Proper -Chapter 1 "Theodore-Fredrick Turner, the name feels like icing on the tip of ones tongue does it not?" a bubbling giggle escaped her mouth "The wine that man drinks should be forced into the mouths of all the bachelors in Hampshire!" Regina Hemswieght fanned herself and pouted at the crowd like a panther stalking it's pray. Regina Hemswieght, daughter of the notorious Walter Hemswieght, was the vision of English beauty. Every man wanted her, every woman wanted to be her. She had the palest skin always dusted in a light layer of make up making her scarlet lips ever more prominent. Her hair was always arranged in an elaborate fashion, blond curls arranged at the back of her head was this evening masterpiece. "I should hope they give some of that wine to The Duke of Lumphingnt!" Henrietta Franthinco giggled her eyes sparkling at the sight of Regina. "Ugh! Imagine that bag of cats becoming some poor girl's husband" Regina spat "I should expect he would look quite fine after the wine has done it's work" Henrietta mumbled in an attempt to regain herself. "Well you might as well marry him if you are that obsessed with him, Henrietta!" Regina spat, causing Henrietta to blush in humiliation. "The Duchess of Lumphignt! Just imagine it Henrietta, your children would come out like old men!" Josephine Flanders giggled, causing Henrietta to sink into her seat. It is at times like these that I wonder why I tolerate these quibbling girls so often. I often never get a word in, I would stand up for little Henrietta Franthinco, if I wasn't so bored by their presence. Mother dragged me to these events frequently in an effort to find me a husband. Mother tolerates my spending time with Regina Hemswieght, because she sees her as my ticket into the social world. "Felicity Marie Constance Bajoria, will you dance with me this evening?" a voice said from behind me. The group of babbling girls then stopped and gawped at the owner. "Can a carriage ride without a horse?" I said, not bothering to glance at the intruder. The girls gasped in horror at my remark and many of them lunged toward the man behind me in an effort to comfort him. "But a man can walk" came his swift reply "But he has a broken leg and an ugly face" I then shot back "He can hop" "Who wants to dance with a hopping pig?" I laughed, finally turning to the voice, who I had from the start known the holder. "I would Mr Turner" Regina sang, holding a finger to hoer teeth and flapping her eyelashes like an angels wings. "I do not take kindly to being refused, Miss Bajoria" Theodore said ignoring Regina "And I do not take kindly to being abused Mr Turner. Go and hop with Miss Hemswieght, she always has had the characteristics of a rabbit" I smiled waiting for the groups reaction of tutting and gasping. "I do not wish to dance with a rabbit on this occasion, hold my reservation to highest priority. I shall bid you adieu my fine ladies"

My Name Is Edgar My name is Edgar Atheling, I was King of England. I was 14 years old. My father died, he was the heir. Harold Godwinson took my throne. King Harold died. I had my chance. I was king for 2 months. The Duke of Normandy threatened me. He took my throne. He held me captive. I escaped. My sister was Queen of Scotland. She became Saint Margaret of Scotland. My name is Edgar Atheling. You won't remember me. No-one does. I was King of England. No-one remembers me. Because I was just a kid.

Anonymous It often makes me wonder, Look thoughtfully in the air, The reasons why we ponder, On putting our name out there, We are happy to write the pieces, That make people laugh and cry, But by the end our face creases, And we sometimes often lie, We don't want to put our name, We feel embarrassed or ashamed, They don't like the idea of fame, Or being critically acclaimed, But if we do not wish to sign, Then why do we wish to write, Because we don't want to take the risk, Or receive live in the limelight.

Dear #life Dear #life, You have this funny way of making thing harder. You can put me in a bad mood when I cannot explain it. You can get me all wound up like a ball of string. You make me think things that aren't true and love people who don't love me back. You make me cry when there is no reason. You produce word vomit when I need it least. But you put me in a good mood every so often. You make me see sense and unravel myself. You make me spot lies and those who don't love me. You make me smile for no apparent reason. You make me say beautiful things that motivate those around me. And most of all you make me see the positives and the negatives and realise I am glad that your mine. Thank You #life.

Having A God As A Mother Let me guess, you read the title and automatically concluded that this was some fantasy story about a little fairy who lives in a cloud with her mother who is kind and beautiful and full of general loveliness. Wrong. This is about me, Emily, your average Joe, I, like my mother, eat and sleep like any other person. Oh, yes, and my mother isn't really a God, she is just a god in her field. Mum is a Professor and she is one of the few medical people that believe in a disease called fatigue and ME. When people are ignored by other doctors and really have no where else to turn, they go to my Mum, the light at the end of the tunnel, the God. I don't want to be become a doctor myself, no, even though Mum kept her maiden name and thus meant that I have my dads, I would still be known as Professor Newton's daughter. Sometimes I worry that I will never live up to my mother's great name, but then I realise that if she's a god, then surely I am a Demi-God, right? Sometimes, Mum tells me about how people at work can't believe she cooks for herself, they expect her to have a personal chef or something. People also think that she is the most confident person out there, when in fact, she doesn't like walking into shops that are empty, for one reason or another, she isn't good at talking to people at parties and she never goes on Mum's nights out with school. She just isn't that type of person, but it doesn't bother me. Sometimes when the post arrives and Mrs Dormer is written on the front, Dad will joke that he should hand it to Grandma. You may expect that Mum would be annoyed by this truly insulting piece of paper, but she isn't, she just laughs and opens it anyway. Lots of Profs out there always introduce themselves with their full names, like some duke or duchess, but Mum just says her first name, Julia. I remember one Saturday, when I was with mum at a patient support group (she had come to do a talk), a lady came up to Mum and asked if she was a lady called Kim. When Mum replied that she was Julia, The women nearly fainted in embarrassment, 'Oh, I am sorry' she gushed, blushing like a tomato. And then as she walked away, I am sure I saw her curtsy. How funny, I thought, that these people worship the woman who cooks me dinner and still wipes my brothers bum when he demands it. Some of Mum's patients move all the way to up here just to be close to her, that is something special. Mum doesn't just do hospital work, she also teaches med students. She brings home things to mark sometimes and I often sneak a peek and some of them. What kind of language is this?! The medical language, that's what. Although Mum's achievements may be a burden on me, they really arn't, I am proud of my mum and I just hope that I make my Mark on the world the way my mum has and is sure to continue doing. My mum is a God and I love her.