This week, half term, I have been writing my ‘P#zazz Pizza’ review and re-drafting my travel writing piece.
I quite enjoyed the task of writing a restaurant review, which was with provided ‘notes’ from when I ‘visited the restaurant.’ I had never written a review for a restaurant review and so found it fun to try something new. However, my first draft had consisted of about 700 words, and when I read the task again, I saw that it must be only 300. So I then had to begin re-drafting, and cutting out a lot, which I found to be the most difficult part. This took a long time, as I didn’t know which bits I could sacrifice, and didn’t want to lose the personal voice I had created by taking out some of the quirky comments. But eventually, I managed to get it down to exactly 300 words, and I think that it is a lot more concise now as there is less of my waffling.
For my travel writing, I read through the part of my newest draft that I had already written, and then made some notes about parts/details that I could add to it. I remembered about the little boy who was staying on a pitch near us, which is a sweet story, and so I thought I would dedicate my biggest paragraph to this. So I began writing it. I tried to keep my ‘voice’ throughout, and to make it as interesting as possible by slightly exaggerating some details in order to add humour. For example, putting up the tent was pretty easy, but I thought it would make a better story if I tried to create a comical image of the four of us struggling. Overall I am quite pleased with how this draft ended up, and I think that it has improved drastically since the first draft.
Wednesday 26 February 2014
Thursday 20 February 2014
Task: ‘P#zazz Pizza’ Restaurant Review (300 words)
My first impression of this pizza restaurant wasn't great.
From the jazzed name ‘P#zazz Pizza’ to the over-the-top red and yellow
décor, it was a bit ‘in your face’ for my liking.
My friend, Benjamin, and I booked online but were slightly delayed. Luckily,
they kept the table. A sign of good
service or a lack of customers?
The service was good,
at this point, with friendly staff. The menus, delivered promptly, were good
value for money with 2 courses for £10, including ‘beginnings’ and pizzas, with
a range of vegetarian options.
The tables were tightly
packed, creating a pleasant buzz of conversation, until a man a few tables away
began talking too loudly on the phone. There didn't seem to be any policies on
this; for a good 20 minutes we had to listen to him argue with his ex-wife
about picking their child up from school. We’ll never know how Bethany got home
that Tuesday.
Our waiter wasn't keen on
serving tap water but eventually did. He also served bread while we waited for
our starters; I chose salad with Italian dressing, and Benjamin, garlic prawns.
My salad was well mixed, but
clearly straight out the chiller. Benjamin loved his prawns, and tried to force
a couple on me, claiming they were ‘perfectly juicy’. I’ll have to trust him on
that.
The pizzas, finally arriving
after 50 minutes, were well sized. Mine was vegetarian, Benjamin’s was spicy
beef. Unfortunately mine was soggy, however Benjamin wasn't disappointed; his
beef was ‘pleasantly spiced’ and the crust, crisp.
Receiving the bill, I saw we
were charged for the bread, making our total £25 including tip.
Benjamin would return but
I’m unsure. The food wasn't amazing, but one cannot complain too much for two
courses at £10. Overall; my pizza lacked pizzazz.
Travel Writing: La Rive (new draft)
Upon arriving at La Rive, a campsite in the South of France; my home for the next two weeks, I couldn't wait to really get started on my summer holiday. My friend Charlie and her parents had adopted the privilege of being my family for the next fourteen days, which would be bursting with the wonders of having summer on a French campsite. The sun, a swimming pool, delicious food, and endless time for relaxing; what more could you ask for?
Whilst we were shown to our pitch, I could hear a bell ringing, the sound resonating around the site. Wondering what it could mean, Charlie and I changed into our bikinis and some shorts, and began to explore. The resort was full of little 'streets' of pitches and mobile homes. Each one was decorated with several hanging baskets of flowers, which were of the brightest colours. The pinks, blues, purples, and yellows seemed to glow in the light of the midday sun, which pleasantly heated my skin as we ventured through the site. I remember thinking ‘Wow, this definitely beats the endless stretch of French countryside we encountered on the way, and most certainly beats the classy overnight stay in the car park of a service station last night’. Unfortunately, the soundtrack of the many humming lorries just outside our caravan had provided a restless night’s sleep for me, and my window view of exhaust pipes and concrete hadn’t exactly been picturesque. Fancy hotels? Nah, not for me thanks.
