Tuesday, 9 February 2016
Yep! As you may have guessed from the discrepancy (never 'disconnect' - discrepancy, disparity even; but never ever, bloody 'disconnect') between the picture title and this post’s heading. today's offering should have been titled PREFERRED TRAINING OUTCOMES - 1: EXPRESSING HER GRATITUDE, but I messed up and don't want to spend the time going back on it now because I want to get some writing done. I shouldn't have been messing about with this one really, but I was tweaking something by Angela Fox she'd sent me to look at and that gave me an idea and while searching around for a couple of bits and bobs on the Internet for use in that I came across the various elements I have put together here.
I am presently thick with fluey cold virus anyway and can't get out to the gym or anything so I figured I had plenty of time in hand and could afford an hour or so to sling a few bits together for my own amusement. Of course it didn't just TAKE an hour or so - these things never do - and now I'm beating myself up about it and having wasted so much time; on the other hand it wouldn't too bad as a cover design I guess, at least as a starting point.
I'm not sure how well this is going to look on your particular monitor, so if it looks a bit washed out try boosting the contrast, if you download it, in whatever photo viewer etc you use. It looks better if a bit on the dark side of things. I made up two variations. This is the darker version of the two (in terms of shade and light not storyline) but the two screens I use are both displaying it differently - and I don't know which one to 'beleive' as it were. I performed a whole alignment procedure a couple of weeks back when I got a new monitor (second hand, obviously) but I’m gonna have to re-align and calibrate them again (I think my kids have been messing with ‘em). But not not right now coz I have some writing to do!
I am presently reworking and extending the section you read last time, fixing stuff and trying to work out what those damn gloves should look like and how to best go about painting their picture in words (which is what it is all about) without out going on and on for pages and pages, getting bogged down in the minutia and losing those readers not so enamoured and enraptured by the fine detail.
I know exactly what their design features are, their function and what they are supposed to do and not do. I can see 'em in my mind's eye and am satisfied they could exist and could be manufactured (even in a domestic setting) form simple easy to acquire materials and with simple tools and would behave exactly as I later describe in the work (you'll have to wait for that bit I'm afraid!). All I need now do is translate those mental images into the written word and get them down on the page - sound's simple doesn't it?
But anyway, I have at least ironed out some problems; so now the girl gets to keep the same name throughout, for example - though it is still shortened to 'Mandy'.
Actually I knew someone called 'Mandy' once. She was actually Dr Amanda Something-or-other P.h.D. - and the type that took no prisoners - but it is was great fun to refer to her as 'Mandy', not in malice though; I really quite liked her (don't ask!)...
Oh look! I've digressed again... Oh well...
Anyway, feedback is always welcome as are writing and pictorial commissions - but mostly the latter.
PS: Did I say I originally intended to title the above pic 'STEPMUM'S VISIT 1: '? I'm not sure why I backed away from that, but as I say above, feedback always welcome, so why not let me know which you'd have preferred and (preferably) why - if you can put your finger on it; and I often can't. Seee Ya!
Friday, 29 January 2016
Might be a bit rough, this one - just knocked it out today, which is damn quick for me. It fits in with something else I've been working on, but this bit's been a bit rushed - so let me know if you spot any 'howlers'
The pretty wide-eyed teenager blinked against the harsh glare of the spotlight through a soft veil of tears. She was still struggling – and failing - to deal with the sheer fast-forward rapidity of the events that had led up to this moment, the ground-rushing blur that separated the mundane normality of the train, then the taxi cab ride and finally the roads, leafy lanes and avenues of this, one of the more distant reaches of London suburbia, from the unreal surroundings she now found herself in.
Unthinkingly, her arms aching, she lowered both her hands for a moment, reaching back and cupping her tight throbbing bottom, as best she was able, through the unfamiliar smooth fine-weave manmade fabric of the little tunic dress they'd dressed her in, sensing the heat radiating off, gingerly feeling the shallow furrows and thin raised edges, tracing their outlines beneath her fingertips and feeling the odd slippery sensation of the dress fabric sliding back and forth over the underwear she'd been given. Then - remembering herself and fearful lest this act might be interpreted as 'willfulness' - she rushed her hands back to the top of her head, instinctively going to interlock her slender fingers before touching her fingertips together instead, biting her lower lip nervously as the little thin light gloves - so dainty, so delicate, so sensitive - nevertheless steadfastly resisted even this simple maneuver.
