Catching the Gypsy's Tale

We are performing our new show,
Catching the Gypsy's Tale, at West Pennard Village Hall on the 24th April at 7.30.
Call 07842594102 to reserve a place

January 4th Sea Hear

If you are near Bristol on January 4th then come on board the S.S Great Britian for some salty tales. I will be telling a tale about Erika and her Echo.Erika is the proud owner of an echo but when one morning it disapears she has to travel the wind and waves to seek it out and reclaim it.
I have created these stories for under 5s but the whole family would love them. I am telling stories on the S.S Great Britian on the first Tuesday of every month at 11 o' clock, come along xx

mama bear

Here she is, sweet mama bear. Soft and fierce.
It has been an extraordinary year for me. I have found the mama bear in my belly. I have spent my whole life looking down waiting for someone to pick me up.This year I looked up and allowed myself to feel how close, how tightly and with how much love the universe pours into me.

Gypsy

I have just finished my first run of a show I am putting together with Michael Loader and Martin Soloman called "Catching the Gypsies Tale". It charts the journey of Romany gypsy's across the globe through a myriad of stories.
It is the first time I have worked with another storyteller and a musician in this way and I am just emerging from the fog of maternity.

My Changeling

Meet the reason I am publishing my Halloween stories in March ....

Ratcatchers Halloween

Here I am 9 months pregnant telling filthy stories for Halloween on the S.S. Great Britain.

Spiralling down to the chamber of secrets

Can you hear the teeny bells of the feather footed folk?

Dance Camp Fairy

We went down to the meadow to tell stories of fairy folk and wonder tales of mischief and mayhem.

The impish Mike transformed me with his beautiful face painting and the fairy folk came in their droves to gaze at his artistry

Company of Liars

The lovely Tricia at the Roald Dahl Story Centre recomended this book to me and i found it very inspiring, it is about a group of mystical characters who travel together to escape from the plague, including a storyteller with a Swan's Wing instead of an arm.
He tells Hans Christian Anderson's stories about the swan brothers, and it has jolted me to add some swan stories to my collection.

Teaching Storytelling at the Roald Dahl Story Centre

Fairy Stories at Wisley

I spent a gorgeous day yesterday telling fairy stories at the magical Royal Horticultural Society.
The ancient trees and the blooking flowers whispered and sang their secrets in my ear and I repeated them in the form of a story.

The Tree House Gallery

Come along to the Treehouse gallery This friday for some beautiful storytelling and chill out in this gorgeous treehouse. It is not far from london zoo so if you are curious about the 2 new lion cubs that have just been born you can see those too.

Tree Tales and Forest Fables

Budding Hub Gallery

Fri 28th August 2009 2:30pm - 3:30pm

Award winning storyteller Sarah Mooney, is currently Storyteller in Residence at the Roald Dahl Story Centre. She lives in a magical tipi at Gypsy House and is here today to weave a spell of myth and magic around her favourite trees. For more information http://www.thetreehousegallery.org/

He is the stig

Sonny, we loved him, and so did the wasps.

No he isn't. He is Matthew. Who worked brilliantly last week to create a very funny animation about a farting witch along with, Tilly, Kitty, Edwars, Sonny,Oliver, Jake, Jamie and William.

As soon as I can work out how to upload it, I will.

And goodbye to my friend Pesto, the warmth of Gipsy House in his wagging tail.

My tent goes down and I say goodbye to this view from my front door.....

Roald Dahl's Archives

I am spending the day looking through Roald Dahl's archives. he kept every scrap, draft and idea.
I think this still image, taken from the Roald Dahl film The Witches captures the filth and the fury of Roald Dahl's work. I always thought it was pretty gruesome but his first drafts are bloodier and more murderous than anything he has published.

स्तोर्य्तेल्लिंग फ्रॉम थे stars

My favourite stories are star stories.


I love to imagine what the stars would say to us and our planet if we could only listen with the right ears.

Inset Day

x

Glastonbury Festival

Yummy chilled out vibe at the tipi field, thanks to all who came to hear our divine mix of folk music and cosmic stories.

Inset Day

If you are a teacher then come to this HUGELY

subsidised Inset dayAt the Roald Dahl Story Centre.

It is only 40 quid and you get lunch x

It is only 40 quid!!

