Friday, 25 January 2013

faerie image

my faerie drawing for my new attempt at a children's story - got a few in the works!

Friday, 11 January 2013

Silly Girls and Boys

Silly Girls and Boys

What happened to the times,
When girls chased boys
And guns and knives,
Were plastic toys?

What happened to the times,
When being innocent,
Was the only way
To really feel alive?

What happened to all these children?
Generations change.
They use to lark and play,
But now they wish their youth away.

What happened to the times,
When you didn’t want to grow up,
Because you wanted to carry on
Being a child, never growing up.

Now to the times,
When men chase lone women,
And guns and knives,
Dominate all their lives.

Now to the times,
When innocent isn’t any fun,
And by your teens,
You’re alone and have a son.

Now to the times,
When they walk their kids to school,
And [they] hope
They don’t break the same rules.

Time to realise,
That they were the girls and boys
That they once despised.

Carter Free

Carter Free

I remember the day that I met Carter Free.
He was enigmatic and boyish.

I remember the day I fell for Carter Free.
He was sweet and my carnage.

I remember the day I loved Carter Free.
He returned the favour.

I remember the day I married Carter Free.
I said yes and so did he, with vigour.

I remember the day the doctor told me.

I remember the day I lost Carter Free.
He lost his life, and so did we.

I remember the day I buried Carter Free.
He wore his wedding dress.

I remember the day I forgave Carter Free.
He left me with a heart to suppress.

I remember the day I remembered Carter Free.
Our time together.

I remember the day that I met Carter Free.
And I will never regret it.


Dot I

Ever experienced,
That strange feeling?
One you have sensed,
To feel it’s being?

Ever experienced,
The peculiar notion,
Of endless unknown fish,
In a forbidden ocean?

Ever experienced,
That daunting thought,
When you have lost something,
That was barely a Dot?

Ever experienced,
The sheer dread?
When the world comes crashing,
And the one you love,
Is utterly, undoingly,

Dot II

The memory of a person,
Is far more than ever known,
Not just a photo,
But the presence of an empty throne.

The red roses bare
The truth of our lives.
You were the boys,
We had to sacrifice.

I never met you,
And neither did he.
But I shall always regret,
The decision to not let you Be.

The choices were made
Rash and clinical.
I thought I was OK,
But now – I am cynical. 

Girl on Your Arm

Girl on Your Arm

I see you some days,
A girl on your arm.
You make me regret,
Coming back to this town.

That awkward glance,
That lost lovers share.
The one that occurs,
With the ghost of love there.

Those cobbled streets,
Will never be the same –
Where you ruined my heart,
And she played the game.

A sweet thing wasn’t she?
Could be no more than twenty?
I saw her the other day –
She’s still a gamer by the way.

Generational Blindness

Generational Blindness

I know not of the war;
Of bloodshed and of death.
I know not of the white feather girls,
And boys of hope and faith.

I know not of sanctuary,
Of rations and hidden life.
I know not of black-out curtains,
And Gods to be forgiven.

I know not of treason or hate,
Of starvation or fake joys.
I know not of scary skies,
And rooms abandoned with broken toys.

I know not of patriotic duty,
Of fighting until the very end.
But, I know of love and loss,
And the death of a loved friend.

Fiction History Hurts

Fiction History Hurts

The history we wish for,
Is never the one to approach
(in novels).
Her pages mislead us;
Build up our hopes,
And have us praying for happier notes.

Then we reach the middle,
Our hearts full,
Our brains busy,
And we hope to untangle the riddle,
Of history.

Its mystery beguiles us,
The ignorant.

But by the end,
We are hopeless and lost.
We have the facts,
And we have shed the tears.
We can no longer go back,
And forget our greatest fears.

Street Girl

Street girl

Bent down on her knees
Forgive me please.
The agony she goes through.
The tears she never shows you.

As long as she shuts her mouth
He’ll keep her down south.
She’s friendly on the outside but
The babe is full of pride.

Her life will never be the same
Because its time she played the game
Of her life
The strife
The knife
She fights.

Her life will never be the same.
She will never play the game.

Honeymoon Horror

Honeymoon Horror

Gazing around the room,
She sees the things he touched –
Her forever gone groom.

The bed in which they lay
The desk at which they leant
The lights that were never used
Kisses that her lips earned.

