Daily Prompt: Inside the Bubble

First of all, yes I am here again. Just ignore me if you have better things to do, but I found if the Daily Prompt can spring over their shadow, then so can I. Who am I to think I am something special, individual etc. etc. In the meanwhile I put myself voluntarily into quarantine and discovered there is something called a Topic Generator and I have discovered my creative uncreative side again. So thank you topic generator and I will be back definitely. It is almost the best thing that has happened since sliced bread (I think that was a prompt once). Anyhow to continue, todays assignment is:

A contagious disease requires you to be put into quarantine for a whole month (don’t worry, you get well by the time you’re free to go!). How would you spend your time in isolation?

Apple computer

There were times as a young mother when I would have welcomed a months quarantine: away from it all, no nappies to change, do homework with the kids, go shopping, cooking ironing and all that stuff that we women thrive on. Now the kids are grown up, finding their own way in life and probably also longing for a month’s quarantine, but that is their problem. I had to deal with it as well.

Anyhow I am now in the golden oldie years, where I do what I want to and not what I have to (with the exception of a daily something or other in the cyber world). There we get to the point. I am restricted to my own four walls due to some sort of mysterious virus infection contracted whilst writing the Daily Prompt. Daily Prompt were suffering for many months and locked themselves in their office in Silicon Valley, straining to press the key that activated the old prompts. They are now cured, but it seems we are infected, so what do we do?

No problem of course. It is the human metabolism that has an illness, our computers are ready to go and we have a complete month to do it all. Making an allowance for time to eat, take your tablets, and measure your blood pressure, the remainder is all yours. After all you can order everything else online. I have my Apple computer, known as Mac and even one of those Windows things, what could be better. In the morning checking through what the others said through the night. It is a well-known fact that whilst we Europeans are sleeping the colonists over the pond are ready to go, and so computer is a 24 hour system. Whilst you are sleeping the others are not and somewhere the others are watching and waiting to jump in, in between.

Throughout my European afternoon I will be writing the new, fresh, original daily prompt of course. After uploading this I will be writing for the topic generator. The Topic Generator is super, it is always there, it never fails, although I must say the combinations of the two words, adjective and noun, can be sometimes quite mysterious, morbid, refreshing, the fulfilment of your blogging dreams, depending on how your illness is developing. I have now spent two weeks with this new way of blogging life and I survived.

In between I did my own thing, accompanied by photos and their inspiration. Of course, with a contagious illness, known as “the dreaded” for want of another expressions, I cannot take my camera into the outer world. In the meanwhile I have discovered that I have almost 1400 MB of photos on my computer and 3 so-called Western Digital hard drives so that will keep me busy in between when I am not writing rubbish.

And as I am not really in quarantine, my fate has been decided by Mr. Swiss. It is not raining, the weather is overcast, but pleasant, and he is ready with the walking shoes and blue jeans. He asked

“what about you” and I said

“Yes, I am ready to go, I just have to upload my new fresh daily prompt”

“I thought you were no longer doing daily prompts.”

“Who said that, they were just not new, but now they have returned.”

“So we are no longer going for walks?”

I did not ask if I could take my computer with me. I will now upload and then I am gone. If the prompt is still breathing and alive tomorrow I will be back.

Daily Prompt: Inside the Bubble

Motionless Mail

Shadow of the bird

“Plop” and the mail fell through the letter box to the floor. Just a few advertisements and a free newspaper all about the latest developments in computers. Everyone wanted to be the first with their new inventions. You could now even send e-mails without paying a charge, although that did not bother the letter box. It was just doing a job, fixed into the door and opening its mouth for anything the postman or newspaper boys wanted to throw into it.

The human that owned the letter box was no longer interested. She stopped running to the letter box each time she heard the tumble of paper onto the floor beneath. She knew she should have fixed a metal cage to the box. The bending to pick up the latest arrivals would have been saved. All she would have to do would be to open the cage and carry the post to the living room where she could look at it. The last letter she opened was from the lottery fund. Such an important letter, and even sent with a registered stamp. Should she tear it open – no, definitely not. The contents would definitely be serious and she did not want to destroy them. What could it be?

She filled in the numbers weekly on the form she picked up at the local post office. She always did the same numbers, 20-4-19, 10-6-20. That was Alfred’s birthday and her own. She had used these numbers since the lottery began and once she even won £10. Alfred had been gone for some time, but it was the three numbers of his birthday that won the money. She put the money away, knowing that there would soon be an electricity bill to pay, and on her pension she was glad for every few pounds extra. It was not easy managing on your own. Luckily she discovered that if she walked through the market at the end of the day there would be some leftovers that the stall holders were glad to give away. She would cut away the brown soft parts of the apple and she also discovered that the overripe bananas could be quite tasty. Oranges were to be avoided, especially if they were soft and squashy.