The movement was swift, cat-like, was accompanied by a hissing rush of starchy dress fabric and came from behind her and to one side where the woman had presumably been hovering stealthily out of sight all this time, hidden away even from the view of the room afforded by the mirror, and as quiet as to have had young Miranda Burden-Braithwaite convinced she'd been left alone.
She yelped as the woman's fingers sharply slapped her right cheek, like a puppy whose paw had just been accidently trodden upon, a glimpse of navy fabric sleeve and buttoned cuff coming and going in a flash in the mirror as the woman stepped in and out of view. Words tumbled from her lips, as accidently and uncontrollably as dried beans spilling out and rattling across the floor from an over-filled hessian sack someone had just carelessly kicked over, her mind bursting with questions, conflictions and contradictions. This was a mistake too, a kneejerk reaction she'd yet to learn to repress – but she'd learn that trained instinctive restraint, given time:
“What do you think you're...? ”
The second slap was harder, involving part of the woman's palm too this time, but still somewhat restrained from the kind of strike she knew the woman COULD deliver, far short of leaving her seeing stars, just a reddening sting intended as much to shock as produce real pain as such. There was no hint of anger in the simultaneous admonishment; it was just a dispassionately calm, impersonally detached, instruction delivered with precise and authoritative enunciation, like a pronouncement issued by a judge with the full and vindicated weight of the law behind it, the woman's voice almost warm, almost apologetic, and belying the harsh edge her accent's slightly Germanic character tended to impose.
“No talking!” The woman's voice softening, she added: “I'm sorry, but talking is just not allowed – you know that!”
“Do you WANT the cane... Again?”
Miranda blanched, then shuddered, her cheeks colouring, her left cheek flushing with red to the point of competing with its palm-stung right hand side compatriot, though lacking the latter's fingermarks. The cane to which the woman referred hung directly in her eye line.
Glossy, polished and as white as bleached whalebone, its twisting brown-red leather wrist strap, a figure of eight loop arising from a short leather-bound section which functioned as a hand grip, was strung over a small brass hook which extended out from the wall alongside the mirror she had been left facing. Fashioned from a long smoothed and sanded length of ash – chosen as much for its elastic, resilient qualities as its toughness - and gently tapering along its length from the width of a young woman's little finger to a point a little thinner than a pencil, this implement of discipline was every bit as pliant and as whippy as it looked, a fact her freshly tenderized young bottom could thoroughly attest to.
It was a terrible thing: When applied by experienced, professional, hands – as it had already been; several times since her arrival in fact - it was difficult to comprehend just what a thoroughly efficacious instrument of correction something so simple could be. Something else her near-flayed young bottom could attest to.
That was another concept she was having difficulty dealing with - beyond the shocking blitzkrieg change of circumstances she'd undergone in the last... how long had it been? - the concept of the term, 'professional', as applied in the context of what she simply saw - as any modern teenager would have, let alone had she had the relatively 'progressive', permissive, upbringing Miranda had would - as an abusive vicious beating, or rather, series of beatings, since she'd already suffered more than her nervous system could take. 'Professional disciplinarian' was a term that beggared belief, that belonged in the lexicon of the kind of perverted literature whispered about in tight secret circles or from back in the darker, more shadowy corners of the Victorian era, along with 'correction', 'reform school', 'workhouse', 'reformatory', house of correction' and 'corporal punishment'.
“ Please.. I...” Was all she could think to say – it was too much; FAR too much; but she was desperate; so, SO desperate. She needed respite, just a little rest, time to regroup, to re-assess.
“Ok, then – have it your way, but we'll give your bottom a rest I think... Hands out in front of you, please... Three strokes of the cane, I think!”
“No, please... Not my hands... you don't understand... I'm a,a,a....”
“Ok... SIX strokes of the cane. Now... GET THOSE HANDS OUT IN FRONT OF YOU... RIGHT NOW - MANDY!!! PALMS UPPERMOST - MANDY!!! You're not an ANYTHING, at the moment, just a silly headstrong child in need of being taken in hand. There is a MASSIVELY wide gulf between winning a scholarship and actually attending the college, let alone attaining a professional standard, you stupid little girl. In any case I'll be aiming at your palms - and aiming to use the slender, end section, of the cane; besides, those gloves will protect your fingers.”
