The Liebster Award and a few pot plants

A rebel by another name still needs to eat!

A month ago I was nomination for The Liebster Award from the stimulating and thought provoking poet and writer Wolf boy, I, like many enjoy his blog for their honesty and unique voice, and if you haven’t come across him yet here is his blog:-

A month later here is my answers


1.Thank the blogger (s) who nominated you.  Tick

2.Share 11 facts about yourselves. Please read below

3.Answer the 11 questions the Blogger asked you. Please continue to read below

4.Nominate 11 bloggers and make them happy! Decided to give this a miss as I think all the bloggers I know probably have already done this…and also I am a bit of a rebel at heart….

5. BUT I do have 11 questions please feel free to answer.

6.I hope you enjoy my answers.

Never leave a robot alone they cant be trusted…

11 Facts about me:-

1. I talk to my plants and sometimes they answer back.

2. Sometimes people catch me talking to my plants and I pretend I shouting to someone inside.

3. There is no one inside.

4.I scared them off talking to my plants.

5.When my plants stop growing, I shout at them….

6. A doctor took my plants away.

7.I hate doctors but not as much as their receptionist.

8.Although my best friend is a doctor’s receptionist but…she doesn’t blog-our secret.

9.I love Bellydancing and did for years until I tripped over a plant- broke my ankle-flaming Doctor didn’t “do” house calls and the “so called” best friend receptionist  told me to ring tomorrow before eight o’clock as there were no more appointments.

10. I hate the NHS.

11. Number ten is not true just added for joking purposes..

Answer any questions if you dare :-

  1. Looks like we’re heading for a nuclear apocalypse how would you spend the final days.
  2. When it comes to writing what are the excuses you use not to sit down and write.
  3. What teacher inspired you a):-laugh in the face of adversity, B) hide in the face of adversity c) or just how to spell it properly?
  4. What school friend inspired A) you to something bad, b) do something good and, c) give up on the human race (momentarily)
  5. Name three celebrities who get on your tits, wick or something similar?
  6. Pick the perfect method for torturing people who interrupt you when you are talking.
  7. What is the most useless, waste of space advice you have been given?
  8. You’re God for a day what changes would you make to this planet of ours?
  9. Ok now you are the devil for a day?
  10. What sort of comedy do you find not funny?

Thank you everyone for your lovely blogs and I hope you got a wee tickle of the funny bone from mine. No plants doctors or receptionist were hurt in the writing of this blog.

Jimmy Shand and Epilogue’s

Scottish Author

I have been working on the third novel in my Planet Hy man series, Rebel Without a Crew and I’ve almost finished…apart from the epilogue and a Jimmy Shand dance scene.

Jimmy Shand is an inspiration to me. He’s a big wig in the Scottish dance scene. When I first moved to Scotland his music graced the eighties boozer, I worked in. Under his perky tunes, I learn to love whiskey, add up under the influence, smoke anything, cook a full fry up with a hangover and, through the smoky haze of the eighties understand German.

I know what I want to write but ending chapters always have me floundering.

I spent all morning trying to create dance scene that would give the reader a feeling of country dance under the influence of a strong spliff and all I’d accomplished was a pot of soup, three untouched cups of coffee (cold enough to cause a stain), and a stomach full of last’s night potato fried within an inch of its’ life. I think I have goodbye issues, probably something to do with adults fading into the distance and never telling me where they are going let alone when they were coming back-bit unnerving when your ten.

As I got up from the laptop for the hundredth time, with thoughts of heating one of those leftover coffees, inspiration hit me like a wet flannel. I would soon have to let the world know my new book was out!

Time for a blog I thought and as I’d just had my teeth done, I decided to create a video of me reading, which was when I came across “one I made earlier,” of the first book, Rebel Without A Clue.

Waste not want not I thought and with the addition of a few humourist quotes and a bit of play with the color-hence the arty black and white, I slapped the video up on youtube…

So here to wet your funny bone is a wee read from an ole Aussie geezer…


Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information

The Lady and the Box

Part Two

Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man who, along with Mex has been sent to earth to discover the ways of us humans?