There was a knife in the kitchen drawer: no longer as sharp as it was when it was new, but she could not even remember when she bought it. Was it ten years ago? Luckily it still cut through paper, although the paper was a little frayed at the edges from the blunt blade. Now was the time to open the important envelope from the lottery people. Perhaps she had again won £10, it would be useful for paying for some nice fresh oranges, not leftovers from the market and there would be something left for a piece of meat for a Sunday dinner.

She made a fine slit in the edge of the envelope and a cheque fell out. For a cheque she had to put on her glasses, as her sight was no longer like it used to be. The numbers were a little misty, and her hands were shaking. Over the years she no longer could concentrate as she used to. After a few minutes she was holding the cheque firmly in her hand and read the amount. £50,000…….

Everything became fixed. It seemed that the birds outside her window were no longer moving, but her heart was no longer beating and so the money is still waiting at the Lottery fund to be picked up, as well as the post piling on the floor beneath the mailbox.

She now only received motionless mail.

Topic Generator

Prickly Exam


All she had to do was answer a few questions, about roses of course. Myrtle was a hobby gardener and just loved roses. She had all sorts: pink, yellow, orange and of course red, but so did the neighbours. She then saw an advertisement in the “Gardeners Weekly”.

“Are you a rose expert? Name the various rose sorts shown below in the photos and if you are lucky you will win our exclusive new rose “Black Death”. “

Or course Myrtle wanted to own a Black Death rose. Ok, it was not a pretty rose, but it would be something no-one else had and so she spent the evening ploughing through her collection of Rose books and filled out the competition slip answering the questions.

“That was easy” she thought “nothing difficult there, and most of them I knew without looking in my book”. The next day she sent her competition entry off to Dark Rose Developments, Cemetery Lane, Vulcania Town, Carpathia. She noticed that the address was in another country, but the post office had no problems. A week later a parcel arrived from Carpathia with an accompanying letter and certificate.

“Congratulations, you are now the proud possessor of our newest rose “Black Death”. We have also enclosed a bottle of our special fertiliser and would advise only to use this to ensure that the rose remains unique, as well as our certificate of Authenticity which can be displayed next to this unique rose.”

This was beyond Myrtle’s dreams of success. She had visions of people stopping by her garden and admiring her unique rose. She would definitely win a prize at the next horticultural show in town. She unfolded the certificate and read “We confirm that this is a first edition of a new and individual rose sort, created in the Dark Rose Development Institute in Carpathia and that Myrtle Ramsbottom has been registered as a unique owner of such a rose.”. It was printed in large red letters on black background and looked very important. Myrtle fixed it to the stem of the rose bush when she planted it in the garden.

“Ouch” she said as it seemed one of the thorns on the rose had decided to prick her finger. She even had to put a plaster on her finger to stop the bleeding. She then examined the black flask containing the fertiliser, also with red letters stating “Black Death Rose Fertiliser, to be applied daily”.

Myrtle poured a little of the fertiliser, a red liquid, into her watering can and diluted it with some water as was instructed in the leaflet accompanying the fertiliser. She found the liquid had a very penetrant smell with a sort of iron aroma, but decided that Black Death roses were something special and needed a special fertiliser.

The next morning she went to the garden to see how her rose was developing and surprise, two more buds had opened showing the glossy black petals. She was a little sad however. It seems that a bird had flown to close to the rose bush and had injured itself on the thorns. The bird was now dead and so Myrtle removed it. She did not want the neighbours to see. That week she daily removed dead birds and mice from the surroundings of the bush. She was a little worried about the neighbour’s cat, knowing that curiosity killed the cat. Actually the bush did not kill the cat, but it seemed that Tiddles was not longer the cuddly little black fur ball he was, but his teeth grew longer and he even tried to kill the dog. Luckily the dog escaped, being a greyhound.

And so the rose bush grew and grew and grew and there was silence in Myrtle’s garden. No longer were there chirping birds and the only animal that visited the garden was Tiddles, who became a good friend to Myrtle, her only friend. And the injury on her finger from the thorn’ It eventually healed although Myrtle found herself having to remove a few drops of blood now and again. Eventually people began to talk about Myrtle. She was very rarely seen during day, only in the evening when she often took a walk through the surroundIing forest accompanied by Tiddles the black cat who no longer meowed but howled. People began to avoid her, especially on full moon nights. Yes that was a prickly exam she took, but she won the Black Death rose and had something in the garden that no-one else had.

