[ooc: Eddy's no longer in TM, but she will reply to the occasional prompt when she gets inspired. She couldn't pass on this one.]

Write about my mother?

Bloody hell.

Growing up, I had a very active fantasy life where I found out I was, in fact, adopted. It would be the only way to explain how I ended up with a mother like her. Sometimes I feel as if I'm being punished since she and Saffy get on so well. Perhaps being an evil old hag skips a generation and I was lucky enough to escape that fate.

It's not easy being such a fabulous individual when your mother is terminally uncool. And that woman steals. I don't know how many times I've passed that bloody charity shop she makes donations to and seen my designer clothes in the shop window. I haven't done a full inventory, but I sincerely doubt that is all she's been taking.

I wish she and Saffy weren't so alike. Maybe then Saff would see what a cool mum I really am. Though, if she were to think I'm cool, that would probably automatically make me uncool. Bugger.

To the outside world, I am a mover and a shaker. I am a dynamic businesswoman of the highest order, someone to envy and strive to be. I'm a loving mother, a loyal friend and I have a who's who list of the best connections a PR slash TV mogul could possibly want. If I could access them, I'd be even more powerful. Bloody Blackberry.

Saffy perceives me as a selfish, fat woman who doesn't love her and who's on an eternal journey to find herself. I know this because I saw the play she wrote about her life, most of which focused on what a horrible mother I am. Luckily for me, the audience thought it was a comedy. Otherwise, I might very well have been lynched by a theatre full of touchy feely types. I did my best to make up with Saff after that, but, like an open bottle of liquor around Pats, it didn't last long.

Patsy perceives me as her best friend. We do any and everything together. I am her rock, in many ways, and even if she never tells me that, I know it's true. We take care of each other when we need to.

My mother perceives me as a nuisance and target of her old woman abuse. Oh, don't let her fool you. Beneath that wrinkled, sickeningly sweet old woman face lies the heart of a serial killer. I'm certain she has bodies in the cellar. Just don't drink any tea when you go over to her house, that's all I'm saying. You've been warned.

The most dangerous thing I have ever done cannot be repeated here, darling. I will say, however, that it involves two members of the British royal family, a constable from Scotland Yard, and approximately 100 metres of nylon rope. If there weren't currently a restraining order and a gag order on file, I'd be quite happy to share my adventure with you.

The second most dangerous thing I have ever done is ski off a trail, almost die and see the face of God. All in the same day. I will admit I didn't know what I was doing, I'd gotten lost, and it was rather terrifying. But, when I woke up from my vision - and it was a vision, sweetie, not a drug-induced hallucination as Saffy insists - I knew what my purpose in life was. I had to free my daughter from the shackles of her fiancé and stop her wedding. That story will be left for another time.

But there. Almost dying while skiing. Sounds rather fantastic, if I do say so myself.

My dream home?

Darling, I live in my dream home. Though, it could be bigger, more expensive, filled with more expensive things, and next door to Madonna and Guy Richie's house. But other than that, this is my dream home.

I've always wanted a fountain, though. One of those gorgeous, marble things with statues of naked people holding urns and fruits, and a goddess, or some other mythological celebrity, sitting on a marble throne in the middle of it as the other statues dance around...

Bollocks, that's a fountain I saw in Caesar's Palace when Pats and I went there to find rich husbands.

Actually, now that I think about it, my dream home would be a hotel on the Las Vegas strip. Honestly, darling, the amount of money that flows into those places is amazing. And everybody, sweetie, absolutely anybody who’s anybody will eventually stay in some gorgeous suite in one gorgeous hotel or another. Money and celebrities, darling. What else does a good home need? And I can’t forget the room service and housekeeping staff, of course.

My only condition for living there would be having a law put in place that makes it a crime for some overweight tourist from Oklahoma to wear both a bum bag and spandex bike shorts in front of me. Or, if you must expose us to every bump and roll, sir, at least don't bend over to pick up a coin and give new meaning to "there's a bad moon on the rise." My bloody eyes still haven't recovered from that.

260 words

It was one of those days that sounded as if it belonged in a romance novel. Eddy was swept up in the embrace of a strong, brutish man, crushed against him as he groaned and breathed heavily. Her blouse was ripped open and she felt as if she could faint at any moment from the emotion involved.

"Mum? Are you going to be all right?"

Eddy turned her head to look at Saffy, blinking slowly.

"Darling, help mummy..."

Her face set in a grimace, Saffy watched as the trashman helped her mother out of the dumpster and set her on her feet. Considering that he'd just spent the last fifteen minutes wrestling with her to try and get her out of there, it was a rather nice thing for him to do.

"I'll take her," Saffy said, smiling at him. "I'm so sorry for this."

"Ay," the man nodded. He looked at Eddy and burst out laughing before climbing out, himself, and heading for his dustcart and a day that didn't include a drunken woman who'd fallen asleep in the garbage thinking it was a guest room in bloody Windsor Castle.

