Lane'sWrite

Well if She's not going to blog, I may as well have my say

2011-01-26T11:05:00.007Z

I've had my walk.

I got wet.

It's exactly 4.3 hours until chickie dinner.

The postie didn't come so there was nothing to bark at.

The bins weren't emptied so there was nothing to bark at.

Tiges is sleeping so there is nothing to ~~bark at~~. play with.

Teas is having one of her freaky dreams.

I am bored.

Not so long ago it was festival time, everyone at home, twinkly things, nice smells and extra treats. Since then, She hasn't so much as baked a cake. Shocking if you ask me.

Now it's quiet. Bored, bored, bored, b o r e d.

At least it's not freezing anymore and I don't have to limp with bits of ice in my paw paws. They are called paw paws aren't they? Or is She just making me look stupid again?

ps. you really don't have to comment. She hasn't recently. I'm very fair about these things aren't I? You could, of course, leave a bit of biscuit instead but I'm not sure how the interweb works with these things. I think it's only able to leave Spam.

But even that would do.

It's that time again...

2010-12-21T12:14:00.018Z

Teabag was not in the mood to be decorated this year.

She prefers the company of the angels

Peg of course is always up for a spot of posing, however undignified it may be

as long as there is chicken compensation for such suffering. In fact she's thinking of starting a doggie 'no win, no fee' claims helpline

Have you suffered loss of dignity at the hands of your owners this year?

Have you been the subjected to silly posing? Had your image distributed across the interweb? Forced to wear tinsel and it's not your fault?

Then call the Peggy Flobbins' Loss of Dignity National Helpline now and you may be entitled to compensation. Or sympathy.

Peggy's terms and conditions apply. Always read the label. Remember your chicken may be at risk if you do not keep up your posing.

***

Happy Christmas Chaps

See you on the other side

xxx

Compounding Weather

2010-12-03T10:17:00.010Z

It's an urban myth that Eskimos have a hundred words for snow. Apparently they have no more than we do but they're in compound form like 'wetsnow', drysnow', slushysnow'.

I could come up with a jolly compound or two.

But I'm far too polite to repeat them here.

Every plan this week reverts to Plan B, then C, and when Plan G evaporates in a puff of snow, you give up and watch afternoon TV.

We trudge to the local shop for supplies in minus 2 with added wind chill. The dogs get lost in the snow and Peg bursts out of her coat again , looks at me pitifully with ice globules hanging off her chops and pleads 'why for you make us do this?'

The fact is we are wimps. We are not cut our for such severity - and for us it is severe. We can go a decade with mild wet winters where the rail networks' only problem is 'leaves on track'. Then bam, It hits us. It hit us last winter and this winter it's just the same and suddenly we're all talking about snow chains, shovels and proper grippy boots.

On the plus side, if we hadn't been holed up the last couple of days, I would never have realized just how many people still want to Escape To The Country, Relocate, Relocate, flaming Relocate and buy A Place in the Sun. - usually with an eye watering budget and a sneer.

And I wouldn't have eaten all those Pringles.

And Peg wouldn't have made such headway with her book.

So. Blogging. Where are we at?

2010-11-08T13:03:00.006Z

Is blogging passé? I've read a couple of pieces recently suggesting it is and I can't say I agree.

I'm certainly writing less posts than I did previously but that's purely circumstantial.

For the life of me I can't tweet and don't want to. I browse Facebook on my phone whilst waiting for the kettle to boil. Therefore, if I want to write about something trivial or post a photo of my dinner I come here. It's solid, it's personal and it's free. There is no viable alternative.

I wrote some time back about sensing a shift in blogging, about it becoming more community based. It's here and I've just noticed that it generated more comments than any other post. That's because there are a thousand different reasons why an individual keeps a blog and each one of them is valid. The reasons for not blogging are just as valid but they don't form the basis of an argument that blogging has declined. They just mean the person doesn't have the time or the inclination which is absolutely fine.

We each have a blogging circle and all our circles overlap. So - I know some of your readers and you may know some of mine. It's like a giant Venn diagram. Sometimes we go wandering and step outside our circles and so it grows. Many of the people I knew when I started blogging have slowed or stopped. That's inevitable, but things evolve, they go quiet, they speed up, they plod along. I've always said, as and when, as and when. There is no job description apart from be polite and reciprocate when you can.

Blogging affords interaction. It creates communication which the social networks provide only in bite-sized pieces. For a writer (or anybody) it offers an instant platform. For a reader it offers ease of movement around the globe. You can stop by here and read a smidgen of nonsense from a tiny life, comment or not and then waft on. I do the same. I drop by to see what you're up to and you drop by here and see photos of Peg in a rubber ring or hear how the writing's going (or not going). It's a pressureless pass time. Yes, it can be time consuming but visiting other blogs can be easily done in one intensive swoop or leisurely over coffee - whatever - as long as it's not stealing work time. We're adults. We know the score.