Shaking, slowly, reluctantly, Miranda lowered her hands from her head, extending her arms out in front of her and turning her palms uppermost as instructed. The gloves were indeed a singularly unique design, a fact now born out as a broad velvety-pink ovoid area of palm came into view each side whereupon a seamed cutout region in each soft dove-white glove purposely exposed the sensitive silk-soft central area of the palm for just such punitive attention as each was about to receive.
“Higher up – and stretch those arms right out at shoulder height, elbows locked and supporting your right hand with your left underneath… Yes, that’s the way. You see, Mandy? We’ll soon have you properly tamed; a little discipline is all you need!”
Biting her lip she watched the woman in reflection as she first crossed behind her before then coming round to the side to reach for the cane, the woman brushing past her as she reached out to pluck the cane from the hook, deftly slipping her wrist through the leather wrist strap as she stepped back and to the side to give herself room, her slender fingers purposefully curling and tightening around the crisscross bound leather hand grip.
Raising the cane to shoulder height the woman slashed it three or four times through the air experimentally; a ritualistic action cold-bloodedly calculated to work on her subject’s nerves as much as to ‘get her arm in’. The springy, tapering length of ash, curving under the twin forces of momentum and air resistance, made an almost musical swooping sound – and the teenage girl cringed, her eyes following the cane’s arcing path in the mirror as if mesmerized, her gaze locked on its tip.
“Don't look at me, Mandy – look at yourself in the mirror, not me. Take your eyes off yourself, just for an instant – or close your eyes - and I'll start again... from scratch!”
Amelia’s gaze involuntarily switched to the woman wielding the wicked looking implement of correction, the thin lips set in a surprisingly youthful face made older by the tightly pulled back hair, the incongruous full skirted long-sleeved Victorian frock with its mutton chop puffed shoulders and tightly-belted waist and silver nurse’s watch pinned to its bust. Then just as quickly she fixed her gaze on her own reflection in the mirror, trying not to see the childish short grey zip-fronted school pinafore dress and the elasticated legs of the white acetate pantaloons peeking out from beneath its abbreviated hem.
“The same applies if you lower your hands, unlock your elbows or step back for any reason…”
With phenomenally unerring accuracy and uncompromising force and energy, she brought the slim pliant cane down directly across the girl’s exposed right palm. Miranda let out a soprano squeal, equal parts shock and pain, as the whippy pencil-thin end section made contact with the soft flesh exposed through the oval opening in the palm of her glove. The sting was unbearable, like a row of wasp stings placed end to end without gap right across the palm of her hand. The urge to squeeze her hand between her knees or under the opposite armpit was almost undeniable, almost beyond the scope of her willpower to control; but control it she did, determined not to give the woman any excuse for a repeat performance, buoyed up by the fact that having survived one there were but five more to go; and of course the next would be on the other hand, giving her right hand time to recover; and THAT hand only had to survive two more itself.
“Swap over your hands, Mandy… That’s the way – left hand on top this time, right hand underneath supporting it… Hold it out higher – arms straight... Higher, girl, HIGHER! That’s it – that’s a good girl, Mandy!”
The second stroke slashed in with similar markswoman-like accuracy and with equally uncompromising force and energy dead across the center of the girl’s exposed right palm, the fine bridal-white fabric of the remainder of the glove surrounding the oval window cutout, being completely out of harm’s way, doing nothing to ameliorate the sting. Again, somehow the teenager was able to fight the urge to withdraw her hand and dance around pressing it between her thighs – though this time it took a supreme effort of will, as if the stinging pain developing in the two palms were somehow adding together…
The teen suddenly heard the woman intone, the woman’s tone solemn as if presiding over some sort of officially sanctioned ceremony. Her blood ran cold, her legs, seeming to liquefy beneath her, threatening to give way; it felt as if an unbearably heavy burden had been suddenly been slumped down on her shoulders, pressing her into the ground:
“Wh,what?” She heard herself say, somewhere far away – then bit her lip to prevent herself saying anything more.
“Hold out your right hand again, Mandy. Higher, girl, higher! Stop crying, girl, and just do what I say, and there’ll be no need for more unpleasantness.”
“Bu, but…” Hearing the woman disciplinarian’s words she was suddenly aware she was indeed crying – in floods of tears in fact; and that it had had started the moment she’d heard that count ‘one’. She was also aware that once again words had come tumbling out her mouth unbidden.