Wychwood

We had a great time in the heat and smiles of Wychwood

Pie Corbett

xx

Truth

I have spent ages trying to carve out an image for myself as a storyteller. To put myself forward as a dynamic creatress, capable, articulate and engaging.
I have manifested an almost exact replica of who I really am. No one would ever know that this is not the real me, unless..unless, they were creating from the void, resourcing back to the nothingness.
Inside me I have a deep well of muted silence.
Mute because I have never given it the space to breath, growl or sigh.
I have been embarrassed by it's clumsiness without ever giving it the chance to do more than stumble.
It is different now. As I grow a baby in my belly I realise that this place I shut down and ignore. is the mulch. It is the fertile soil where all is formed.
I am going to let it out, to draw my pail deep into this well.

Stone School

I have had a brilliant week at Stone School as part of my Roald Dahl residency.

We only spent one day doing Roald Dahl Stories, when Year 6 spent the day creating a play version of James and the Giant Peach which was HILARIOUS!!

I particularily enjoyed the clenched and dribbling aunts and a special mention to Callum whose old man was sublime.

On Monday I spent the day with Year 5 exploring the magic and mystery of the Aztecs. As well as stories rituals and songs we played tribal and subtle stealth games.

Tuesday we spent the day exploring India, yoga and chanting were wrapped around tales from the Ramayana.

Wednesday we went to the longest river in the world, the Nile, boating along it with Osiris and Isis and creating poems to bless the river.

This is Rosie, I reckon she is my biggest fan.
I am really looking foward to seeing her and hearing her new jokes ( she is going to be a stand up comic)

Roehampton Club Storytelling Workshop

Well done to all the brave parents who took part in the Roald Dahl Storytelling Workshop on Saturday at the Roehampton Club, they bravely butchered, beefed up, bombasticized and bedazzled a fairy tale to perform it to their proud children. My favourite moment was watching the children's eyes shine as they told their part of the tale.

Press Release

The Roald Dahl Museum and Story Centre
81-83 High Street, Great Missenden, Bucks, HP16 0AL
P R E S S R E L E A S E
Sarah Mooney: Storytelling Under a Full Moon
Following Sarah Mooney’s recent sell-out success at the Museum with What planet are you on?, in which she enthralled audiences with imaginary journeys into outer space, we are delighted to welcome Sarah as our new Storyteller in Residence for the Summer season. Sarah has planned some phizz-whizzing events and activities for us over the coming months including a special re-telling of her favourite Roald Dahl story James and the Giant Peach.
"The objective of my storytelling", says Sarah, "is to transport children to a place where they feel safe and secure enough to explore their innermost thoughts, and find out what they really want to be in this world".
As well as sessions for Museum visitors and in local schools, Sarah will also be working for a week in July with young mums at Aylesbury Young Offenders Institute. The Put the Book Down project aims to build confidence and encourage mums to explore their creativity and storytelling potential in order to enthral their children with their very own swishwiffling stories.
A huge fan of Roald Dahl herself, Sarah will be using the residency as an opportunity to study the master storyteller’s archive, housed here at the Museum, using it as inspiration for a fresh batch of stories – along with some animation sessions - which will feature in our Summer workshop programme. Sarah hopes that Roald Dahl will help her become "braver in the brutality of my storytelling".

Snakes Head Frittalli, they are the purple heads bobbing next to this Maple, watch out for them in my new story about witches and insects............

Folk Tales

Folk Tales is the coolest storytelling night in the u.k. A beautiful sea hut nestled by the river where Bristols freak folk get to air their creative meanderings. Last week it was my turn, along with the tender and magical Rachel Dadd and wigg who played such sweet and brave music that I could almost see the fairy folk clambouring in through the windows and nestling on the shoulders of these enchanting musicians.
I got to tell a deliciously dark and bloody story, Blue beard. Visceral, sexy and sick. It's not often in storytelling that you have an audience that will let you use the macabre as your playground and I loved it.Telling stories like that helps me to explore in full the worlds that you may just catch a whiff of in my usual stories. Riding it right down into the underworld was enriching and exciting.

Folk Tales is from 8-10 on the last wednesday of every month at bristol Sea Scout Hut.