The blankets of love,
Stay crumpled on the floor.
The place they had laid blissful,
Oh, only the night before.

His jacket over the door,
His shoes, neat on the carpet.
He bought them just the day before,
He’s lost his wallet.

His scent is gone, his body too.
Too quick and all too soon.
She was about to love
Her forever gone groom.

Photography 2011/ 2012

Modern Interpretation of Act One King Lear, Goneril

Modern Interpretation of Act One of Goneril, Reagan and Cordelia

My father has asked us, we three sisters, to express our love for him, to take our stake of his land. Death knocks at his door, we know and I fear his amplified love for Cordelia will diminish me. I must convince him otherwise in order to claim my land.

I love you more than life itself. This is the jest of my attempt to please him. He assumes a pitiful yet contented expression upon his face and I know I have succeeded. He believes me to be honest with him, yet mine husband knows I am the depth of cruelty itself. We understand the corruption that wealth beseeches, and pray to embrace it.

My young fool of a sister, Cordelia – the honoured little wretch, she refuses our great king, with her arrogance and dreaming. Money does not come from love it comes through deceit. Oh, she has but failed to love him the way I do. He is furious – thank the lord above. Her protector amongst the ranks – Kent, has been banished – the fool cannot hold his tongue. Father’s loyalty usually holds the highest, but now with his failing mind, it seems ruling holds stead. My husband and I are the only ones capable of ruling over the lands. He will know this. Cordelia is thrown to marriage, pitiful as the King of France is – they deserve each other with all this travesty of love. He believes he loves her despite her lack of dowry - it is pathetic and the King knows it.

My youngest sister stands before me, bidding us farewell. She knows nothing of wealth and honour. She will betray her husband through idiocy – she knows not how to lead a people – only guide them with idealism. I tell her, she must be obedient to her husband, and not stray from loyalty as she hath done with our great father.

Now the traitor and her wiling slave of a husband have left, Reagan and I study our lands of wealth. I can sense her greed – an ambition we both harbor. We shall please our lord the king as best we can until he perishes, although I have no wish to please anyone but myself. My own means are the most important as of late. I must protect my heritage, with my husband, as weak as he is, by my side.

Modern interpretation of Cordelia, King Lear (Act 1)


Melissa Holden

King Lear
Modern Interpretation of Act One of Goneril, Reagan and Cordelia

Cordelia (596 words)

You, my father, my wise father –gaining in your age, expect me to declare my love for you when you should already know. I am your child; I love you as much as a daughter should. I will not exaggerate my love as my sisters have.

You may want me to convince you of my love, in exchange to a claim of your land, bigger than what you offer my sisters, but I have my pride and will not beg for it. I love you accordingly, not for your wealth and land.

Lord, you are my father and this is why I love you. You have born me, raised me, loved me and I shall love you in return - not for any other reason. My sisters’ husbands claim to love you, more than their hearts will allow; more than sight or breath or blood, but they love your land. My husband shall love you because I do, because you are my father, not because you are our great king. I shall marry for myself, not for you. I will not marry to please you.

I am honest, unlike Goneril and Reagan. I shall not lie to you. Kent understands my love for you. In your old age, you are faulting, behaving unjustly towards those who are true and loyal. I have committed no foul crime or deceit, yet you act as if I have betrayed you, even though I have only expressed the truth instead of lies.

At least I do not betray you as my sisters do, so I may have lost your favoritism  but at least I do not steal from you as they do. I am richer for my honesty and my love than I am for your money.

Burgundy rejects me, although I love him, he loves your land even more. He refuses a bride with no prize attached. I wish him well, although I do feel betrayed of sorts. He seemed to have a fondness for me, but now I trust it was for my riches instead.

The King of France, noble as he is, has declared his claim upon me. He wishes to marry me despite the fact I come with no dowry. He understands my feelings, my wishes. He has no need or want for my money. He cares for me. I hope I make a good enough wife for him after all he has done for me.

My new husband gives me time to wish my sisters well, but they do not deserve my words. I can tell they are intimidated, I may not have the land, but I am still treasured by father, and always have been.
My sister, Goneril tells me I must care for my husband, and be a good wife, as if she doubts my capability as a woman. I did not marry to please father or anyone else. Reagan  pity, is as weak as ever. She will follow anyone who leads. Her need for attention is repulsive, and I shall tell her to mind her own words but my own stubbornness is as bad as her following.