So far, they have discovered “hot” means more than just burn your mouth food, “cool” means more than just the inside of a fridge and the meaning of “chilling”, “chilled” and chilly” are as varied as dishes in an Indian takeaway.

Previously on the Lady and the box…

Pete escaping an Indian takeaway headed into the Edinburgh festival in search of the Lady and the Box. Alone he roamed the streets until finally through a crowd he saw her…

folded up in a see-through box dressed in pink.

Pete couldn’t help himself he just had to dive in…

Please read on…

The box shuddered as her bright pink legs moved, then a hand appeared, followed by a shoulder and pink hair…

Like a cat in a shoebox, the Lady in the box peeked out.

“Seaman,” she said, “did someone say, seaman?”

“He did,” pointed the Comedian to me.

“He did,” I said pointing to the comedian.

She looked from me to the comedian, “what has seaman to do with my box?”

“It all about the knots.” Muttered the comedian with an uncomfortable shuffle.

“It was but a mere joke,” I added.

The lady in the box who went by the name Matilda, eased herself out and sat on the edge, once unfolded she looked a lot older, more of a gran’s vintage than a granddaughter.

The crowd looked disappointed, her stick-thin body, when squashed into a box, had men gapping and drooling. Now, unfolded in a wrinkled bodysuit (not the best Lyrca I had seen) the lady in the box seemed frail rather than elusive.

She eyed me, and with a small cough demanding to know “where my spot was?


“Yes.” She gestured to my golden suit, “I mean what are you? One of those boring statues, standing with no feet? Hardly talent, I mean, you try squeezing yourself into that box five times a day with last night’s vindaloo making itself known.”

“Vindaloo?” muttered a voice from the crowd.

“You eat vindaloo before squeezing,” muttered another voice.

“Jesus,” chuckled the comedian. “Glad I’m standing upwind.”

‘Well it’s that or dhal, beggars can’t be choosers,” snapped Matilda now completely out of the box. “What do you expect when you get free accommodation above an Indian? Fine dining? Corden blue chicken?”

“Thought you were a vegetarian.” Said the comedian, who to be fair was of the same vintage as Matilda.

“I am when I can afford it.” She huffed.

Matilda glared at her audience, “people don’t throw money like they used to. “

A few men shuffled.

“It’s not easy making a living when you’re competing with…” Matilda eyed me “statues and fire eating…”

“You stay above an Indian?” said a man coming forth with a few coins.

“What did you expect, the Hilton?” She said with a thank you nod.

A few more coins appeared.

“I keep the toilets clean, serve a few poppadum’s and I get a free room with all the mistaken orders you can shake a stick at.”

“You serve in a restaurant?” Said an elderly woman, “at your age? You poor thing.” She nudged her husband who with a grunt slid a note under a pile of brown change.

“And whoever threw these 2 p’s in should ashamed of themselves,” he snapped.

“It was me,” said a tiny boy.

The crowd was silent, in the distance we could hear the hissing of fire-eating followed by the roar of the applause.

A young man appeared placed a fiver on the coat, retrieved a couple of coins and muttered about the parking meter, his partner nudge him,

“Ken, must you?”


“She’s eating wrong orders.”

“Wrong orders my arse” he sniffed.

“Last night I was forced to eat burnt chapatis.” said Matilda now poised on the edge of her box.

“And what’s that to do with me?” said Ken, he turned to his partner. “She bounced into the box wasn’t even there a minute and out again. Hardly a show. She’s lucky she got a pound if you ask me.”

The lady in the box sniffed, “well I could bounce back in if you like, or perhaps you’d like to do a little bouncing…” she glared “… for you parking meter.”

The comedian looked at me.

I looked at him.

He gestured to the box…

“Permit me, Ma’am, I am sure two for the price of one may boost your sales and avail you to some vegetarian cuisine of the non-spicy variety.”