After a relaxing first day spent by the pool, we had to tackle our first night at La Rive. Although Charlie’s parents would be sleeping in the caravan, we would be sleeping in a small tent just outside. And so we made a start on the evening’s first tent task; putting it up. This proved to be a lot more hassle than it seemed, with Charlie and I grasping corners of the tent like we were about to fold a large sheet, her dad scrambling around trying to make sense of the instructions, and her mum shouting things like “For god’s sake, Tim, this isn’t bloody rocket science!”. It must have looked rather comical to the neighboring families. The tent was soon up and secured, however, and after a night’s sleep I could surprisingly say that it was actually pretty comfortable in there. You know, as comfortable as a blow-up mattress on the ground could be.
And so our holiday began. Warm mornings eating fresh croissants, my favourite breakfast, hot afternoons in the mini water park, and cool evenings playing cards on the grass; we had it all. Speaking of water parks, we discovered the source of the occasional ringing that we could hear from across the campsite. Unfortunately, we discovered it the hard way. We were trying to avoid getting too wet during our first trip into the water park, as we had not yet been in the water, which was rather cold in comparison with the midday heat. However, things did not go according to plan. Looming above the large blue slide, one of four, was a giant bucket, and every so often a bell would begin to chime, warning all those below that the bucket was about to tip water over their heads. Two soaking wet teenagers later, we returned to our towels, laughing hysterically at the look that had been on the other’s face upon realising the bell’s purpose, a few seconds too late.
A particular highlight of mine was the little boy whose pitch was almost opposite ours. He couldn’t have been any older than 5 or 6 and, being French, could not speak a word of English. But this didn’t stop him becoming our favourite holiday friend. Our first encounter with him was on our fifth evening. Charlie and I had stepped out to play a game of badminton in front of our pitch and after a while we noticed that a little boy was watching us out of his caravan window. Upon our spotting him, he ducked down and his face did not reappear that night. However, the next evening when we did the same, he was standing outside his caravan, waiting for us. Not at first realising he was French, we said ‘hello!’, but were answered with a blank stare. He stood silently, observing our badminton game for some time before interacting with us. When Charlie whacked the shuttlecock so hard that it flew past my head, this little boy rushed over to it, picked it up, and handed it to me. I thanked him and smiled, and he promptly skipped back to his watching position. This continued to happen every time one of us dropped the shuttlecock until he was called in for dinner. The next evening when he appeared, he begun performing strange actions, such as stamping his feet or jumping up and down, all while grinning cheekily. We didn’t understand what he was doing, so when he next stamped his feet, I copied him. This made him laugh, and it became a game of ours; we would copy all these little movements he was performing. It was clear we had formed a true friendship when he picked us each one of the bright flowers from the nearby hanging basket. Charlie had a yellow one, and I, a purple, and we displayed them proudly in our hair. Every evening following we met him on the ‘street’ and he would play like this with us until he had to go inside. But after a while, during one day, while Charlie and I were sitting on the grass in our pitch, he ran over to us with his hands behind his back. When he pulled them out we saw he had a small sweet enclosed in each of them, and he gave one to Charlie and one to me before skipping off back to his caravan. We didn’t realise that these were in fact his parting gifts to us, and so the morning after we were quite disheartened to see his pitch empty, his caravan gone. But we savoured the thought of our little friend, who we grew to love in such a short space of time, without speaking a word of conversation to him.
Whilst we were shown to our pitch, I could hear a bell ringing, the sound resonating around the site. Wondering what it could mean, Charlie and I changed into our bikinis and some shorts, and began to explore. The resort was full of little 'streets' of pitches and mobile homes. Each one was decorated with several hanging baskets of flowers, which were of the brightest colours. The pinks, blues, purples, and yellows seemed to glow in the light of the midday sun, which pleasantly heated my skin as we ventured through the site. I remember thinking ‘Wow, this definitely beats the endless stretch of French countryside we encountered on the way, and most certainly beats the classy overnight stay in the car park of a service station last night’. Unfortunately, the soundtrack of the many humming lorries just outside our caravan had provided a restless night’s sleep for me, and my window view of exhaust pipes and concrete hadn’t exactly been picturesque. Fancy hotels? Nah, not for me thanks.
After a relaxing first day spent by the pool, we had to tackle our first night at La Rive. Although Charlie’s parents would be sleeping in the caravan, we would be sleeping in a small tent just outside. And so we made a start on the evening’s first tent task; putting it up. This proved to be a lot more hassle than it seemed, with Charlie and I grasping corners of the tent like we were about to fold a large sheet, her dad scrambling around trying to make sense of the instructions, and her mum shouting things like “For god’s sake, Tim, this isn’t bloody rocket science!”. It must have looked rather comical to the neighboring families. The tent was soon up and secured, however, and after a night’s sleep I could surprisingly say that it was actually pretty comfortable in there. You know, as comfortable as a blow-up mattress on the ground could be.