The plot they have fathomed will fail with them. They are too greedy for their own good. I can tell they are worried that the King shall figure out their deceit. Father will understand my honesty; at least I hope he does. With me now wed to the French king, I will not be able to protect him – with the help of Kent. His banishment shall be lifted once father comes to reason. I hope...

Personal statement that got me into uni.

Personal Statement
By Melissa Holden

I have wanted to be a Proofreader for many years. The decision to follow this career path occurred to me when I began marking my school friends' coursework and essays. I love moving words around to construct more creative sentences and it gives me a sense of accomplishment, as I know I am helping people improve their standard of work and education. This course will help me develop my writing skills, and therefore preparing me for a career in publishing. Having improved writing skills would mean I would have a better understanding of the English language, and how to edit and transform the words to create more imaginative texts.

I have an extensive vocabulary and knowledge of literature and language, which has fuelled my adulation of reading and learning. Through studying A Level Literature, it has given me the opportunity to read a broad range of literature texts, including World War One Literature and more recently, Love through the Ages. My impressive literary ability means I am more aware of the necessary skills to write and edit a novel. I also read widely at home and am constantly reading and altering the text within them when I find diminutive errors and grammatical mistakes. Furthermore, my A Level Media Studies has given me the chance to observe other mediums of literature and media texts, which advances my understanding even more so. I excel in private study and am a quiet worker.

In my time away from Sixth Form, I have a part-time job as a Sales Operative in Dartford. This job has helped develop my inter personal skills, helping me become a confident and willing student, whom is capable of working both alone and as a member of a co-operative and successful team. These skills would help me during my time at university, as I would be able to work better with other students.

In the past I have also, and still do on occasion, volunteered for Mencap Royal Charity, in Dartford, assisting in their charity shop as well as attending meetings and business seminars to do with this organization. This has also enhanced my ability to work, especially in difficult and high-pressured circumstances, as I gave support to those affected by mental disabilities that are helped by the charity, and even worked closely with several of them within the store. 

My capability to work to a deadline is also a useful skill I have obtained from my work outside and inside of school. Proofreaders are constantly under pressure and my ability to be calm in a crisis and be able to focus under pressure means I can carry out my work quickly without any worry. I gained this skill from coursework deadlines and also working for Dartford Technology College for their Summer School 2011, where I had to work with young children under high-pressured circumstances and was responsible for over 100 girls. This would help me cope with the pressure that university students have to endure. I received positive feedback as a result of my good nature and organizational skills. 

Studying Professional Writing would move me towards my chosen career path and assist me in becoming a freelance proofreader; my aim would be to eventually work for a conglomerate or a successful publishing house. We all dream of being the next J.K. Rowling but I would like to discover the next one. 

Unemployment and Education UK Article

Topic – Unemployment and Education in the UK (written in early 2012)
Melissa Holden

Unemployment has reached its highest in seventeen years, totaling at 2.57 million people in the UK alone.
 The idea of benefit fraud stems from unemployment. Poverty is due to unemployment. Crime is due to unemployment. If you cannot afford items, you cannot claim ownership.
Humans are dictated by the want of ownership. If we cannot, buy: we steal -survival instincts. I do not condone this corrupted behaviour although to attain, you must take - forcefully or otherwise.                              
Keeping young adults in education until the age of eighteen does not solve unemployment or government debt. It only frustrates those whom  do not comply with academic standards; with the lack of vocational subjects in the UK, it seems that unless you are scholastic, you can either be a beautician or an engineer, as this is all the community colleges offer these the less adept students. This is ludicrous – students need a wider range of opportunities in order to develop their skills.
Moreover, the average university fee for 2011/2012 is to be between £3000 and £9000 per year, with the top ten universities leaning towards the higher course charges. How are students from lower class backgrounds supposed to pay for this? Despite the grants and fee waivers; moving away from home is daunting enough; increased more so by the housing fees and paying your way for the year.
No wonder the younger generations are struggling to find work; they are not educated enough (at least in the correct fields) for the currently available jobs – the new careers that are springing up all over the UK. We have a vast amount of opportunities and new companies – yet no thriving, well –educated young people to fill the voids.
Not every job in the UK involves folding t-shirts in a low-paid, dead-end retail job. 
Perhaps some students are prepared to spend their lives in mediocre jobs, with no career chances or terms of accomplishment, but I know that I am not letting this happen for me. I will strive for my dream job; I will accomplish it; I will not be mediocre anymore.