She with a knock-yourself-out gesture, stood back.

I handed my bag and gloves to the old lady, my shoes to the comedian (ignoring his face pulling), tossed my housecoat at Ken and stepped into the box.

With great ease I began the process of folding.

The crowd hushed apart from Ken who with reverent folding of my coat shouted, “come on my son.”

Matilda’s foot inched in and we, without a grunt shuffled as her butt ended near my cheek.

The crowd oooh-ed and arrrrh-ed over the thump of coins landing on a woolen jacket.

I eased myself into a banana around the other body position, my head squished into a corner.

“Now pose,” she whispered into the small of my back.

I peered out of my corner, face flattened by the perplex and smiled a squashed “thumbs up”.

The crowd began to cheer, clap shout “more”.

Then I heard another whisper…

“It was all rubbish about the vindaloo,” she said. “I stay at my granddaughter’s we take it in turns-it’s a family business.”

“Business?” I muttered, smile fixed.

“Don’t even like curries,” she said. “I’m more a Chinese woman.”

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information

The Lady and The Box

Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man who, along with Mex has been sent to earth to discover the ways of us humans?

So far, they have discovered “hot” means more than just burn your mouth food, “cool” means more than just the inside of a fridge and the meaning of “chilling”, “chilled” and chilly” are as varied as dishes in an Indian takeaway.

Please read on…

It was Woody’s idea to take me to the Edinburgh festival and Mex was happy to follow. We were sitting in an Indian at the time working our way through a selection of curries as hot as Bunny’s temper .My stomach was on fire, I was burning up and sweating at the same time.

“What is this stuff?” I said.

“It an Indian.” said the blond on the next table- like that explained everything.

Normally I’d be enjoying the background music; but I was feeling all tight and crunchy, like one of those packets of crisps. What I needed was a long, lean stretch followed by a position of great twisting, that would help my digestion.

Then I heard of the lady in the box.

Apparently, there was a lady who could squash herself into a box and I was curious. I am a robot of great flexibility, a yoga expert and if a woman can squeeze herself into a box, I want to know about it.

“We’ve just seen a contortionist,” said the blonde on the next table.

“Cartoonist?” said Mex.

“No, contortionist—street performer,” said the blonde. “She folded herself up into a square box . . .”

“Whatever for?” muttered Mex.

“And she can twist…” said her partner “…into knots that would turn a seaman’s hair.

He produced a video that stopped the restaurant and almost put Mex of her Jalfrezi.

“All you could see in the end…’ sniffed the blond, “…was her leotard.”

* * *

I had to go. I took a chance and headed for the back door.

Nobody noticed, the blond was giving her partner “what for” about the seaman comment, while Woody was explaining to Mex the difference be seaman and semen and the waiter was trying to shut them all up with free mints.

* * *

As I entered the festival, I could hear the roar of applause. The street was chock-a-block with people and noisy-cars, buses, and drilling mixed with music, applause, and chattering; people speaking languages and accents I never heard.

I was buzzing off my Teflon tits.

The only music played on Planet Hy Man is the sort of elevator music that puts everyone into a comma and the cars we see are limos driven by robots.

I gazed up at the castle; a piper blasted into the street.

“Am I near the Royal Mile?” I shouted.

“Just around the corner,” said the teenager, “you’re almost there.”

I continued past a magician with a dog; skidded on a leaflet, righted myself on a drunk, ignored the insult, and continued.

It was slow work working through the crowds, but finally, I made my way onto Mount Pleasant. I passed a seedy-looking man with dreadlocks yelling into the crowd.

“You ain’t seen nothing like this, me hearties,” he yelled and pulled a bunch of flowers from his pants.

“Jesus!” muttered someone.

I walked on; past two men playing drums, past a dark man in a duffel coat sniffing into a bottle in a bag.

“Pound for coffee,” he said.

I gestured to my empty pockets then, reading the brown man’s upright-middle-finger gesture, quickly moved on.

