Lorna Loves to Write

Lorna loves to write.  Her first short story, written on a yellow legal pad when she was six, starred a family of mice.  The next year, she wrote a poem about black roses, which caused her teacher to request a meeting with her parents.  Lorna has been trying to cheer the hell up ever since.

She was a kid on a New York Island, and grew up in the Highlands of Scotland.  While there, she couldn’t wait to get off the mountain.  These days, she spends a lot of time trying to go back.

Lorna left University twice.  She wanted to stop reading other people’s writing and concentrate on her own.  These days, she spends a lot of time trying to go back.

Lorna is on wheels, and her day-job involves making the world a more accessible place.  She walks up stairs on the promise of beer and conversation.  She has been dragged up a hill backwards.

Lorna lives with her boyfriend and a cat who thinks she’s a dog.  Her Dad was her first best friend and he’s still on the list.  Sad songs and bad coffee make her cry.  She cries when she’s happy, too.  This confuses people who don’t know she cries when she’s happy, too.  She does not care.

Lorna loves to travel and then write about it.  She once fell off a toilet in Pisa, Italy.   She hasn’t written about it.  Ok, maybe she has, but only once.  Twice.

Lorna cannot read maps.  She doesn’t care.

Closer to home, she and her boyfriend like to kiss (each other)  in public.  It’s disgusting.  They do not care.

Lorna is not normally known by her initials, nor does she like to talk about herself in third-person.


(Inspired by a new online writing community.  Details can be found here.)

Thank You Again. Again.

thank you note for every language
Image by woodleywonderworks via Flickr

On Friday, I posted my post and went to the pub.  I left my phone safely at home, and instead concerned myself with this delicious beer.

After a few, we came home and I decided to check my email while Sarge brushed his teeth.  There were lots of little yellow flags in my gmail inbox, and I discovered I’d been Freshly Pressed.  It was the third time I’ve seen my little blog up there.  Exciting, as ever.

I’d like to thank everyone who took the time to comment and subscribe, over the weekend or at any other time.

And now, I have the somewhat dubious honour that my most popular post to date is The One Where I Was On a Break (from my phone).  Yes, that was me.  But at least I’m in good company.

In recent news, I’m sitting here in striped socks and sweats, waiting for tomorrow when I get to take a train and a ferry to an island for some much needed fresh air and free time.  I will be unreachable by phone.

What are you up to this weekend?

Please stay tuned for:  My Island Diaries:  Mull Edition!

How To Lose A Phone in 10 Hours

Antique oak "double phone" from earl...
Proof of life before mobile phones. I really miss it. Image via Wikipedia

Let’s say you forgot your phone somewhere. Left it on your desk at work/in your locker/in a field/dropped it down a toilet.

This is what you might do while you waited to retrieve your phone, if you were in this purely hypothetical situation:

Call it.  Five times.   To make sure it isn’t in the house.  Curse silent-mode.  Stare at your bag, where your phone should be.   Lift the  bag and call your phone again, to see if you can ‘feel the vibrations’.  The only thing you feel is like an idiot.

Panic.  What if people are trying to reach you and your phone is whispering feebly somewhere, unanswered?  Let’s just say, as an example, that somewhere is on your desk at work, where you are not.

Get real.  You know your partner is indeed coming home.  No, he did not choose this night to get run over by a bus only because you don’t have your phone, and no one could reach you if he was in traction in a hospital across town.

Breathe, and feel free.  All the important people, parents/your decidedly unbroken partner/ friends/hospital staff have or could get your home number, and call you there.  Everyone else is on Facebook.  Even your Great-Aunt who lives in Florida.  Who is actually great, and really does live in Florida.  You are not disconnected.  From anyone.

Rejoice when your partner comes home.  For the purposes of this story, let’s call him Sarge.  Ask him to call your phone, just in case it hasn’t slipped under a book.  Because you just may live somewhere where everything lost can be found under a book.  No phone, lots of books.  Pretty good deal.

Aforementioned boyfriend might ask, ‘Have you lost your phone?’  And you might answer, ‘No, we’re on a break.’

Watch the news.  You can still do that, on something they call the television.  Senseless murders and stupid taxes still happen, phone or no phone.