The secret writings of Oasis Carpella

The secret writings of Oasis Carpella
-          Melissa Holden, September 2012

Stories like this are needed in the world. Not to depress us, or enlighten us for a moral high ground, but to highlight the truth in everything. The cliché of it all. How people never change. The silver lining of it all. The mundanity of our lives.
I don’t expect to change anything with this story, but only to have it known to myself that I tried.
If you know me personally, you will know why my focus is pain. If you don’t know me, I hope you never figure it out. Writing isn’t to make people understand you; it’s to help them understand themselves and the chaos around them.


I have wanted to be a writer since I was a child, but my father always said “Writing is for people who are clever. Not for girls like you. Just get married and have kids. It’s better that way”.
So, I married. Here I am, years later, a 20 year old with three unruly children and a husband that can’t see through his fog of intoxication, and I am finally doing it. (Well, I’m hiding with my laptop in the bathroom – but I think it still counts). I will never write a novel, it’s not my style. Instead, I shall explain how I got here.


Fiction makes people feel inspired and want to experience life in a new way, at least for a short while. When I read Before I Die, I wrote a list of what I wanted in my life:
-          To write a novel that will change someone’s life
-          To never be alone
-          To be able to have children
-          To find the truth of it all
-          To do something crazy
-          To feel true love
-          To have my family back
As you may have noticed, I have not completed my list.
Jamie, my husband, is a brute of a man. He smells of Sterling cigarettes, always smokes weed, and necks cheap beer from the corner shop on our street. My children, are incapable of quiet, even the youngest, Clara, who’s only 1, finds time in her busy day of sleeping and soiling herself to scream with her hearts content. Non-stop.
You must think this is my fault, that I am a bad wife and a terrible mother. To be perfectly honest, so do I. He is my husband. They are my children. I chose this life.
I will, however, explain WHY I have to hide my lust for writing on a secret laptop that I hide in my topmost underwear draw, and why my children hate me.
For you see, one person’s fiction, is another person’s reality.

My twin sister, Ocean, was a strong, independent girl of 18 before she died. As far as twins go, we are very different. We may both have written our feelings down, but she expressed her deepest, darkest secrets, whilst I spoke about social ineptitudes.
I remember finding Ocean’s diary one night when we were fifteen. We had recently moved from our beautiful suburban house to a shoddy flat in a busy and unfamiliar town. Due to the move, we now, after fifteen years of blissful separation, had to share a room. I distinctly remember feeling the amusement any fifteen year old girl does when they find a diary. Somebody else’s secrets. Somebody else’s pain. Instead of tear-stained pages, I found hastily glued in photos of Ocean and her friends, at the park, shopping, at sleepovers, the normal locations of a teen. Then I found something else, a photo that rocked me to me core. Ocean, my beautiful innocent sister, strung up with black leather ropes, unconscious and alone. Her pale skin on show for the world to see. On the back of the photo were the words,
I had a great night babe, we should do that again.
And if we don’t, I WILL find you.
I was speechless, was my sister being raped? Did she love him? Had she told our parents? Why hadn’t she told me? I had no clue. My Ocean would never do anything like this; she was a careful girl, wasn’t she?
I read the page opposite the photo, and once again found myself silenced.
“This is the photo Jamie sent me from last week; he says the camera LOVES me! I can’t wait to do it again, but I don’t want to tell anyone, they will get the wrong idea. I love Jamie and he would never hurt me – I know it.” A week later, I found my sister crying on her bed, clutching that very photo. He had sent it to a magazine and all her friends had seen it.
I wish that had been the worst of it.
Now my sister was as outcast as I was. I didn’t like it one bit, so I decided to change, to prove them all wrong, and hope she followed in my path.

I published my first article in the school newspaper the same week, talking about stereotypes and the way teenagers behave around each other. The isolation of our age, our generation. We can’t confide in our parents, they won’t understand. Our siblings will only tease, and our friends will always judge us – no matter how close you think they are to your heart.
The bullying stopped for Ocean, because she did exactly what I expected – she judged, and teased and hurt me. Just as every other girl did. I didn’t mind. I was used to it and it was worth it just to see her smile again. We only had a few more months left of GCSE’s and then it was college. I wanted to study Writing and Ocean had a new found passion for beauty. She got in with a new group of people, and I thought this time things would be different for us.
Alas, even when we had started college, I noticed she was acting different, much like she had before when I found her distraught and alone.  I soon discovered Jamie was in the picture again.