The street was lined with performers competing for the attention of the crowd; it was hard to keep moving. I ended up sandwiched between a young girl lamenting her one-night stand and an elderly woman moaning about her bunions; right in front of a man wriggling about in a locked straitjacket.

“Let me tell you a story,” grunted the performer, “of Alcatraz and my escape.”

The crowd muttered and jolted forward. I was about to move on when I heard a chainsaw start up. I turned to see a large, hairy, masked juggler pose with a chainsaw.

The sound drowned out everything.

“Alcatraz the inescapable,” shouted the escapologist.

The juggler tossed the chainsaw into the air. The crowd gasped as his thick muscular arms caught the saw.

The escapologist watching his audience dwindle nodded to his sidekick, who wheeled on a unicycle . . .

“Alcatraz, oh Alcatraz, the place where no bird sings.”

The crowd was silent as he leveraged onto the unicycle, his arms still twisted in the straitjacket. He was a thin man with a thin ponytail and birdlike features, which at the moment were pinched with discomfort as he balanced on the unicycle.

The older woman cheered bunions forgotten.

“This is way better than the lady in the box,” she said. “I mean how long can you stare at a box?”

“Is she still there?” I said.

“Oh yes, she’s still there with a sidekick for comedy.”

“Comedy in a box?” said someone from behind. “hardly call it that.”

I marched up the steep hill of Cockburn Street past more food shops and the smell of waffles,

chocolate, and chips.

“You see the lady? The one in the box?”

“Aye, something else.”


The young man whistled through his teeth. “Just keep going, ignore the comedian he as funny as herpes.”

The street was lined with tables and chairs, people sitting, talking, artists drawing, manipulating balloons into weird shapes.

I pushed through the crowd, skidded to a stop and stared at the Perspex box. Her limbs folded about her body—and all I could see was her leotard.

“Come see the impossible,” shouted the comedian, “a woman who can tie herself into knots any seaman would be proud of.”

Nobody laughed until that I caught the comedian’s eye.

Full of festive spirit and desperate for a twist and fold to sort my rumbling tum, I shouted

“Bring me a smaller box and I show you a few knots a seaman has never heard off.”

Cont. next blog …

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information

The Riding Of A Hospital Trolley

It was a horse but not as you’d know it

Dive into my short story, a true story about a time I would do anything for attention. Although what is fact and what is fiction I let you be the judge…

I was promised a stallion, large, white and decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree and I pictured me, on that horse, with a war cry to silence a town.

Nobody mentioned anything about paper mache…

The theme was Celtic hero’s and I was chosen to play Boudicca. I had been promised a lot -except for a costume and a fee and was looking forward to the big adventure.

After all, I was the main attraction.

My pal says “I would do anything for attention,” she says, that I’m “so driven for an audience that I would sell not only my soul but my best friend, my matching mugs and the secret recipe for long life, lighter than air, mayonnaise.”

Of course, I disagreed with her, I have no idea how to make mayonnaise.

I stood outside the community center as ‘it’ rolled up the car park. I heard the squeak of the hospital trolley before I saw it and my heart began to pound. A giant, paper mache, shire horse appeared from around the corner, supposedly rooted to a hospital trolley despite its mid-trot pose; and before I had time to ditch my tartan and run, I was up a fireman’s ladder astride a horse so wide it required a yoga position to balance.

With my pelvis locked into some sort of childbirth position that made even coughing uncomfortably, I looked about for escape.

The parade headed for the top of the main street with a ‘braw view ‘of the loch. I clung on with my flexible pelvis working overtime as three rope holders pulled the horse to the top of the hill.

I stared down at the pipe band standing to attention, not a sound.

“What have we stopped for,” I shouted into the wind.

“The storyteller, ” said the rope holder at the front, “Once she’s finished we can head off, and then the Celtic wars will begin.”

The judo team stood behind me. Celtic warriors and Judo is a slim connection, but apparently, with enough blue paint it is believable. And the crowd loved them. They began to chant. The judo team inspired by the chanting and the lack of adults began to push -egging each other on. They were fed up waiting, they had had enough of a storyteller they couldn’t hear.