I have taken on a new job, it is Storyteller in Residence at the Roald Dahl Story Centre.I will be telling stories both beautiful and beastly. Mine and Mr. Dahl's.During my residency I will be sleeping in my Gorgeous Storytelling Palace in the orchard of Roald Dahl's old abode "Gypsy House" I am thrilled and looking forward to getting started.Something, however, is already happening...
It started in my dreams, I dreamt that I spent most of my time in Roald Dahl’s orchard with a crumpled map, searching for sweets and another one where I buried a grid of crystals under my tent before I put it up and then, as I dug them up at the end of the residency, they had transformed into chocolate bars.What does all this mean?
This morning the snow continued to cascade down, to the delight of the child and the child inside the grown up. I sat at a single track train station drinking my coffee from a jam jar (I was going to turn the jar into a lantern for a spring ritual later that that day, it seemed silly to use a cup as well).
There were about ten of us dotted about the platform, mostly adults, one girl who was crying because her hands were cold. She thought her dad’s idea of blowing on them was utterly ridiculous and gave him a withering princess look to tell him so.
Inside the flimsy shelter there was a man, safe looking, round and soft, and next to him was a little boy. I would like to tell you what this little boy looked like but he was thoroughly swaddled on account of the cold so I could barely see his face. I could tell you one thing for certain, he was.. Entranced.
As I got closer to the little shelter they were huddled in I heard the voice of my dreams, a lilting lullaby voice, steady and low.
This man, this dad was reading ALOUD a story in front of everybody and WE WERE ALL LISTENING.
We loved it. And not any old story, no, no no it was "James and the Giant Peach" and it was not only my favourite book in the world but it was my favourite bit of my favourite book in the world… James had just opened the door and gone into the peach stone, and the door had disappeared behind him, (because it can, because it is a story). This delicious storyteller was just about to say..
"James’s large frightened eyes looked slowly around the room…."
I don’t know why, it makes me tingle, that sentence.. I can hear him gulping with a dry throat and I am dying to remember what those large frightened eyes are seeing.
And I was not the only one…
No one dared move on the platform, even "crying because her hands were cold little girl" came up and listened until she remembered that she was crying because her hands were cold.
WE loved it, and we were a random selection of city bound grown ups.
Our eyes bulged as the spider licked her lips with her black tongue and we smiled as the centipede was accused of exaggerating when he said he had a hundred feet.
When the train finally chuffed around the corner we all let out sighs of whist and wonder and stepped on the train. I did not even mind when I slowly realised that I had got on the wrong train and would have to spend my lunch money on a taxi to avoid being late for the day.
I did not mind because someone had dared to tell a story, out loud, in public, in the morning…………
I have decided that it is an omen that my life is completely perfect in every way.
And I am curious about that part of all of us that still loves stories, that feels warm and loved and held when we are read to. That is the part of all of us that I will pour my magic over. I will remember that however old we are, whatever we look or sound like, however sharp our dress or crisp our delivery …..We all love a good story…The part in all of us that gazes in wonder at the snow and the`stars can be reached through stories, after all "It is never too late to have a happy childhood"

So let the words flow and wish me luck. x

Has it really been so long since I blogged?

This winter has been some hibernation........... now that I have given three people my blog address I am going to blog a lot more often........

Seven Stories the centre for Children 's Books

Tales of a Treasure Duster, my first story, written a few years ago

I am a treasure duster.

A woman from a world of beautiful buffing and dusting, when a cleaner was revered as a wonderful thing. We were trusted to be in charge. To touch priceless relics that were so sensitive they could crumble to dust in your hand. We were proud to be cleaners of treasure. We were treated with dignity and respect, not the way you treat scrubbers today.

I dusted the treasures of a great man, Commander Robert Hitchen. A ferocious pirate. Many argued about his exact identity but there were two things that everyone was in agreeance about. He had eyes of ice, and a gold tooth. It is said that he could cut a man in half with that tooth. And his eyes, if you could see them, they were so bright and blue that he could shatter glass with a glance.

Captain Robert Hitchen’s reputation spread far and wide. He was known by all as a vagabond of the waves. He caused so much havoc on the mighty ocean that there was a bounty on his head for 700 gold coins for anyone who could capture him alive.