This time, it was drugs.
She was on something. She was addicted. I could tell by her face. She was pasty and aloof. Her eyes red-rimmed and her hair knotted. She started skipping classes and spent most of her time in our bathroom, sometimes she took Jamie in there with her, sometimes it was girls from college. She would come out with an expression like a frightened deer, caught in the headlights.
Over the next few months, she became more aggressive, yet fragile. She was never home. She missed our eighteenth birthday party because she was hospitalized after an overdose. It was never enough for her anymore.
She moved on to harder stuff, as I found out when I came home from a date with Eric Life, to find the needle still thrust into her arm as she lolled on the bedroom floor. I phoned an ambulance and our parents. Later on that week, my parents reported Ocean to the police. They discovered four kilos of cocaine powder in clear white bags.  She was to be imprisoned for a twelve year stretch after a three month stay in hospital for possession with intent to sell. She was covering for Jamie, who was dealing at the time and to avoid raids, stashed the drugs with Ocean.
Whilst in hospital, she had the typical withdrawal symptoms of any drug addict; she had crashed, and then started to crave the drugs as if they were vital for her survival. When that was denied, she stopped eating, stopped living. In the end, she stopped being herself.

My mother, a frail Italian immigrant, fainted when she saw her youngest daughter (a full hour younger than myself) hooked up to breathing machines and numerous tubes. Her beautiful olive green skin covered in bruises; once bright blue eyes sunken into her skull. She was a corpse, and she would stay that way.

I spent those three months by her side, alone and ashamed. Our parents had abandoned us. They couldn’t handle a drug addict for a daughter and a failed writer, a wreck of a child, barely out of college, who had quit her job, life and boyfriend, Eric, to take care of the fragile life form that lay dying beside her.
After about six or seven weeks, she woke up. I left a voicemail for our parents, but it was never returned. Shortly after that, my father came to tell us that they had moved, and would not be telling us where. We were abandoned and alone. No parents, no home, no money.
A week after that, our mother killed herself. Father blamed us, but I think it was her own guilt that got to her in the end. She had never wanted to leave Italy, neither of our parents did. It was only for the money and the lifestyle that we ever left. My father returned to Italy the same day as the funeral.
In the end, it was the lifestyle and the money that killed Ocean.

As you may have noticed, my life sounds somewhat similar to what Ocean’s would have become if she had survived.
Then again, it technically is, for I am Mrs Ocean Brenner, wife of Jamie Brenner, mother of three children that aren’t genetically mine.
That was the thing about me and Ocean, as long as you didn’t know us very well, you could never tell us apart. I never thought Jamie Brenner never knew my sister very well, but I was wrong.

You see, as far as anyone knows, it was Oasis Carpella, aged 18, that died at the hand of a drug dealer, trying to protect her bone idol sister and save her soul, but in fact, it was Ocean that died.

Perhaps, I should explain?
Ocean convinced me to switch places with her one night in January. It was snowing outside, and she wanted to feel it brisk coldness of the air before it was too late.
As Ocean had been deemed too sick to even eat, there were no policemen guarding her hospital door. It was only ever me with her. I was the only face she saw for three months. But I wasn’t the last.

Ocean betrayed my trust. That is all I know. I don’t know how it happened, or how she did it, but she ended up with an ex-boyfriend that night. Another drug user. He hooked her up and within minutes, she went into cardiac arrest. Her body was too fragile to cope with the drugs. The boy stabbed her to death in fear. It was later discovered that he had been taking been on heroine the night she died, a very powerful drug, especially for someone as unstable as her, and had overdosed. He was imprisoned for six months, before released later for good behaviour.
“Good behaviour”. That’s what I read in the local paper. Good behaviour. Clearly my sister’s murder did not count towards his behaviour.

I was unaware of what had happened that night until a friend of Ocean’s came to see me. Still in character at this point, I greeted her with warmth, as Ocean would have. Her face told me something was wrong. Was it my father? Had something happened?
The friend then proceeded to tell me that Oasis had been stabbed to death after being attacked by a drug dealer.  Everyone thought I was dead and that I was Ocean in this bed, supposedly dying from her drug abuse.