Topic Generator

Windows 10 is here

I was going to post this in Facebook, but decided no, I am not one of those facebookers that tell everyone what I am doing all day – although a crossposting will occur, so facebookers watch this spot.

They did not forget me after all. Today I got a message from Bill Gates (at least his followers). Your free Windows 10 upgrade is ready to go. In the meanwhile I am not ready to go. I will not do this to my windows 7 computer, because it is not broken and needs no repair work. I will be patient and wait. Am aiming for a new computer with Windows 10 already installed later this year (with SSD drive).

And now to finish my breakfast, tidy up the place and yes, clean the bathroom. No matter how good a new Windows system is, it does not clean my bathroom or hoover my home.

Have  nice day everyone wherever you are, and don’t forget, your computers are waiting.

Stormy Permission

Kamikaze Bee

Where there is a camera, there is a way. Stormy permission was perhaps granted in the insect world, but a bee arrived in front of me on the table in the packing material of my organic rice waffle. There were only two crumbs remaining from the waffle, the remainder of my aprés golden oldie sleep snack. Suddenly there was a rustle and a plonk, or something like that and there was a bee laying on its back. I noticed it was still, not moving, probably dead. This was the result of a kamikaze flight into the unknown, spurred on by a whiff of organic rice.

The bee asked no permission from whatever stormy guidance lines exist for the flight of a bumble bee. It took its course, aiming for a positive result, but ignoring the dangers on the way. The flight was abruptly ended by a crash landing. Perhaps there was an ulterior motive behind the result. The bee had been thrown out of the nest from the queen, told to gather the remains of a rice waffle to feed the tribe, or die in the attempt.

Who knows what steers the life of a bee, and who knows what ridiculous combinations of words can appear on a topic generator. It is fate, as is the demise of a bee. I must say it was a glorious termination of a bee’s life. Laying on its back, with legs in the air, still and surrounded by a crumb of organic rice, embedded in colourful transparent cellophane. It was a never to be forgotten death, a symbol and warning to all bees. Do not believe all the stormy permissions your tribe might give you for a crash landing. Crash landings have to be practiced, and perhaps planned on softer material. Had the bee arrived in my breakfast cereal he would have survived, although it would depend if he could swim or not. A paper handkerchief would have been even better. Survival would have been certain and perhaps I might even have helped the bee to regain stability in the garden, where he could have flown on, returning to the fold.

I took time to ponder over this fateful arrival. Was there a possibility that I could bring the bee back to life, apply bee CPR. Unfortunately it would have bee a dangerous undertaking and any type of stormy permission would not have resuscitated the bee.

So all I can say to the bee is RIP Bee in the Bee Happy Hunting Grounds and hope that a message was sent to the tribe before the crash landing.

“Buzzzzz, look at me ………..” and then there was silence. Let this be a warning to all bees planning to attack my organic rice waffle after lunch. It is a dangerous undertaking and survival is rare, if at all possible. All I can say to the bee, based on words I found on the computer “Everything ends one day, but differently for everyone”. This bee is now preserved on my computer, on three extermal hard disks and on an online photo programme – stormy permission? What could be better.?

Topic Generator

Indigo Fly

Big Fly

Well not quite indigo, but a wonderful figure of a man aren’t I. Note my wonderful compact eyes, thousands of receptors and believe me I don’t just see everything, but smell it as well. Just a minute – sorry had to swoop down, there was a slice of bread and jam on the table.

“Err, mummy, look a fly on my breakfast bread.”

“Yuck Jimmy, don’t eat it, I will kill it.”

Note the human mother said “kill it”, not “scare it away”, or “cut a smaller piece for the fly to eat”, no respect. No-one loves a fly, cannot understand it, we are such lovable little creatures. If it weren’t for us there would be a lot of unwanted organic matter laying around, but let us leave that side of things. I know humans at really want to know about it – unless of course it is part of the job – you know murder investigations and all that. They can even work out when the body was killed according to the development of us flies.

So now the human is trying to kill me, yes kill me, with some sort of instrument especially constructed to assassinate flies, but do not worry, I escaped. It is much better in my place on the ceiling. Now you are all wondering how do I do it. Fly up to the ceiling and hang with my feet. If you are a fly it is very easy. No good explaining, you would not understand. Time to go, I can see a hamburger crumb. Not fresh of course just a piece of meat laying on the floor. Whoops, she nearly put her foot on me, but I did it again, they call me the great escaper. It is the story of my life. Imagine all day I search for food, no matter what, am constantly interrupted with assassination attempts from humans. Not only humans of course, there is a spider sitting in his web in the corner, but up to now I have managed to avoid him. He would love to weave a lunch packet with me wrapped up inside. Yes it’s a fly’s life, kill or be killed. I remember brother No. 104, two minutes as a fly still drying his wings and his first flight was into a web. Just the luck of the draw I suppose.