“I said ‘one’! You can work it out for yourself, can’t you? Right and left equals one stroke – that should be easy enough for you to comprehend. So, hold out your right hand again, Mandy – and we’ll get on!”
Somehow, with a superhuman effort of will, Amelia managed once again to extend out her right hand as instructed, supporting it with her left from underneath, her arms out straight in front of her and level with her shoulders and shaking as she fought to lock out her elbows against all natural instinct.
The air seemed to sizzle - and for the second time the cane viciously bit into the teenager’s right palm, this time seemingly sending a searing electric bolt of white hot flame flashing up to her elbow, the reflex urge to simultaneously squeeze her fingers into her palm, instinctively forming a protective balled fist, countered by the resilient springy inserts discreetly hidden within the fingers of the little white gloves. Wincing, fighting the urge to shut her eyes, she fought to hold back further tears – and failed. She wailed, sobbed - and torrents poured down her cheeks as if a river had burst its banks.
“Now the left again…”
She heard the implacable heartless woman instruct, coldly, her voice as impassionate as at the start. Somehow Miranda was still managing to keep her arms up at shoulder level and her hands out submissively in front of her, but was showing signs of hesitation now, delaying repositioning her left hand for its second stroke – she heard the woman begin to count, measuring off seconds… The meaning was clear:
“Five… four… three…”
Not knowing quite how – and while keeping her arms straight out in front of her – she re-crossed her wrists, positioning her left hand atop her burning, sizzling right, beating the count by just one second. The cane stroke came immediately, before she even had time to brace herself; it felt like I branding iron had been drawn across her defenseless, stretched palm.
She heard the woman slowly intone “…Four more to come…” she heard the woman add, a vague sense of something which could have been taken as enthusiasm edging its way into her voice where before there had been just ice cold detachment.
“Enough! No more talking! Remember it’s your inability to control your tongue which has earned you this correction in the first place.” Came the brusque warning. “You’d be well advised to know there are other methods I know of which can be put to use in order to deter and discourage a girl from talking” the woman went on. “Now swap hands and put out your right again… Four more strokes to come – on each hand…”
“Pl,pl,please – not four more.. please… not that many – not on my hands, you’ll damage the nerves… You’ll stop me from…”
“What nonsense! Damage your nerves indeed – and what’s so special about YOUR hands, hmm?”
“But you don’t under...”
“Ok – we’ll start again from scratch; I DID warn you…SIX strokes to come… Now get those hands out!”
“NNNo…please…my b,bottom…cane my b,bottom instead…”
“I’ll tell you what… Yes. I’ll cane your bottom, if you want – as WELL as your hands; six on each palm AND six across your bottom, knickers down…. Now get those hands back out – else it’ll be TWELVE across each palm and TWELVE across your bottom; along with a repeat dose tomorrow morning to look forward to… How do you feel about THAT?”
Wednesday, 6 January 2016
“Now run along to my housekeeper, ‘LADY Julia’, and ask her nicely if she wouldn’t mind you helping wash the dishes - then you can go scrub the scullery floor…”
Yep! Just had my 600th follower on Tumblr! Why not help me make it 1000 for this new year of 2016? Sign up now!
So – I decided to fix my non-working monitor (one of two I use) before the computer, which I left running so as I could look up circuit diagrams and so on. The faulty component was obvious once I’d got the thing apart (no easy task for a fumble-fingers like me!) – a blackened, charred capacitor in the backlight circuitry, which crumbled to carbonised dust at a touch – but its role in the scheme of things, and more importantly its value and spec, was more difficult to discern and needed the aforementioned diagrams and service manual. The value and specification in particular seemed closely guarded secrets. But finally it became clear what was required was a capacitor of 22pf, 5%, low ESR, high working temperature and 3KV working voltage…So, I’ve now ordered the part for the princely sum of £1.20 including VAT and delivery (actually I’ve ordered 4 at 25P each + VAT), it has been dispatched, and it should be here tomorrow or Friday. But whether I can actually get the bloody screen back together again is another matter entirely!!!