Only I knew that the dead body in the morgue six floors down, really was Ocean’s and I was still alive. A police report later informed me that Ocean had taken my jacket, with my ID cards in it. No one was the wiser and now I was trapped. Alone, a liar, and was about to be imprisoned for three years. I had no way out other than to tell the truth. Or so I thought.
Then something strange happened. Jamie came to the hospital. The drug ridden boyfriend of my now deceased sister. He knew Ocean better than I thought. He knew who was really dead. He gave me an ultimatum, which I have to admit, I saw no other way out, than to follow him. I scrambled out of Oceans hospital bed, got dressed, and escaped.
This was the action I regretted the most.

I hope you understand - I felt I had no choice. I was an innocent girl from a small town. I wasn’t ready to go to prison. Alas, karma has reached me and I am now imprisoned in a loveless marriage and a life that isn’t mine.
Now I bet you are flicking back to the first chapter, reading the age, how many children. Then flicking to the part where I confess how the children aren’t really mine. Now you are realising how old Ocean was when she died.
I am writing this book two years after her death. It is how I will grieve for her, how I shall miss her and how I shall escape.
Jamie beats me every day, to punish me for Oceans death. Some days I feel like I deserve it. Today I don’t. I’ve been hiding for over an hour. It’s almost dinner time and I can hear Jamie’s children screaming downstairs. But I don’t care. This is my sanctuary and I shall not leave it until I am dragged.
This will never be published, and I know it. I just hope that if it is, my parents shall read it. I want them to know what happened to Ocean and myself. Why we suffered as we did. Why she died instead of me. Why Ocean has never contacted them. Why I lied for her. Why I am stuck in her life. In her marriage. With him. Why I am miserable and Jamie loves it.
Why I will never give up.

Platonic Conception

Platonic Conception/ Fictional Biography (written in 2011)
Melissa Holden

I have created this in a premium version of my life, describing basic details in an upper-class society and lifestyle, whilst tying in home life and colloquial disruptions also, incorporating an exaggerated ideal of the perfect life from my point of view. This is written from a 32-year-old self, in 2026, whom is married and enjoying family life, using a colloquial yet middle class language form.

Hello, I am Melissa Holden-Smith of H-S Publications and Print Inc. I currently reside in Alabama USA in a small country manor, with a picket fence as you see in the movies, it looks quite charming really. My humble abode consists of; ten bedrooms (with en-suite bathrooms of course); an indoor pool – with diving equipment, a gym, and day spa, oh and a bowling alley. I own a pet dog; a Husky – Jeff, he is almost two now and I have two beloved children, Blaize-Marie and Tristan, well three – almost, as we have one on the way.

I own my own publishing firm, which has just hit worldwide status – we are known in every single country in the English-speaking world. We focus mostly on niche marketing, which actually makes more profit than bestsellers; although the bestselling writers would tell you otherwise.
I started the company in the UK, so that is where our Head Quarters is: I am constantly jetting back and forth, except when I am staying in my London flat for the summer; although I am thinking about selling the flat and buying a lake house in the Kentish countryside. I always loved Kent as that is where I grew up with my family. Then again, I am more of an acquaintance with spare money than family to them.

Once I had left university, I went on to join a small publishing house in Dartford; working my way up until I was Editor in Chief. I enjoyed this position although it was not challenging enough. The company shut down in 2015 and this is when I decided to launch my own company. The money from my first novel, “Reach for Freedom”, released in 2016 (when I was 22 years old), paid for the start up costs. The name of the company began as Holden-Smith Inc, but we found this wasn't powerful enough, it just didn't feel right.
The company had a rough start, my staff and I had a hard time, but we pushed through and eventually made it.
We have just celebrated our ten-year anniversary as a company, making roughly £54 million a year in profit, and that is just in the UK – I won’t even bother going into detail in concerns of the rest of the world.

I am planning to expand the company out to advertising, as it makes for a good start to a conglomerate, which is what I am inevitably aiming to achieve, I would call it H.S Corporations. It will be outstanding, excelling over those Disney sell-outs. I could never run a company that took advantage of a child’s dreams and their parents’ bank accounts. Something tells me that News Corporation is going to collapse soon, as they have kept their claws in the public for 20 more years than they should have – they shall slip soon enough. Therefore, I shall aim to take their target audiences; I may even start up a newspaper – I have good enough writers and journalists under my employment to do so.
It could even encourage Tristan to join the family business in the future. Alec believes it is good for the children to see a strong female role model in their lives, as women are constantly undermined in the business world and Tristan has already revealed a talent for a strong work ethic, he shall be sure to succeed.