And so our holiday began. Warm mornings eating fresh croissants, my favourite breakfast, hot afternoons in the mini water park, and cool evenings playing cards on the grass; we had it all. Speaking of water parks, we discovered the source of the occasional ringing that we could hear from across the campsite. Unfortunately, we discovered it the hard way. We were trying to avoid getting too wet during our first trip into the water park, as we had not yet been in the water, which was rather cold in comparison with the midday heat. However, things did not go according to plan. Looming above the large blue slide, one of four, was a giant bucket, and every so often a bell would begin to chime, warning all those below that the bucket was about to tip water over their heads. Two soaking wet teenagers later, we returned to our towels, laughing hysterically at the look that had been on the other’s face upon realising the bell’s purpose, a few seconds too late.
A particular highlight of mine was the little boy whose pitch was almost opposite ours. He couldn’t have been any older than 5 or 6 and, being French, could not speak a word of English. But this didn’t stop him becoming our favourite holiday friend. Our first encounter with him was on our fifth evening. Charlie and I had stepped out to play a game of badminton in front of our pitch and after a while we noticed that a little boy was watching us out of his caravan window. Upon our spotting him, he ducked down and his face did not reappear that night. However, the next evening when we did the same, he was standing outside his caravan, waiting for us. Not at first realising he was French, we said ‘hello!’, but were answered with a blank stare. He stood silently, observing our badminton game for some time before interacting with us. When Charlie whacked the shuttlecock so hard that it flew past my head, this little boy rushed over to it, picked it up, and handed it to me. I thanked him and smiled, and he promptly skipped back to his watching position. This continued to happen every time one of us dropped the shuttlecock until he was called in for dinner. The next evening when he appeared, he begun performing strange actions, such as stamping his feet or jumping up and down, all while grinning cheekily. We didn’t understand what he was doing, so when he next stamped his feet, I copied him. This made him laugh, and it became a game of ours; we would copy all these little movements he was performing. It was clear we had formed a true friendship when he picked us each one of the bright flowers from the nearby hanging basket. Charlie had a yellow one, and I, a purple, and we displayed them proudly in our hair. Every evening following we met him on the ‘street’ and he would play like this with us until he had to go inside. But after a while, during one day, while Charlie and I were sitting on the grass in our pitch, he ran over to us with his hands behind his back. When he pulled them out we saw he had a small sweet enclosed in each of them, and he gave one to Charlie and one to me before skipping off back to his caravan. We didn’t realise that these were in fact his parting gifts to us, and so the morning after we were quite disheartened to see his pitch empty, his caravan gone. But we savoured the thought of our little friend, who we grew to love in such a short space of time, without speaking a word of conversation to him.
Tuesday 4 February 2014
More Detailed Version of “One Hundred Word Short Story 2” (now more than 100 words)
She stands alone, staring at me through the glass. A shapeless black dress hangs to the knees of her scrawny body. Marks decorate her legs; the yellowish hue of an old bruise, a faded scar from a cut. Her dark hair, thin and stringy, falls just below her shoulders.
Her right hand is by her side, her left hidden behind her back. The sadness shining in her eyes engulfs me, and it’s only when she slowly exposes her left hand, the gleam of something catching in the artificial light, that I manage to shift my gaze from them. Her bony fingers clutch a long knife.
In one gradual movement, she draws it across her throat, her blood smearing the blade as it seeps from the wound.
I feel a sharp sting at my own throat, and when I touch it my right hand comes away stained with a thick, dark liquid. My knees buckle and I crash forwards into the glass dividing us.
The mirror shatters around me.
Her right hand is by her side, her left hidden behind her back. The sadness shining in her eyes engulfs me, and it’s only when she slowly exposes her left hand, the gleam of something catching in the artificial light, that I manage to shift my gaze from them. Her bony fingers clutch a long knife.
In one gradual movement, she draws it across her throat, her blood smearing the blade as it seeps from the wound.
I feel a sharp sting at my own throat, and when I touch it my right hand comes away stained with a thick, dark liquid. My knees buckle and I crash forwards into the glass dividing us.
The mirror shatters around me.
Saturday 1 February 2014
Poison (updated version)
I see him through the large swarm of people. He stands alone,
completely still. His eyes, black, swallow me whole as he stares at me. I can’t
move. My heart has frozen over and my blood has turned to ice. He begins to
walk towards me. Each step he takes breaks me further. I try to scream out, but
no sound leaves my mouth. The ice has spread to my throat. He stops in front of
me, so close that I can feel his warm breath on my skin. He opens his mouth to
speak.
And the words, like poison, drip from his lips.
I see her through the large swarm of people. She is completely still,
her deep blue eyes wild with fear. I could not imagine anything more beautiful.