Replace Angry Birds with Chopped, on this groovy thing they call the Food Network.

Go to bed and finish your forty-first book of the year.  You would know this if you happened to be counting them.

Stop reading.

The next morning, you might go into work.  On your day off.   Just to pick up your phone.  The one you may have left on your desk the day before.  Your co-workers may have been expecting you.  Because they read about your lost phone on Facebook.

This post is based on based on true events.  Maybe.

The Old Country

I don’t know why I’m writing this.  Wait a minute.  Yes I do.  I’m writing this because right now I can’t be anything more or less than I am.  I don’t feel like making something up, and pretending nothing happened.  This is not fiction.  Although I wish it was.

I am an American.  Usually I don’t like to bring that fact into a conversation.  I don’t know why.  But there it is.  I am an American.  And a New Yorker.  I am from New York.  I am an American.  I am a New Yorker.  That’s why I cannot, this time, make anything up.

I used to choose not to say the pledge in school.  This past week, I’ve said it twice.  In front of my television set.

I’m writing this because like every other American kid, I went to the World Trade Center on a school fieldtrip.  In the sixth grade.  And then again to show some tourists around, the only other time natives line up to see their own landmarks.  It was a must-see.  For tourists.  I am not a tourist.  We thought it would always be there.  It wasn’t like some bastard was goint to crash into it or anything.  Well.

I’m writing this because I love that skyline.  The best view in the entire world.  I’ve seen it how it’s meant to be hundreds of times.  And not just on a postcard.  The Towers weren’t just part of a beautiful view.  They were a livelihood for thousands of people.  People that can never go home again.  Times like this, I want to go home.

I’m writing this because I don’t know what else to do.

The streets are supposed to smell of pretzels and roasted almonds, not flesh.  Those people were supposed to go home.  Landed and had airport moments with their families, or gotten in their cars after another day at work.  But they can’t go home.

I’m writing this because everything else seems so small; like the view from a plan window 20 thousand feet in the air.


From my journal, written in the week that followed September 11th, 2001.

Hemingway Lives!

If you’ve been reading along, you’ll know about Coffeegate 2011.  You’ll also know that I call my computer Hemingway.  Turned out he did need a new keyboard.  Today, I came home to an undead Hemingway, complete with new keyboard and his own white chocolate cookies.  (Sarge says he has to share them with us, though.)


Hello.  What would you like to write today?


My Boyfriend is Better Than Coffee

One of the questions I ask a prospective PA when I interview them is, ‘Are you a morning person?’ Because, well, because I am not.

Like most people who are honest with themselves, I cannot speak without bumping into a cup of coffee in the morning. On days that aren’t weekends, there isn’t time to make zombie coffee using our Italian coffee machine, so I kid myself with the most drinkable instant I can find, or buy a coffee on the way to my day-job.

But like I said, pre-coffee Lorna (me) is vastly different from post-coffee Lorna (also me, because I’m good like that.) This is usually true 365 days of the year, but yesterday was slightly different.

I had slept through the first alarm, and Sarge forgot to set the second one, therefore my wake-up call was my PA downstairs buzzing to get in. Usually I have time to put my monosyllables in some semblance of understandable order. Yesterday, I did not. I even scared myself, I grunted my way through a shower, making it last as long as possible. I could not even make the small-talk necessary when someone other boyfriend has to see me naked.

There was still nothing as I shrugged into clothes, and spritzed myself with expensive-but-somehow-on-sale perfume.

And then Sarge walked in from the shower, somehow looking more put-together than myself. I managed to to mumble ‘excuse me’ to my PA, and turned to him saying, ‘Hug me, please. I’m all discombobulated.’ That was a lot of syllables. My brain almost fizzed. We hugged, and as if by magic, (pun may be intended), my monosyllabic grumbles turned into pleasant-sounding sentences. My boyfriend is better than coffee. Yes, I said it! If that’s too much information, then I’m sorry. But than, love means never having to say you’re sorry. So maybe I’m not.

Yesterday, at about three o’clock, staring at my emails and my Outlook diary, I could have used a Sarge-hug, but I had coffee instead. Somehow it wasn’t the same.

Yes, even this coffee. Maybe. This isn't the one I had yesterday.