I think boredom is to blame as much as anything. I have the boredom threshold of the teeniest tiniest gnat. Gnat-ettes I think they're called. I give up projects, I put down books, I turn off films. Sometimes I'm so boring that my small attention span bores even me. But I'm not bored with blogging yet. Slower yes, but certainly not stopping. And I have no ambitions to grow the blog, or any desire to shrink it. It is what it is. A pleasant diversion.

What do you think? Has blogging run its course for you? Do you prefer the instant communication of the tweet or the status? And if you're still blogging, what is your core reason?

Colourings

2010-11-02T10:58:00.015Z

I've had a face lift. Can you see how stretched and taut we are in here now? We can hardly blink, let alone frown. Now I just have to sort out those spots...

The thing was, as I flitted from blog to blog, I noticed that lots of you have spruced up your blog home. Your Blome. I seem to have had the same template since time imablogable, so I started tinkering. And you know what happens when you start tinkering? You sit there trying this and that and before you know it, the clocks have gone back and hollow eyed children are beseeching you for human contact and sustenance.

I was tempted to add a dash or even a swathe of pink but pink has connotations which say 'I am a girly girl who has never chopped wood'. Which I haven't, but you know what I mean. However I disagree with this stereotyping. The right shade of pink is very agreeable if you disconnect it from its associations.

So, I avoided the pink on here but that doesn't mean I'm immune. Besides, it matches my face.

Tom Foolery - you may wish to look away ....

now

An Interview with Sue Guiney

2010-10-18T08:32:00.019+01:00

One of the most interesting things about blogging is watching other people's lives unfold and it's always fascinating to read about people whose lives are full and focused.

Sue Guiney is just this. She already has one novel under her belt, Tangled Roots. She writes poetry and poetry plays, as well as being Artistic Director of CurvingRoad which finds new talent for the theatre and helps launch their careers.. And if this isn't enough, she plays violin in an orchestra . And that's just the stuff I know about. Now she's written a second book, A Clash of Innocents, which is set in Cambodia. It follows the story of Deborah who runs an orphanage of forty children - 'leftover children of Camodia's violent past'. Deborah is a no nonsense woman who gets things done. But when a troubled young American woman turns up at the orphanage offering to help, she is forced to confront her past as well as her future.

Against the backdrop of Cambodia’s violent past and the beginnings of its new Tribunal for 'justice', a story of displaced souls unfolds. In Cambodia, innocents are everywhere. Everyone is innocent, or so they would like to believe – everyone, except the few who, for their own private reasons, take on the guilt of the many.

I asked Sue a few questions.

Q. I loved the character of Deborah. She's strong and she's brave. Did you have a real life inspiration for this character?

Deborah is an amalgam of several people. There was a woman I met in Cambodia who does run a charity there, although not a children's shelter, and she is a bit no-nonsense and larger than life. But her work comes from a deep religious impulse and I began to wonder what a person would be like who had chosen that life but didn't have that strong belief system to fall back on. I combined her with several other strong, older women I have known from various places and parts of my life. That's the fun part - picking and choosing bits of personalities and putting them together to create a new whole.

Q. Deborah lives very much in the now. Both she and her sister are immensely practical women who get things done. You strike me as very practical too. How do you manage to stay focused in your creative life?

Ha. I wish! Actually, the combination of being a mother of 2 very different aged boys (there are 7 years between them), an expat and a writer forced me to become a bit of an “efficiency expert.” I‘ve become very good at time management and have learned to focus on 1 thing at a time. Sometimes I joke that if I could only find a way to harness this into a job, I’d be pretty rich by now. The downside, though, is that I find it difficult to do more than 1 thing at a time, and that can get annoying for others.

Q. One of the other main themes of the book is letting go. Not only of the past but of children who are growing up. As the mother of an eighteen year old, the 'learning to let go' resonated with me. Is that something you tussled with yourself?

That brings up one of the joyous mysteries of writing. When I started “A Clash of Innocents,” I had no idea that some of it would be concerned with this issue of letting your children fly off into their own adult lives. But at the time of writing, I was going through the “applying to uni” experience, and then the “bringing to uni” experience with my younger son, and all that personal angst poured into the novel. That’s what makes a piece of writing really compelling, I think – when there is something truly personal woven throughout it, and something unforeseen.

Q. I loved the descriptions of the children in the orphanage and following their routines. Tell me a bit about your daily routine. Is there a typical 'Sue day'?

Now that I am an “empty nester” my routine is more regularized than it was when I lived my life at the whims and needs of my children. Now, after 26 years of childrearing, I finally allow myself to wake up without an alarm clock, which means I get up around 8. This is the biggest self-indulgence of my life! Then I usually grab my blackberry (sad but true) and spend 30-40 minutes answering emails, even before I get out of bed. Then I shower and dress (unless I’m exercising first) and go eat breakfast while I read blogs. All that means that I don’t get to my desk until 10.30 or so. My mornings now are doing admin/business associated either with promoting the new book or CurvingRoad’s latest play. When I’m in writing mode (which I can’t seem to do while I’m promoting a book) I use the 3 hours of the morning to write. Afternoons are about business meetings, errands, more emails, etc. My husband always works late, so evenings are also then free to meet with people or do more blogging or correspondence. To be honest, it seems I’m always working these days. Not a bad thing, but there is something to be said for balance, which I don’t seem to have right now – unless I’m doing my yoga practice 2 afternoons a week!

