shine.

The Spectator brief was:  You are invited to submit a poem of 16 lines in which the lines begin with the letters of the alphabet from A to P. 

Here comes the bride
by Glenda Young

All of the people
Behind me today
Came to see me get married and
Dad give me away
Even the vicar said my
Frock was rather nice
Groom didn’t mention it as
He was miffed about the price
I was almost ready to say ‘I do ‘
Just as mt pregnant bridesmaid fainted
‘Keep calm!’ I said
‘Let’s carry on’, but the wedding day was tainted
My husband cared for fallen maid
Now giving her the kiss of her life
‘Oh!’ cried the vicar, looking on. “I
Pronounce those two husband and wife’

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Poetry - Thick neck and tattoos

Each week I enter the Let's Twist competition in The Spectator. I've never won and I never will and that's not false modesty, I know I'm not literary enough. But each entry I send in, although it doesn't win or get published, sits on my computer wanting its day in the sun.  Now is the time for my little poems to shine.

The Spectator brief was: The Rime of the Wedding Guest

Thick neck and tattoos
by Glenda Young

She’s far too good for him, they say
And I think they may be right
He’s got tattoos, a very thick neck, an unflattering overbite
But I’ll smile when they exchange their vows and rings
I’ll giggle when she throws her bouquet
My Chanel suit will shine on the wedding photographs
Of my son’s wedding day

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Poetry - The Donald Trump protest song

Each week I enter the Let's Twist competition in The Spectator. I've never won and I never will and that's not false modesty, I know I'm not literary enough. But each entry I send in, although it doesn't win or get published, sits on my computer wanting its day in the sun.  Now is the time for my little poems to shine.

The Spectator brief was: You are invited to supply a protest song for Donald Trump’s detractors.

Reasons to be Fearful (World War 3)by Glenda Young

Why don't you get back into bed
Why don't you get back into bed

Mike Pence, Building a fence
Ban him, Twitter! He lies
Fake News, Dodgy Views
Coiffured Hair and Panda Eyes

Pandering to Putin, From the Lip Shootin’
Hacking emails to Hilary
Huffing, Puffing, He’s a down and dirty rough ‘un
And he’s gonna cause World War Three

Why don't you get back into bed
Why don't you get back into bed

Reasons to be Fearful (Part 3)
1 2 3


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Poetry - Sunday Dinner

Each week I enter the Let's Twist competition in The Spectator. I've never won and I never will and that's not false modesty, I know I'm not literary enough. But each entry I send in, although it doesn't win or get published, sits on my computer wanting its day in the sun.  Now is the time for my little poems to shine.

The Spectator brief was: You are invited to submit a poem about a deadly foodstuff.

Sunday Dinner
by Glenda Young

If the chicken doesn’t poison you
Then the roast potatoes will
And beside your Yorkshire puddings
Lurks the killer kale 
Leafy greens and artichoke
Sunday dinner?
What a joke


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Poetry - Sea Sick

Each week I enter the Let's Twist competition in The Spectator. I've never won and I never will and that's not false modesty, I know I'm not literary enough. But each entry I send in, although it doesn't win or get published, sits on my computer wanting its day in the sun.  Now is the time for my little poems to shine.

The Spectator brief was: You are invited to recast John Masefield’s ‘Sea Fever’ in light of the news that the poet suffered from acute sea sickness.

See the Chemist
By Glenda Young

I must go down to the chemist again, to the pharmacist counter, quick
And all I ask is a packet of pills to stop me feeling sick
As the mouth hurls and the head heaves and the legs are shaking,
And a green pallor to the face, with a multicoloured yawn breaking.

I must go down to the chemist again, for the fluids in my ear
Are calling loud and calling clear; I retch, but I can not hear
And all I ask is my vestibular system be still instead of flying
As the dizziness spirals, my stomach turns and it makes me feel like dying

I must go down to the chemist again, for a fragrant handkerchief
To breathe into and out of deeply, and dispel this sickness grief
And all I ask is my network of nerves and fluids to be steady
And then, perhaps, I’ll go out in the boat, if and when I’m ready.

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Corrie weekly update - who shoved King Ken?

I've been writing Coronation Street weekly updates since 1995 and this week's Coronation Street update has just gone live here.

This week in Corrie, everyone's under suspicion for the attack on King Ken of Chez Barlow.

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