“Freedom” shouted a voice from the crowd.

“Bring on the warriors,” shouted another.

“She’s finished, let’s go,” said the led warrior.

Inspired by their leader the judo team filled their lungs and let forth a war cry. The crowd joined in as the local youths rampaged down the street like a Kung Fo film past me and my brakeless trolley.

The rope holders didn’t stand a chance.

“Stop,” shouted one of the rope holder as the warriors swept past him.

He grimly hung onto the rope until a girl raced past. She, lost in the moment yelling, “you can take our homes, you can take our mobiles, but you will never take our freedom,” grabbed him and he lost his grip.

I watched him disappear into the distance.

With only one rope holder left the trolley staggered, tilted and began to roll, faster and faster…”We’ve lost it,” shouted the other boy who vainly tried to hang on until he skidded on a chip wrapper and fell to the ground. I looked back to see him sprawled on the tarmac, arms outstretched shouting,


The trolley picked up speed.

The pipe band scattered like sheep as my trolley rampage through the band. I clung onto the paper reigns like my life depended on it; which was as much use as toilet paper. One tug and the reigns cascaded down the road joining the rope holder sprawled on the road.

I rolled down the street, my arms flapping about like a cartoon chicken. I looked as much like a great warrior as Marg Simpson and was now screaming like her.

I passed the pipe major. He, a round man of sixty made a dive for the horse’s leg, missed and fell to the ground. Within an instant, he was up- running like a stunt man half his age. He hurled himself at the trolley; wrapped one arm around its leg, and then used his legs as a break. His kilt flapped in the wind like a flag revealing a true Scotsman with a fine set of jewels -as impressive as his much talked about sporran …

I sailed, bumped and skidded past the Viking boat, knocking over the quartet, a few bins, and a paper mache beaver. The pipe major hung on, digging his heels into the ground.

“Come on lads,” he shouted. “She heading for burger van, that thing will blow.”

The pipe major’s words moved many men who grabbed the trolley from all sides. They slowed the trolley down until, with a mere plop and a mountain of grunts I landed on the green, just shy of the burger van.

Not a roll was disturbed.

The crowd cheered as they circled around the pipe major.

“Best parade ever,” muttered an elderly woman, her eyes on the pipe major sporran.

After all a parade without a burger van, is like a pipe major without his sporran.”

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information.

Fire Walking

Tir na nOg is a magical place where, if fairies lived would come to party, dwarfs to tell stories, and angels to meet for supper, knit and swap recipes over homebrew.

It is a place where trees, wild garlic, and cows sit side by side with fairy lights, massage and homemade soap, a place that makes you forget your hangover, traffic lights, and phone. And a place where people meet, laugh and share, while crows nesting above squawk their lungs out.

I was there for fire walking, fire performances, and a very large green man…

The Beltane festival.

I, a virgin fire walker vaguely wondered if it would hurt? My two pals swear by the powers of fire walking. They talked of their first time like I would my first kiss/shag/blowjob (depending on the listener). And they have been back several times; consoling until you think of childbirth-women return to that too.

I mean why walk on coals, what is the point? And if I did find the point, would my feet benefit, loss their cracked skin, soften the callouses, did magic happened on a foot?

It’s not even on my bucket list; not that I have one, apart from leaving a ton of books behind when I am no longer here. But I was curious and had a vague idea for a scene in a future book, so I told myself…

As we prepared to walk, I along with the forty odd walkers listened to the inspiring fire-walking instructor. A woman with Lady Godiva hair that talked with great wit of “burning past shit and walking to greater things”.

I thought I had nothing to burn, I racked my brains over a vegan chapatti. I was already walking towards what I wanted was there something else? And what if I wanted too much and didn’t get it? Would I burn my soul for an empty dream?

We lined up by the coals.

“Jesus,” I said, “it’s red”.

“Red is the colour of womanhood.” Muttered a voice from somewhere.