I never believed they would catch him. Not my Robert. He would slip in and out of here like moonlight. The only clues to his presence would be a crate of Heather Ale (he knew I liked it) and a new treasure winking in the morning sun.
One day the castles triumphant trumpets tore through the air. It ripped into my heart and I knew they’d caught him.
They stormed his boat at Dreamer’s Yard it was said. Burst on to that magical vessel like animals, tearing it apart with their grunts and their rage.
It was not enough to capture him. They had to humiliate him. Celebrate their prize.
Cowards they were, waiting for him to go Dreamers Yard, for that is the place where your imagination leaves your body and whistles around the air picking up stories, colour and ideas with which to regenerate the body. But if you disturb a man at Dreamers Yard he is as defenceless a child, without his imagination he is crippled and dare not move.
So they took their chance and swooped onto the boat. Grabbing their prize hungrily and dragging him through the streets. When they arrived at the town square there was a crowd gathered, desperate for a chance to see such evil in human form. I was their, not chanting and jeering like the others, my stomach turning as I saw the fetters around his ankles, crying the tears he did not shed. In front of them all ripped out his gold tooth and held it high in air. The barbarians.” Stolen treasure” they called it, property of the state. The crowd cheered and whistled. I felt sick.

Silent he was when they broke apart his precious boat, strewing the parts across the queendom.

Mute, when they found a mermaids hand on the boat and cried “Butcher must die!”

He hummed a fractured lullaby when they strung up his crew, his faithful familiars dangling in cages around the edge of the city.

He dropped his face in defeat when they slung him in a dungeon at the bottom of the castle, where he was to rot until he died.

What I am going to tell you know I heard a long time later, and I heard it bit by bit, saving it up and piecing it together like scraps for a patchwork quilt.

I will begin with the Queen. The ruler of that Queendom. She was a brave, fair woman who ruled her kingdom with grace and imagination. By day the walls of the castle were thronged with subjects from the district with their questions and their concerns. She was a queen in the true sense of the word, a listener healer and alchemist. Each person would come to her troubled, and each person would go away hopeful. She loved her job. She knew it was her destiny to wrap her arms around this land and shield it from harm. Sometimes, as she sat down in her magnificent chamber, shielded from the day’s trial by sumptuous velvet curtains. Sometimes, as she sat on cushions, which were so soft, and fine it was like sitting on a cloud of lullabies. Sometimes, as the soft rainbow of her room reflected in the roaring fire, in her rich, royal surroundings, she heard a whisper that seemed to come in on the wind but way down inside her, her heart beat giving it an insistent rhythm; “There’s more” It said, like a whisper you are sure you have misunderstood. “There’s more” It urged, dancing through the fire reflected in her eyes. “More” One night this pounding whisper moved her to leave her chamber; quietly she trod across the jewelled boards of the palace. Inhaling the whisper as she pushed open a door that she had not opened since she played hide and seek as a child. As she nursed it open the murmur turned into the laughter of a child and led down dark, uneven steps, to an uncertain passageway.

The castle had Seven Stories. The Queens residence was on the Amethyst level. The shell of authority and direction. She trembled as she went deeper into the castle. Down to the Lapis level, which housed the halls of worship and wonder the music they played there was so sublime that angels crept to the windows at night to listen to the evensong. Down she crept, to the throat of the castle the artist’s chamber where expression and creativity occurred. When she reached the emerald level, the heart of the castle, the open gates of love she nearly stopped, her rib cage opening as if it were a pair of wings allowing her heart to expand. And still she went down. Past the Citrine chamber, where the power of the sun is tuned into energy that feeds the whole palace. Down. Heady she was in the Amber belly, where foods so divine were being prepared, morsels that fed the soul so kindly one mouthful was enough to sate you for a lifetime. And then At the root of the castle. Deep in it’s bowels A door, which she dare not open but could only peek inside. There sat the pirate Hitchen. The dark and dangerous man who had seen so much. Sailed across so many worlds. Worlds she had only dreamed of. How she longed to see the world through those bold, blue eyes. But she dare not.

The Queen jumped as she heard a sound. He stirred, that great ferocious creature and the Queen, startled, ran through the passageway, tripping up the judging steps and back to the safety of luxury, her chamber. Did she dare to go down again? Yes The next evening the same echo led her down to that damp dangerous place, where she stayed just long enough, and her courage took her just close enough to hear the breathe of the caged man. Did she go again? Of course. On the third night, as the Queen rested her head on the prison door a voice barked: “I hear you” The hulking beast that skulked in the corner of the dark cave roared: “ What do you want?” The Queen sank, sliding slowly down the door of the peat prison. At last she found the courage to speak, not daring to get up but watching through a tiny knothole in the wood. “ I have come to hear tales of lands afar” cried the courage inside her. “ Tell me of your journeys and your trials” Silence The captain smiled, his eyes blazed with blue fire. “ You have come to hear stories of murder and treachery I suppose” Of places where the trees bleed when you fell them, and real life is lived in bubbles of magic that float on the air. Silence. The voice that had found its way past the Queen’s lips had disappeared.

