The word of the week is:
Definition of batter
- to beat persistently or hard; pound repeatedly.
- to damage by beating or hard usage.
- to deal heavy, repeated blows; pound steadily.
- a damaged area on the face of type or plate.
- the resulting defect in print.
- a mixture in baking
- an aqueous solution of baked or deep fried goods.
Here is an excerpt from the short story collection, “There Are No Ghosts in the Soviet Union” by Reginald Hill
Chislenko did not pause but kept going to the seventh floor where by comparison things seemed almost calm. An elderly grey-faced man in lift operator’s uniform was leaning against a wall. An out-of-breath medic stood by him with a hypodermic in one hand and a jar of smelling salts in the other, but the liftman was taking his own medication from a battered gun-metal hipflask. The smelling salts could not mask the stink of cheap vodka.
A second medic crouched before the open lift making cooing and clicking sounds as if trying to coax a reluctant puppy out from under a low bed. Two firemen in green overalls stood indifferently by. Along the corridor, fractionally opened office doors were alive with curious eyes.
Batter the keys and practice for five minutes using batter in its different forms. When you’re finished, post your practice in the comments section.
Also, extra credit if you use the word of the week in your daily practice!
“I’ll paste ye to the wall, if ye come round here again, get lost.” Mrs. Grimshaw, shrieking like a banshee, down the bottom of the terrace. Two young men in suits were running up the cobbled street, puffing and panting, bumping into Tuesday’s drying sheets all the way up.
At number three, Mr Brown sat with his pipe in the rocking chair, the Spring air that was making the sheets crisp was chilling him to the bone but he did not move. Mrs Brown died the previous year and he could smoke in the house if he wanted, but habits were hard to lose. So he sat in the battered chair rocking to and fro smiling at something unseen.
Further up the terrace the twins were up to no good, flitting in and out of Miss Horsham’s, giggling madly bordering on an insane curdling holler. Later they would be walking up and down in Miss Horsham’s smalls followed by the incensed Mr and Mrs Grimshaw, the embarrassed Miss Horsham and the smiling Mr Brown, always one step ahead, as if each footfall was rehearsed on a grand stage.
I leaned against the wall watching the terrace, from its coming to life in the early hours of the morning as the men walked to the paper shop for the daily rag and a packet of twenty all the way through to this visual delight, showing life in a small town down to its underwear. Dad had been on the batter all weekend and was in a lockdown. I didn’t ever know whether to go or stay. I knew to my very core I was going to battered at some point, the timing was down to Dad, I just waited.
The frolics of the twins brought life in its full colour to my black and white world and I stifled a giggle, would I run in and steal a couple of bob from the kitchen drawer and run to the chippie for a bag of chips with extra batter bits, tons of salt and a drink of vinegar. The twins gave me the courage and I resolved to begin my quest when out of the corner of my eye I could see Dad swaggering up towards me. The white sheets billowing in the wind in their innocence belying the evil intent of my batterer.