So, that having been done, and having updated Pinterest, Tumblr, Deviant Art and knocked out this little offering (just to cheer myself up). I’m signing off until such a time this machine I’m presently using is back on its feet (which might not be until the middle of next week if I’m unlucky! It all depends on how easy it turns out to be to restore Windows off my external drive setup once I’ve installed the new hard drives – and there’s a LOT more to THAT than meets the eye, since Windows cannot boot directly via USB (well Windows XP can’t anyway – coz it tests the USB ports as it boots up and thereby cuts itself of from its own source. It also can’t copy itself either – but that’s a separate issue; and one somewhat easier to overcome).
I’ll still be contactable via email, using my smart phone (since both my laptops have ‘issues of their own) and will be regularly tweeting (a New Year’s resolution).
Bye bye for now. Fingers crossed – and wish me luck… I’m turning off...right...now…
Thursday, 31 December 2015
Hi once again folks for one more time, certainly the last for 2015 and possibly for some time, depending on my desktop computer’s reaction to its upcoming surgery – the kitchen table awaits!
I had been intending to operate yesterday but got distracted by various other commitments, for which I’m now glad - and luckily I had left the computer running - because thanks to contributor, ‘Candii’, who has clearly been picking through the Internet with a fine toothed comb, I can now share with you the second part of that Nurse Helena video I posted some time back.
For those of you who have yet to view the first part or would like reminding I have included the first part again here also (above), to save you the bother of searching the archive - part two follows on below…ENJOY!!! As I've said before, the imagery at least (even if not the actual storyline) in the Nurse Helena material (especially the 'stills' - of which I have built up quite a collection now, thanks in no little part to the self same 'Candii') is the closest I have ever come across (other than the stuff I have created myself for my own satisfaction, some of which I have shared with you in the past) to that I attempt to evoke in my writing, particularly the INSTITUTIONALISED series.
I’m now shutting down this computer for the last time in it’s present configuration for repairs, but can still read and respond to emails, comments etc from my smart phone.
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!!!
Wednesday, 30 December 2015
With my desktop computer on its last legs (I left it running all over Christmas for fear it would not boot up again once turned off) I thought I'd do one more thing before it goes under the knife, so to speak. I've been away for Christmas (nowhere exotic - insufficient funds - just a lady friend's place) but am back home for a couple of days leading up to New Years Eve and with the kids still away at their Gran's and the flat to myself (more importantly, the kitchen table as a makeshift theatre) now would seem the perfect time to perform the necessary surgery. And I've determined tomorrow shall be the red letter day - so wish me luck!
So here is the Garth Toyntanen interpretation of (take on) one of Bobby Venice’s Deviant Art ‘rejuvination’ pics (Google Bobby Venice and Deviant Art), this interpretation inspired by one of my storylines. To be honest this is an unfinished work and is waiting for annotation and / or speech bubble but I thought I’d put it out now since my computer could fail at any moment. It could do with a little refinement here and there too, for example it is a little ragged and there is quite a lot of fringing around some of the elements which ordinarily I'd deal with - but as I say, I'm pushing my luck already as it is! I'll return to it at a later date once my computer issues have been sorted - AND get that new book out I have been harping on about for so long,
It brings together several elements you will have seen before, such as the rubber or polythene (you decide) mental patient dress, the cane and commode stool. The background (beds, nurse-station desk ect) is from something created for me long ago by Angela Fox for an illustrated version of my third book: INSTITUTIONALISED 3: A CONTINUUM OF DISCIPLINE.
So there you have it - possibly the last thing you'll hear from me for a while if tomorrow's surgery doesn't go well!
A belated Merry Christmas to you all, and best wishes for a happy and lucky new year! Hears hoping 2016 works for you, whatever your hopes and desires! For myself, having passed my level 3 personal trainer qualification, my hope is to quickly build up a stable of clients; specialising in the 'older athelete' with my 'unique selling point' being that as an 'older athlete' myself I'm not asking anyone to do or achieve anything I can't myself; after all, a twenty-something gym god can be a little intimidating if not downright demotivating after a certain age. Well, that's my belief anyway!
HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!
Tuesday, 8 December 2015
This one is part photo manip by yours truly, Garth Toyntanen, based on - and inspired by - the plot of one of my unfinished upcoming books, and part 3D computer generated art produced by someone well known in the area but who doesn’t particularly want to be identified with my interpretation.
I actually created this some time back, but held back on publishing it until I'd asked permission, and then until I got around to removing the original signature from the computer generated element... And then I forgot about it altogether - until now. But I've not been able to do any writing today anyway (see below) and had reason to check thorough my files and folders (also see below), so when I blundered into it again I thought I might as well get it done, finished and 'out there'.