He began.

He began to tell his stories, stories of unicorns, and kindness that made him weep, of lands where your thoughts become your dreams. For although he looked as angry as a dragon and as spiky as a cactus he was as peaceful as the moon. These were not the stories that the queen was expecting, these were stories of a brave man who gave and helped when he could. As he talked he tongue jabbed the space where his gold tooth had once been. “Me tooth!” he lamented, “You’ve even taken me bloomin tooth…” “sssstate property” she stammered. The captain shook his head with pity for the Queen who held so much and knew so little. “Snake Island.” “I am not stupid enough to be bitten myself, the garlic keeps them away ”Robert explained, sniffing the air self consciously. “I go there sometimes, it is where the finest herbs grow. I was collecting Damiana and Motherwort when I heard a cry.” Commander John, softened as he spoke “it was a mother’s cry, unmistakable in it’s pain. I followed the sound and there they were, two parents mourning their child, a tiny baby bitten by a snake. That pathetic vile of poison lay in their arms, so small and beautiful. It was time to use the magic I had learnt from the ancient ones. I made a circle of chalk and placed the baby inside. Humming the lost words I sucked the poison from the wound. It was bitter. Bitter.” He grimaced at the memory. “ I broke the rules, and put one foot outside the circle as I spat the revolting resin out. The last drop of poison sizzled on my tooth. I was in agony and had to pull the tooth out with my bare hands before the rest of me got infected. Through my agony I heard a different cry, the cry of a baby that has been without the comfort of their parents for too long.” The commander smiled at the memory “ grateful they was to have their little treasure back. So grateful that they each took off their wedding rings and melted these precious tokens of love into a gold tooth for me”

The Queen had been enthralled by this story. But was confused. Where were the stories of violence and deceit?

“The mermaids hand” the Queen urged, she had heard the stories, of the withered mermaids hand that had been found in a box on his boat, proof of his butchery.

“ She was my love!” The pirate cried. He told of how he had fallen in love with a moon mermaid. There love was as vast as the sea itself. As everyone knows, moon mermaids must bathe their bodies in water before the moon reaches it’s fullest shine. If the shine of a full moon hits the dry skin of a mermaid it will freeze solid. The captain would sail out to their secret meeting place. When he was there, his nerves had settled and he knew he was looking his best, he rang the boat bell. The crystal sound that said; “I am here and I love you and will be with you forever” The mermaid would burst out of the waves irridesant and spectacular. And they would love each other. But she loved the captain so completely she stared into his cobalt eyes for too long. The moon was rising. And still she stayed. It got bigger and still she did seek protection in the water. In the last moments of safety, she dived for cover but her heart could not say good-bye and she turned, lifting her hand out of the water and waving to the commander. She hurried to submerge herself in the water but as she waved goodbye the moon burst into its fattest self and shone on her hand. The rest of her shimmering body was safe but her hand lie lifeless and separate on the floating waves. The captain scooped up the hand, holding it, loving it, saving it, knowing he had the magic to melt it back to her wrist. He did not know if it was through shame, death or law but the mermaid never returned. As the pirate told this story the light in his eyes dimmed a little. Time wore on and there were great silences between the stories and the light in his eyes grew dimmer and dimmer. One day the queen, her courage in full bloom, nurtured by the stories of the pirate came to the prison and stared through the window of the prison door. The captain could not see her. “Your blind” she gasped. “What is their to see?’ he sighed. “ without the roll of blue and green, the comfort of the sea, my eyes have given up seeing” “ My eyes have always been alive, searching for the place where the sea began, but now……….” His face looked dull and empty and she thought he might die that night. “Tell me about your boat,” the queen urged And with a sigh Robert remembered the beauty of his ship, he described every part of it to her, from the emerald hull to the silver chimney crown. He told her about his faithful familiars who he trusted with his life.