Look, a glass of coca cola, I can feel the draw of the sugar from here. Oh, how scrumptious and sticky, “suck, suck, suck” just using my proboscis effect to dissolve the sugar and yes, that is perfect. No, you do not want to know about how I dissolve it and absorb it, humans can be quite fussy about things like that. Time to move on, there is the remains of a plate of ice cream over there.

Fly on a spoon

Can you see me? I am sitting on the spoon.

“Mummy that fly is sitting on my spoon.”

“I will kill it Jimmy. No put the spoon down, don’t lick it, it is disgusting, you will get ill. It has now flown away.”

I would add I am not disgusting, I am quite a handsome fly, but humans are funny that way. Although it might be that an illness could occur due to my presence. Oh yes, my ancestors have it in their genes, the bubonic plague was a combined effort between the rats and our species, but that belongs to history. Yes it’s a fly’s life, but I survived once again. Of course I eat all day, I have to stay fit. Sleep? not really, have no time, I am the great absorber. Ok, sometimes I might take a rest, The last time was when I met Flo, she was sitting on the window admiring the view and I decided to join her for a few hours. It made a change from food absorption and we sort of got lost in each other, if you know what I mean, he, he, he. Anyhow she flew off and that was that. Now and again a fly might fly past (note the pun – ha, ha) and say “hello dad, how’s life?” so I assume that Flo did have a few hundred offspring after our unforgettable meeting.

And now I have to go, cannot stay, something is coming to get me……

Fly in swatter

Topic Generator

Foolish Mood


Yes, I must have been in a foolish mood yesterday when I answered in the affirmative after being asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Temperatures were above 30°C, although there was a breeze blowing, be it a warm breeze.

“Where shall we go?” I asked

“The hermitage would be a good choice, it is a ravine and is permanently cool.”

So we decided on a hermitage walk. Hermits are quiet people, cause no trouble and usually keep themselves to themselves. Unfortunately we discovered on the last hermitage walk that everyone else has the same idea and the hermitage resembled a mass excursion of the local population, but that was then Sunday afternoon. It was now a Friday afternoon, so what could possibly happen. We had a two minute drive to reach the entrance as marching across roads in an upwards direction was not advisable. We discovered a neat parking place, just near the hermitage restaurant. As we actually had no money with us to cover the cost of a refreshing drink, we ignored the restaurant and walked on through the path above which arrived at a place known as the Kanzel (our local Swiss German name) and were rewarded with a view over the cathedral belonging to the nearby town of Solothurn.


And now I was ready to go. Five minutes walking was not enough, I wanted more. Unfortunately my foolish mood was the cause of this idea, but I persisted undaunted, although there was a little resistance.

“Where else do you want to go?”

“No idea, but just a walk around the Kanzel is a little short.”

After an intensive discussion it was decided to go further into the depths and to see what the hermit was doing in the Einsiedelei as it is known in our area. It was a walk downwards to remind you that you had calf muscles on your legs, but we survived and approached the hermit’s house.


It seemed that the hermit was not at home, or perhaps she was peeping behind the curtains, not wanting to be photographed. Hermits can be quite fussy about things like that. I pushed a couple of tourists to one side and made my photo.

On the return journey I noticed this interesting little place just near the house. I do not know what it is used for, but probably something that hermits need. Perhaps a place to escape from the permanent march of the tourists.


We walked on along the banks of the stream flowing through the Einsiedelei. It was then that my scout changed the direction to an upwards walk, to return to our car. A lot of renovations had been made in the Einsidelei and one was to make a new path with steps. Unfortunately the steps seem to have been designed for a guy known as Gulliver, and I was more a golden oldie who was still glad that her feet were attached to her legs. The first step seemed to be the test. It was bordered with a wooden plank which you had to climb up. Unfortunately there were no bushes or trees or other useful objects to hold onto and for a moment I was suspended in mid air, one foot raised and the other wanting to follow. My scout had already moved on to tackle other obstacles. The second step now loomed ahead and I was frozen to the spot, but now the scout realised my predicament and came to my assistance. He grasped my hand and I grasped his. It was a joint effort, but we succeeded and three Gulliver sized steps later I had reach the top – almost. There was now a slight steep climb, but if the hermit can do it, so can I and eventually we reached the top.

I could see my car, and I had survived yet another challenge. We arrived safe sound at home where my scout prepared an evening meal of cervelat salad, something typically Swiss made from our national sausage. As he is Mr. Swiss, I let him do it, it tastes more genuine.

Topic Generator