I begin to walk towards her. I can see that she wants to run, to scream for
help, but it’s like she doesn’t know how. A deer caught in the headlights. I
stop in front of her. Her long, blonde hair catches in the artificial light and
it takes everything in me to resist reaching out and touching it. I open my
mouth to speak.
She drinks in my words, cringing as if they were poison.
I see them both through the large swarm of people. They stare at each
other across the crowd, both completely still. Their eyes connect, his full of
power and hers full of fear. She doesn’t move a muscle as he begins to walk
towards her, people parting for him as he does. He stops in front of her, so
close that their chests almost touch. He opens his mouth to speak, not breaking
eye contact for even a second. Once he has spoken, he receives a small nod of
her head in reply, and he laces his arm around her waist possessively. She says
nothing as he walks her out of the building.
The last thing I see before the door closes behind them is the curl of
his fingers, gripping her side like he’s never going to let go.
He leads me towards a car. It’s black, like his eyes. As I breathe in,
his smell hits me and I wince at the sickly sweet odour. It wafts up into my
nose and is so strong I can practically taste it in my mouth. It took me wash
after wash to completely rid my clothes of that smell the last time I saw him.
He opens the back left door of the car. His lips form a cruel smile as he eases
me inside and shuts it again. As he walks round to the driver’s seat, I test
the handle. Locked. It has to be opened from the outside. I rest my head in my
hands, closing my eyes. The slam of his door is a concluding one.
He’ll never let me get away with this.
I lead her towards the car awaiting us. Something makes her wince,
whether it be the pressure of my fingers on her side, or even the thought of
what she hopes to be untrue; what I need from her. She is a smart girl, she’ll
work it out. I smile down at her as I ease her into the car; she doesn’t smile
back. Again, I have the urge to touch a strand of her hair, so beautiful in the
light of the morning sun. Instead, I walk round to the driver’s seat. When I
get in, I see that her head is now in her hands, shielding her face from my
vision. Is she crying? No, she has too much pride to do that in front of me.
But a small gasp still escapes her lips when I slam my door.
She knows that she’ll never get away with this.
He leads her towards a car. I move through the crowd of people still
mingling, all of them oblivious to her, oblivious to him. All except me. Being
sure to stay back far enough that I don’t draw attention, I watch him as he
eases her inside the car. Even from this distance I still catch the cruel smile
he flashes her before he walks round to the driver’s side and climbs in
himself. He hesitates for a moment before shutting his door. When he does, the
loud slam is followed by the gentle roar of the engine as it is awakened. I
watch the car disappear into the distance, getting smaller and smaller until I
can no longer see it.
He’d better not let her get away with this.
The trill of a ringtone breaks our silence. He reaches into his pocket
and draws the mobile out, not looking away from the road. After glancing down
at the screen momentarily, he holds it to his ear. In the rear-view mirror, I
watch his eyes narrow slightly.
He listens for a few seconds.
“I do.”
A pause for a few seconds more.
“I won’t.”
He slips the phone back into his pocket.
His eyes catch mine in the mirror and I
immediately shift my head to look out the window. Flashes of trees and road
signs pull my focus as I attempt to concentrate on anything but him.
The only other person who knows. I hope.
The trill of my ringtone breaks my
thoughts. I was thinking of her. Or rather, what she can give me. Recently I
haven’t thought about anything else. I glance at the screen of my mobile and,
after viewing the name, pick up. The voice that greets me is one I am all too
familiar with.
“You have her?”
“I do.”
“Don’t let me down.”
“I won’t.”
The caller hangs up.
Her eyes, still panicked, catch mine
when I check the rear-view mirror. She immediately shifts her head. She’s
probably been watching my eyes the whole time we’ve been in the car; she knows
how much they give away about a person. But then why doesn’t she realise how
much hers reveal to me?
She’s hoping I’m the only other person
who knows. I wish I was.
On the other end of the line, the trill
of his ringtone lasts too long for my liking. I scuff my boots on the gravel
for a few moments, impatient. When he eventually picks up, I don’t ponder.
“You have her?” I know that he does.
“I do.”
“Don’t let me down.” I know that he
won’t.
“I won’t.”
I hang up.
After moving across the car park, I slip
into my car. I’m surprised he didn’t notice it here. He had no idea I was even
watching him. Pulling out of the parking space, I glance at the glass doors of
the airport’s entrance. Didn’t anybody ever tell her that you shouldn’t run
away from your problems? They always
catch up with you in the end, and in this case they intercepted before she had
even managed to get away.
I bet she’s hoping that he is the only
other person who knows. She’s wrong; I know too.
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