And the queen listened, and she acted upon what she had heard. When she was ready she stole down to the prison and opened the door. “It is time,” she said “Execution” he said with a weary nod, I knew when my stories dried up you would have me executed. The queen said nothing but led him out of the stone mansion to her private harbour. As the salt air brushed past his face it began to wake up his senses, and stir his desire to live, “The sea.” was all he could utter. She led him to the craft she had been working on so secretly, retrieving anchor and sail, repairing dodgers and boom. She had even released his beloved crew who had pined without him. She placed his hands upon the ship. He touched the helm. Absorbing the vibration of the curved loving wood filled his head once again with possibility and adventure and the light in his eyes began to ignite. As he ran his fingers along the sun catcher, so that the boat could move silently with the energy of sun or moon, he began to see again. When he placed his hands delicately on the silver chimney crown, his eyes were alive, the sea soothing the soreness. “I decree,” faltered the Queen “That you find the place where the ocean begins, and when your heart is full of treasure, come back and tell me your stories”

And so the adventures began again. Robert Hitchen’s mouth fumbled with thanks. Out of the thanks came a song. A song only he knew the words to. The secret song that worked as a key to the boats engine. The engine roared, the sails fluttered and the course was set to the sweet music of his song. So more journeys began, and in that beginning is our end.

This is the end of this story, but not of the captain’s travels. He sailed the ocean for many years, returning to the queen with stories and gifts but always leaving to search again for the place where the ocean starts.

Trance Writing

I have been commissioned to write a story for the Royal Horticultural Society,

for five year olds. Easy. I tripped off  to visit their gardens and lay down early one morning, before the gates opened to the punters. 

Just me, manicured nature and a thousand latin placards.

I sat in the middle of 4 willow toadstools and gave thanks to mother earth for making this moment possible. 

"For what I am about to receive may I be truly grateful"

I sank into the earth and the beauty of the place and I heard the hunger of the fairy kingdom.

"Up above" 

a voice shimmered,

"their has come a time when people dare to walk past a tree without thanking it for the gift of life, what hope is their for us then , who hold the magical membrane of belief?"

It sighed and faded into a gust of wind.

Characters and stories, colours and songs followed. I was flooded with  memories, dreams, possibilities and responsibilities.

It was dizzying, thrilling, intense and so, so, fast.

I woke up to the  voices of the first of the visitors searing into my mind. It was deafening and disturbing. everything seemed intrusive and unbearable now that I had landed back into reality.

That was 3 days ago and I am still exhausted.

My note book is filled with talking worms and latinist butterflies.

Sometimes I worry about losing my mind, but then I  read James and the Giant Peach.

Storytelling at The Camden Roundhouse

Stormy Weather

I am having one of those days.

The rain is pouring.

I have just screeched through a double driving lesson.

I feel stupid. Vulnerable. Incapable. Lost.

Somewhere in my body there is a feeling that is telling me I am in the right place. that this is a rich, juicy place, a spring board into deeper clearer seas.

There are some things in Life; maths, driving, drawing, to name a couple. Some things that take me into an ancient lost space.

I can't hear anything, see anything and because I have shut down I am not learning anything.
I end up doing three point turn after three point turn but in this blank white world I go into I never remember any of it.

It reminds me of being at school. Locked to my desk, feeling humiliated.. instead of trying to work out the answer just reprimanding myself with "this should be simple, why do I keep getting it wrong?"

I wonder if I went back to school today I would get a label that would make it all alright. Or is it just human?

Do we all have these places?

I am going to have an unfashionable cry.

I was nervous about going to Glastonbury. I have been to loads of festivals. You know, sit in a circle, giving thanks, honouring the spirits kind of festivals. Oh yeah and one with my brother, where he spent most of the time in his underpants with a knife strapped to his head dripping in fake blood. Onlookers may have labelled him a casualty but he reckons he had a great time.
I was asked to tell stories in the Tipi Field with a group of fluffy storytellers and musicians that I have been dying to hang out with ever since I moved to Bristol six months ago.
How could I resist?

It was amazing, amazing!I Loved it.

I loved the fun of it, the scale of it, the creativity.

It was a feast. An endless banquet of vibrant morsels being served up with a smile.

I saw so much and heard so much diverse material that I felt as though every pore in my body had been turned into an eye, and ear and a mouth so that it could soak up as much as possible of the juice around me.

I returned home three days ago, hitching a lift with three journalists who wrote in their article
" we thought we'd had a great time at Glastonbury until we picked up a hitcher who happily told us about her stint as an erotic storyteller at the Jaquzzi Lounge at Shangri La.Now we feel as though we have missed out."
Venue 29th June 2008

(The erotic storytelling was just a bit fun I did for my old friend Emma Eastwood ,Glamour Queen of Hackney Marshes.)

Since I have arrived home my brain has been spinning with a carousel of ideas and inspiration.

I can't wait to fall down the Rabbbit Hole again :0)