I may be away a while, incidentally. My RAID 0 hard drive system (2 X 10,000 RPM Raptors) is showing signs of failing; I’ve backed up and created a cloned drive to restore from, and I’m all set to swap over to a brace of SSDs (larger) - but once I switch off, I doubt it’ll reboot again until the hard drive change-over is complete.
And It won't be as easy as it sounds coz I'll probably have to run the new drives in RAID 0 too (which is not RAID at all of course - as I've said before), since otherwise I'll not have sufficient storage space, or I'll have to host Windows on one disc and the data files on the over. But whatever happens - at least I've everything backed up one way or the other.
The funny thing is; only a couple of weeks ago I was in email correspondence with somebody who'd just had a fatal computer crash. It made me check my own preparations in that regard - and of course, need I say, it turned out my last backup was way back in June 2014!!! So when it took circa 12 boot attempts this morning, had the worst come to the worst, the majority of the important stuff was already backed up... Oh well...sigh!... here goes...
PS: Seen the comments! Will get back to you from my phone if I can't get this thing up and running again in a timely fashion.
Thursday, 3 December 2015
(By the way - let me know whether - or not - you like these photo manip thingys I've been creating; personally I prefer the term 'photo montage art')
So… She’s blundered into this. Perhaps lured by easy money – a clinical trial; OK it’s residential; OK, it’ll use up all summer, that long break before moving on, going on to university, perhaps getting a job, going her own way; but SO much money, SO much independence at the end of it, just for sitting around, being looked after, taking a few psychological tests now and then; what could POSSIBLY go wrong?
On the other hand perhaps she has been persuaded by other means, perhaps through a skilfully built scaffold of rapport and trust, allowing herself to be guided by some persuasive individual, superficially on her side or even apparently devoid of any connection whatsoever with the grasping stepmother, overbearing legal guardian or other nemesis she has been so keen to distance herself from…
But appearances can be deceptive!
Or perhaps her independent headstrong spirit has already been slowly eroded over time in a stepwise fashion through psychological manipulation and the sheer power of will of her guardian to the point at which she has just simply been told she is to spend time ‘in care’ in a ‘rest home’ while her guardian takes a short cruise…”…just a few weeks, dear…”.
Either way, she’s been ‘put away’. But she’s committed no crime; there’s no evidence (or little evidence) of reduced mental capacity or her possessing insufficient mental competency to govern her own affairs… She’s temporarily under control, right where you want her - albeit relatively short-term. Now the question becomes one of how to KEEP her that way, over the mid to longer-terms? So - how would YOU go about it? (Come on - let's have some feedback! There used to be MASSIVE discourses on such matters back in the day in the Reader's Letters pages of those old spanking mags)
Well, of course the first of these scenarios was the premise behind the INSTITUTIONALISED trilogy – but it still interests me, despite the fact that my latest opens in an entirely different way.
Actually I’m still struggling with how to put together an opening section for the new book – I’m dedicating the remainder of today to it; after this post I’m doing nothing else.
I want to be able to make clear to the reader at the outset that the direction is going to be VERY different from other author’s tales of domination and corporal punishment and that all manner of different and surprising themes (not to mention twists and turns) will be explored in upcoming parts / chapters (it has always been planned / conceived as a sort of serialised multi-part thing). But at the same time I’m trying to adhere to a more linear storytelling style than my earlier stuff and minimise all that shifting back and forth between the present and the back-story which a few of you have in the past described as ‘Kafkaesque’ (though one or two folk have said THAT is what they liked about the early stuff).
Post Script: Two days ago I finally received a confirmation letter saying I’ve satisfied the criteria to be qualified as a gym instructor and personal trainer. But even THAT has come with a proviso that “it could be several months” before I receive my certificate! Several MONTHS!!! It says the letter itself will suffice in the mean time to satisfy insurers. But what it DOESN’T say, explicitly, is if it will be accepted by REPs (the Register of Exercise Professionals) without the certificate itself having been issued, without inclusion on which one cannot operate officially as a personal trainer here in the UK. So I have issues! But it came with a head office email address – so I’ll be exploring those issues later… but not until I have some sort of opening structure for the new book (it doesn’t help that I have at least four part finished projects going at once, some ideas overlapping…)