I am currently sporting a $400,000 Ferrari convertible, in crimson, oh, it is gorgeous. It’s my pride and joy. George, (our maintenance guy) looks after Dory (the car) constantly, and is purely employed to do so. I am thinking of buying Alec(my husband) one, bless him he is clueless when it comes to cars – he is still driving the battered out Ford Fiesta he had when we first met fifteen years ago. He claims it is a “classic” since it has been around from before we were born, but I am just seeing a pile of rust. George and I are planning to surprise him with a 4X4 Range Rover, in black, with alloy wheels.

Our guiding star, Geoffrey the Butler, has been with us since England – moved with us out of loyalty. I do not know where we would be without him – he has helped us through it all. His family live with us in the manor, he has four children; motherless – wife passed away a few years ago. He was crushed by it, but he has started to move on.

On a lighter note, Alec has just received a grant for a science experiment – working on String Theory, he shall have to move away for a few months, but if he succeeds then it is revolutionary work – world changing in fact. We are all so proud of him, but it means he will have to miss the birth of the new baby, which is quite disappointing. I shall manage, but it will be tough for us all, and the home-staff will have to work around the clock for a while, but it should calm down after Alec comes back home.

Alec and I are expecting our third little drain on my resources  and our local hospital has so generously named the maternity ward after me when I gave them a small donation of $4 million. I can’t see why they are so fussed about it, but well it gives me something to brag about. Alec is going all out and the nursery is all decorated, we employed Laurence Llewellyn Bowen to do most of the work. He wants to be the Godfather, but I personally was thinking of James McAvoy and his wife, they are very sweet people and I am sure our little gem would benefit from their teachings and advantages.

We have to wait three more months to see the bundle of joy: Alec is hoping for a girl, whereas I am not too bothered. If it is a girl, Alec wants to call her Precious, although it seems a bit highbrow to me, and I quite like the idea of Esme, then again, I am fond of unusual names. Tristan thinks we should call it Charles if it is a boy, after Charles Darwin, but that’s because he is a budding scientist like Alec. They make me feel terribly low-key sometimes – until I correct Alec’s notes.
Blaize-Marie doesn't want a little brother, she thinks he and Tristan would team up and tease her, Tristan thinks it would be the same if it were a girl. The children cannot grasp the idea that they shall all get along just fine, but I am sure they can adjust to the concept of another child. People say it is always the third child that tips the balance – I should be pregnant with twins just to make things easier.

Blaize-Marie has just turned nine, and is celebrating in true Holden-Smith fashion – with an arrogantly big party! The little darling has “requested” a pony – a new one anyway, she already has two of them, a new set of clothes, some Gucci shoes (which I think is a bit much for a nine year old) and the latest iPhone so she can keep in touch with the neighbours’ children and the family back home. Alec thinks she will want a house just for her soon – she has an awful lot of belongings, we do spoil her rotten! Unfortunately she has become a bit of a complacent child and I don’t blame the poor thing – she can get so lonely sometimes with all the hours I work at the company.

Tristan on the other hand is quickly becoming a strapping young man, of thirteen. He has followed in my footsteps, thank goodness and is going to university…although slightly earlier than us as he is off to Harvard in September to study Political Science. We cannot believe it ourselves, but that’s what you get when you combine a Booker Prize winner and a world-renowned scientist. I do not know how the boy manages with all the pressure he is under, but he does it well, and is even writing poetry on the side. The depths he can go to with emotions and conventional heartache is astounding – he hasn't even had a girlfriend yet, but when he does, he will be a heart breaker, I can tell.
I am worried he may miss his friends from public school, but he makes friends quickly, so perhaps he shall be fine after all.  I think he shall miss his band members the most, he started singing when he was five and has been playing guitar for two years I believe. He gets his musical talents from me – I am a member of a small girl group – Belle-Rose. We mostly do charity concerts – I've no need for the money.

I don’t know where I would be without my family and my company. If I had to describe sublime happiness, my life would be it.