My father was a good man. He'd have to be to be married to the useless old bag who insists that she's my mother. For the most part, my father lived his life without a clue. It would be a rather lovely way to go about life, I'd think. If you didn't know any better, there was nothing you could be upset about. Plus, it's hard to want something if you don't even know it exists. So he always seemed to muddle along, content with his life and his job and his family. At least, I assume he was content. I hardly spoke to the man.

My father died a few years ago. It was a life-changing event for me. It was that loss that made me realise something extremely important:

I, too, was going to die.

I was going to die and there would be nothing left of me as a legacy. I'm still concerned about that and I've thought about erecting a statue to myself but, really, I want to lose at least two stone before I model for it. The last thing I want to see is people staring up at my immortality and seeing stretch marks.

According to my psychic psychologist, one should not dwell on one's failures. It is for this reason that he didn't want me to answer this week's question. However, since I feel that I should attempt to answer everything, I will say this:

My worst failure is not being a perfect human being.

There. We're all in the same boat with that one (some of us more than others) and there's no shame in it. I don't want to be perfect, therefore, I'm not really a failure. Can you imagine a world with nothing but perfect human beings? Outside of Los Angeles, I mean. Boring. Boring and predictable and there wouldn't be anyone to make fun of, and then where would I be? Not that I'm perfect (in this world's eyes) but making fun of people's flaws is one of the things that gets me through.

One of these days I'll have to have a free for all and go after some of the people around here. Really, darling, have you seen them? And the babble they spew is beyond entertaining.

Bollocks. Saffy just told me to play nice or she'll start spilling family secrets.

There have been two occasions when I have made sacrifices for love. Of course, if I knew then what I know now, I can't say that I would have done either of them.

The first was when I married Marshall and had our son, Serge. I love my son, but he began my descent to the potato-like figure I possess today.

The second was when I married Justin and had our daughter, Saffron. I love my daughter, but she completed my descent to the potato-like figure I possess today.

Of course, if you ask anyone who knew me as a plump child, they'll tell you that I really didn't sacrifice anything to have those children. But, my best friend Patsy will officially go on record as saying that they ruined me. What greater sacrifice can a woman give for love than her figure?

Oh, and I take back that comment about not making those sacrifices now. If I didn't have Saffy, who would I have around to take care of me when I get old?

I'm afraid I don't believe in superstitions. Crosses fingers behind back. They're nothing but silly stories borne out of ignorance and fear of the unknown. Knocks wood.

Besides, I've met God face to face and she told me that superstitions are nothing but complete and utter nonsense.

Knocks over salt shaker, tosses some over left shoulder.

Now, I'll tell you something I do believe in: Being cautious. Really, darling, there's nothing wrong with taking a few precautions to ensure that things go smoothly when one is embarking on some sort of adventure. Why, I'm merely being cautious when I call my psychic psychologist before meeting with a potential client. I'm seeking his advice. The fact that I do it at the exact same time and only use the phone in the kitchen is because I'm convinced he helped me land Twiggy. That's called duplicating the pattern of success, or some such bollocks. But superstition has nothing to do with it.

Patsy isn't superstitious either. She spilled some salt once - just used it to do tequila shooters.

Eddy stood on the dock, her head covered by a silk scarf, leather coat pulled tightly around her as she watched the small boat approach.

"There is no way in hell I am getting in that thing."

Patsy pursed her lips as she looked from her friend to the boat, then back to her friend. "Yeah, I'm not so sure you should, Eds. We could be facing a boating disaster of Titanic proportions."

Turning to the taller woman, Eddy looked suitably annoyed. "You know, I don't need you reminding me about how fat I am, Pats. I do have eyes. I can see when I look in the bloody mirror that if I were to get into that pathetic excuse for a boat," she pointed angrily at the vessel, "we'd be swimming for our lives!"

With her usual cool detachment, Patsy nodded and slipped a flask out of her jacket pocket. "Here, sweetie. Have a swig." As Eddy took the flask and did just that, Patsy crossed her arms in front of her chest. "We don't have to go, you know. We could get out of the cold, get out of the fog and head back to the suite."

Eddy's spirits immediately picked up at that suggestion. "We could, couldn't we?" she said with a conspiratorial smile, handing back the flask. "Sit around all day eating lovely food and drinking fabulous drinks. And really," she wrinkled her nose at the boat, "I'm not into doing things that call for me to be out on the water. This vacation should be about what I want to do."

"Now you're talking," Patsy said with a goofy smile as they turned around and started heading back to the hotel. "Though, I do like the sea."

"Darling, you don't like the sea. You like the seamen," Eddy smirked as they walked.

Tilting the flask back, Patsy took a healthy swallow and sighed. "Oh yeah, babe."