“Not at my vintage,” I laughed into the midnight air.

I made jokes about flammable foot lotion and nail polish, how I had “I picked a good day to wear flares.”

A few laughed…this was good stuff I thought, fear brings out the comedian in me-better than alcohol.

Of course, I fear everything from old ladies jumping in front of me at co-op queue, to needles, and driving around huge roundabouts-thank God I am not a lorry driver or a diabetic.

I stared into the burning ambers watching everyone line up for their walk. There is something about sharing apprehension while slipping off your shoes amongst strangers in the dark. Blood bank springs to mind and as I laughingly cracked a similar joke the first of the walkers started.

I watched as one prayed before walking, another marched, face serene.

I waited for my turn mentally chanting…

At one with the fire at one with the fire….

I skipped across the burning embers swearing as the fire oblivious to our oneness burnt the soles of my friggin feet.

Standing on the cool wet grass I watched as the others did it again…again!

Some strutting and one like me stumbling with ‘bloody hell that’s hot” look and finally two girls holding hands ending with a tearful hug.

The crowd watched and cheered.

“Marvellous,” said one.

“Wonderful,” said another.

“I walked three times.” Said one virgin.

My feet were burning. There was no way I was walking on that bastard again.

But then I am not a great believer in new begins. I have had as many as I have new hair colours and like hair dye new beginnings never lasts- there is always shit days and shit thoughts and old ladies who queue jump.
Walking on fire didn’t do it for me and I don’t have any desire to do any more although my feet do feel a lot cleaner and lighter. But the gathering of people is a beautiful thing and sharing in their hopes, dreams and fears can be life-affirming.

The fire afterward was spectacular, we walked through woods with fire batons. I felt like I was in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, except the only Queen of fairies was in the gift shop.

That next day as I stood in the co-op check out queue my feet crying out for some foot cream, my hubby rang.

“Were you drunk last night,” he said.

I did waffle on a bit about A Midsummer Night’s dream.

“No, but my feet feel fabulously clean,” I said.

“Your feet you need to be kind to that hard skin.” He said.

I thought about my callus did it look just a bit smaller? And was just about to share this revelation with said hubby when before me squeezed a pensioner as old as Midsomer Murders pushing a trolley load.

I brazed myself for the queue jump when she turned, looked at my single purchase of foot cream and said. “you first, I’ll be ages with this lot.”

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information.

First published at

Brexit The Planet Hy Man Way.

a sc fi for women about women-1 copy

Dive into Pete’s log, an android from planet Hy Man.

He has a way of looking at things that has you wondering, laughing, and at times, glad you’re not a robot on a strange planet.

Pete is a robot that bends like playdough, smells like something familiar and, for those into licking… tastes like something you’d like to lick again…

Mex has licked once, by mistake, in the dark. It’s a story involving a power cut, candles, and a storage heater. A story both Mex and her robot Pete agreed to “keep to themselves’ as the licking of robots by a Man Spy is strictly prohibited on planet Hy Man and, judging by Bunnies’s reaction, not much admired on earth.

Please read on…

I have spent the last month listening to the radio while learning to drive and my confusion has reached greater depth than when Bunny tried to explain to me the “keep em keen treat em mean” approach favoured by both her and her so-called platonic pal Don.

A platonic relationship which as Woody maintains is as plausible as him being a “six-foot giant,” and as Woody struggles to reach the top shelf of a news-stand, I assume he is being sarcastic.

Woody’s sarcasm has reached new heights since trying to teach me to drive. Which if I had a heart, I would find hurtful. I mean it was he who talked me into it, claiming that teaching me would be a breeze.

“You’re a robot,” he said. “Driving should be like second nature to you.”

I didn’t the heart to tell him I am a robot of great flexibility and not designed for mechanical things. When I turn my head, it swivels 180 degrees which makes exiting a roundabout about as safe as lighting a fire blindfolded with a flame thrower.

