Well it happened I got a review from hell and then…another. I sent out my soon to be published Sc Fi for women to a group of readers-some liked it and just as many didn’t. One reader even left a robust in-depth criticism on a par with my English teacher and it caused a dark cloud over my weekend away with Hubby.
My English teacher - Haemaroid Mary - aptly named due to her walking like she had one the size of a football; always sent my stories back covered in red marks and comments such as…
‘I find this hard to believe.’
‘Is there such a word?’
‘Were you drunk when you wrote this?’
Her idea of constructive criticism was to tell me to get a job in Macdonalds where 'no spelling was required!'
‘What’s wrong?’ says Hubby.
We were strutting past a castle at the time, Hubby was hell-bent on ‘catching the sunset’ with me in front of it and I was skidding behind on the cobbles. Without waiting for an answer he pointed to the highest rock on the beach and told me to
I slipped my clogs off and grunted into position.
‘Can you not smile?’ He said.
‘Smile,’ I said; ‘I’ve just been told that my comedy is as funny as constipation with humaroids,' still thinking about Mary.
He looked at me ‘that’s too crude to be funny.’
‘I’m just trying to make a point.’
‘What, that you have problem with evacuation?’
My Hubby likes to explore English in all its forms –being that it is his second language.
‘I just need time to digest everything’ I said, ‘work out what to do. Maybe I am not meant to write, maybe I am not funny, maybe I should just go and work at Macdonalds. I slumped into my pose.
‘We get complaints all the time in the restaurant,’ he said, ‘and do you see me complaining?’ My Hubby works in his brother's Indian.
He was not impressed; ‘if I acted like you I’d never fry a pakora again.’
Then we had an argument about the size of a parkora until I tripped over my clog again and this time he laughed.
‘Actually, I could do with a coffee’, I muttered.
'But we just left the B&B you had one there.’
‘Nescafé is not coffee,’ I snapped.
He sniffed, and after three photos of me posing with as he put it, a ‘face like a pakora’...it an Asian thing.
He gave in and we headed for Costa. And me, to prove my point, ordered the largest....
He looked at me with a 'you’ll never drink all that,’ face and I, as all good women do made it my mission to prove my Hubby wrong.
One large coffee later...
'Who cares about reviews,' I shouted...
I downed another and then regretted it on the long journey home…
Finally gate crashing a funeral to use the amenities as Hubby like to put it.
A lover of the real coffee bean.
Who laughs in the face of reveiwers after a cup full.
Ps I am aware of a small spelling mistake in the heading. However I have decided in the spirit of the blog it keep it in...