Got bored.

Walking round and round in circles over the same grubby grey carpet held down with crooked nails, frayed parts patched over with strips of gaffer tape and all of it spattered lightly with blobs of old gum. The same off-white walls and MDF separator boards covered in balding grey felt set up to make cubicles around the room with company names stapled up in the top corners. Welcome to the Midas exhibition centre; the dullest place on earth to work as security.Exhibitors from all different companies are coming through the doors in dribs and drabs, carrying boxes and fold away presentation boards whilst trying to fumble around for their clearance passes otherwise Trevor, who got assigned to door duty yet again even though he was promised otherwise, has to radio the boss. Everyone else is either outside in the rain clad in fluorescent security jackets helping delivery trucks pull up or wandering around the floors to make sure the exhibitors are all OK. As for me, well I’m supposed to be circling the basement floor in order to make sure nothing suspicious goes on whilst the stands are being set up, but there’s a fat chance of anything exciting happening anyway since it’s completely empty down here. The main lights aren’t even on and there’s still a faint smell of chlorine from a leakage at some ‘port-a-pool’ convention last weekend. It’s fine by me though because there are rows of chairs set up for a presentation talk later on this afternoon, so I can sit around for a while at least, provided my supervisor radios in first and doesn’t just sneak up on me.
“...Foxy trotter to Mr Tango…Foxy trotter to Mr Tango. Come in Mr Tango…”
You never get 5 minutes peace with this job. The boss thought giving us all humorous nicknames on the radio would liven things up a bit around the centre, but calling someone ‘Bravo hot legs’ then following with a message about one of the visitors throwing up after too much free wine just seems to kill it every time.
“This is Mr Tango. State your business. Over.”
“There’s a woman at the doors making Trev feel uncomfortable. She just unclipped his tie and is now trying to get through without a pass by pinching his behind. Over.”
“Send Treacle up there to take over until she’s gone. Over and out.”
I sit up and search around my blazer pocket for my radio. Unfortunately, I’m the poor soul they decided to call Treacle on account of the fact that I’m the only female member of staff and they find it amusing.
“Mr Tango to Treacle…my lovely, are you there?”
“Yes Dean.”
“I’m Mr Tango. You’re not doing it properly…”
“Because it’s stupid.”
“Women…” he huffed “Anyway, Trevor is being fondled by some bird up at the entrance. Go up there and rescue him will you, dear. Over.”
“Am I any relation to Bambi? No. Over and out.”

I've discovered a blog...

Called the One minute writer. It gives you 1 minute writing prompts to follow for every single day. Todays one was a prompt asking what another person's first impression would be of you...here's mine:

Well you're a chubby one aren't you? I wonder what you're hiding behind all the make-up aside from the faint stirrings of past acne and re-growth of a moustache. Wow that's a lot of glitter, she either works with children or had a fight with a pixie...can I smell candyfloss?

Missed.

The floor creaks underneath your feet even though it’s covered in thick blue carpet. If you sit down there long enough you’ll notice clumps of fur stuck in the fibres and spiders wandering across to get up to the walls. The skirting boards are off-white with chipped paintwork, spots of dirt and spots of green paint from the walls too. Two shades of green, dark at the bottom and lighter at the top, brushed over a pattern that itself looks like deep brush strokes moving in different directions. The right hand corner has small windows with grubby net curtains tacked up over them, and thick psychedelic red, green and black curtains threaded over that, frayed at the edge where the dog sometimes likes to chew on it. All the furniture is mismatched with a squishy chintz armchair over near the door leading out into the hallway, a dirt smudged white chair next to it with a little table in between balancing coffee mugs, and a green sofa at the back wall with white cushions scattered over it. The smell of home made sausage rolls and cakes waft in from the door of the kitchen left ajar because Nan never likes anyone coming in and interfering, or the dog wandering in for her to accidentally step back on.
Opposite the chairs is a cabinet holding up a small TV, and a shelf next to that covered in keepsakes and family photographs and a blue clock bought as an anniversary present with a golden sun on one half of the face that moves into a half moon on the other side when night draws near. Above the shelf is an oval mirror with a gold frame made to look like crawling ivy, and more dusty frames with more family photos in, a painting of a Lancaster Bomber in flight as well as photo of one too.
There are scurrying noises coming from the ceiling where mice have burrowed and where birds are landing because Nan has just thrown some stale bread up on the roof for them, and rattling on glass pots being washed out ready for a fresh batch of jam to be scooped in then delivered to everyone else living on the road. Nan is singing old war songs over the top, sometimes humming because she’s forgotten the words, or sometimes stopping completely to change into a chorus of “I’m a secret Lemonade drinker…R.Whites!”

Before I get into the swing of this.

I don't claim to be a good writer.
I don't produce the best material ever, nor do I produce anything that is 100% perfect in terms of spelling, punctuation and grammar.
I don't claim to know what I'm talking about or claim to have some kind of profound message hidden behind anything I do.

I just write. I do it as a release. I do it to entertain myself and my friends. I do it to order my thoughts and feelings, I do it because my real voice gets hindered by problems.

I'm doing this to keep me writing because I don't tend to do it creatively and much as I should anymore. I don't care if nothing is punctuated correctly, spelt correctly or if it even makes sense. This is for me to just soldier on and DO SOMETHING. If it's too messy to follow then that's fine, but I'm not changing. No lecturer can nag me here.