Mex, however, tried to educate Woody, not easy when sucking on a mega sour apple. Now completely off the sugar, she was working her way through whatever she could find to suck, and she looked like she had a mouthful of vinegar.

“Only the lowest order robot drive on Planet Hy Man,” said Mex wiping a dribble from her chin.

Woody looked at her and laughed-spurning Bunnie into action.

“If you’re going to teach X man (referring to me) to drive then we are coming too. You can take us to Asda.” She said.

“Asda?” Said Woody, “what about the roundabouts…the junctions.” He looked from me to Bunnie. “He’ll never make it.”

Bunnie unmoved had made her mind up, she was hellbent on finding Mex something sugar- free, dairy-free and as they were going to Asda, cheap as chips.

“If you must suck on things,” she said to Mex “then at least choose something softer, tastier and…”

“Lick-able?” Muttered Mex followed by a forget I said that blush.

“I was actually going to say something less dribble-ie.” Muttered Bunnie bristly shoving Mex out the door.

I wanted to impress my friend, show him what I was made of, so I didn’t argue. And when the two women flopped into the back seat giggling about “standing on ceremony” and “this will be a hoot.” I let my head back with my best care-free laugh, flicked the car into gear, turned the ignition on and stalled it.

Which being as it was an automatic had them all, I think, impressed…

Mex and Bunnie sniggering like school girls began flicking through the radio channels…they had a love for all things newsie; obsessing about Brexit, independence and the need for coexistences.

“Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’ I said finally starting the car.

Woody told me to concentrate and as we headed towards the first roundabout my stomach lurched.

It was the size of a launchpad which Woody explained was a bonus. The size scared me, I began circling it fearing the exit and after the fourth circle, Woody began to grind his teeth as Bunnie joked about “dogs chasing their tails”.

After the fifth circle, Woody gave up reassuring me favouring instead an army like order.

‘Forget about Brexit and take any frigging exit.” Were his exact words…

I, in the middle of trying to understand the difference between a speed sign, the actual sped of a car and the rich tapestry of fingers gestures, stalled yet again.

His shouting didn’t help, and I was just thinking of telling him as much when a horn blasted from a juggernaut of a lorry loomed up my rear.

Even the women stopped laughing.

‘Just frigging indicate and exit.” Woody hissed.

As I headed off some exit to god know where Bunny started talking of “political exits”, “dickheads in power, and “it is all going nowhere just like “X man here”.

“There is always someone uselessly tooting his horn.” Said Bunnie.

And Mex, instead of her usual “she doesn’t know what she talking about” comment agreed, even laughed when Bunnie asked, “if Hy Man also sported dickheads”.

“We had a Brexit type thing once on planet Hy Man,” said Mex, “the men tried to leave, set up somewhere else. They talked of truth, justice, and the manly way …it lasted as long as their so-called, manly ways did. In the end, they ran out of hemp, water, and matches.”

“This is why I didn’t want you to come.” Said Woody “how can anyone concentrate when you two talk bollocks?”

I took a deep breath and tried a few calming yoga mantras. I had just stopped at the traffic lights and was in the middle of attempted a hand brake start despite Woody insisting that a hand brake was not necessary. Woody was giving me the tutting of a lifetime and I was frazzled.

“Forget about all this Brexit bullshit.” He said. “Let’s just get to Asda.”

I nodded to the finger gestures from the cars behind. “Are they laughing with me or at me?” I said.

‘Neither,” muttered Woody and finally took over.

As we headed into Asda I for the first time went straight for something sweet, sickly and long.

Mex laughed “something to lick?” she said at the cashier.

The attendant with a look of disdain on a par with the juggernaut driver asked Mex to leave.

“This is a family establishment,” she said showing Mex the door.

“It seems leaving Asda is a lot easier than other exits,” I said to Woody he laughed and this time it was Mex turn to mutter “dickheads”.

First published

Kerrie Noor Is A Comedy, Romance & Sci-Fi Author based in Scotland. Explore her recent work on Amazon or contact her for more information.