Q. I remember seeing a photo on your blog of all your lovely Black n Red notebooks lined up. Do you still write your first draft in longhand?

Absolutely! I love my notebooks. Nothing makes me feel more like a writer than sitting with a pencil in my hand, my notebook on my lap, and staring blankly into space.

Q. Tell me a bit about your writing environment. Is it neat and tidy? And what is your nibble of choice whilst writing?

I moved into my older son’s room once he moved out and turned it into an office. It’s orderly without being too neat, I think. Everything has its place but everything is everywhere. When I sit at my desk I look at a wall with a corkboard covered with memorabilia from my writing life – early acceptance letters, flyers from theatrical productions, calendars of upcoming dates, postcards of my books, funny newspaper clippings that make me smile. There’s always a bottle of Evian at my side, but I don’t eat while I work. I force myself to walk the 2 flights downstairs to the kitchen if I get hungry.

Thank you Sue. It's a great book. The backdrop of Cambodia is fascinating and informative and the characters are as real as they could be. When it was time to leave them, I was sad to say goodbye.

Thank you so much, Lane. It’s been great being here and having a chance to chat with you. I’ve followed your blog for years, so it’s especially wonderful to feel more connected in this way!

A Clash of Innocents is available from her publisher www.wardwoodpublishing.co.uk and from Amazon, Book Depository or bookshops throughout Britain. Sue Guiney's blog can found here and her website here at www.sueguiney.com

Older

2010-10-15T09:05:00.007+01:00

The Younger One and I share a birthday. Today she is 13 and I am somewhat older. Ok, thirty five years older. As it's her birthday let's call her Cleo.

I knew I'd written about our shared birthday before so not wanting to repeat myself, I went to the archives to make a link. I thought I'd written it last year. Nope. Ok then, it must have been 2008.

Nope.

The post was actually 2007

Now that scares me.

Let's just say that thirteen years ago today, I had the best present ever.

And she made the banners in the photos. Good eh?

Autumnal-ish

2010-10-13T10:03:00.006+01:00

I was going to write a post about autumn - how we're all cosying up in our tweedy cardis and knocking back the hot chocolate after an afternoon spent sweeping crispy leaves (complete with little 'surprises'. I swear Peg lets herself out in the night). The candles are lit, the slow cooker comes out from the back of the cupboard - complete with last winter's dumpling smears - and I dig out the blankets for some serious autumn TV goggling. After all, this is the season for new House, Spooks, Wallander , Have I Got News For You and of course Strictly Come Dancing. I have a very exciting life.

And then the sun came out. Strongly. And it confused me. I know, it doesn't take much, but I do like a season to conform to its agenda .

So then I was going to rehash a piece about an incident with my sandals which lay drowsing in 'drafts'. It was written back when the weather was doing as it should - heating us in the appropriate month . But it was a lame piece about how my daughters would wince whenever I left the house in them because 1) they are hand painted* and 2) because of the dreadful noises they make - awful flatulent noises as the arch of the foot makes contact with the in-step. They make me sound as if I run on beans.

In fact you'd have to be walking under the flight path of this to get away with it.

(Vulcan seen at an airshow in August. I walked freely without embarrassment that day.)

And now the weather has changed again so a post about silly sandals is .... silly.

So here are the dogs - practicing some serious sofa sqaudging in preparation for the months to come.

* I am not in the habit of hand painting shoes. Paint fell on them and as they are ugly anyway, splodging them seemed the logical thing to do.

Walk With Me

2010-10-04T18:01:00.005+01:00

Let's go for a walk. I'm not as grumpy as I look. (Although I may have been one coffee short of a smile this morning).

Peggy and Teabag are raring to go.

We'll follow a towpath for a while

Are you keeping up? We haven't got all day, although I wish we did.

A walk by water is a special walk. There are ducks ...

rich, reedy smells ...

and plenty of upside down trees.

The weather's mild. Perhaps a change of clothes mid walk?

There, that wasn't too arduous was it. Panting Peg is worn out.

Worn out on that little amble? How? Well, it's all down to game called Back and Forth. Peg is a big fan. All you need are two people the requisite distance apart and one scampering dog.

A delicate problem. With tasteful photos.

2010-09-27T11:52:00.011+01:00

Peggy had a slight itch. A problem near her unmentionables. In order to stop her doing the unmentionable to her unmentionables, she needed a special collar. Unfortunately an ordinary cone collar made her giddy, fall over, and ( oh my, she would kill me if she knew I'd told you), lose control of her nether regions. Drastic measures were called for. In true Blue Peter style, we made a collar from cardboard and sticky tape but although quite nifty, it didn't do the job thoroughly enough.

So we tried the rubber ring collar. She took to it like a dream and would have been safe in any sinking ship scenario.

At night it was taken off so she could sleep the sleep that only Peg can sleep. With lots of snorty snoring.

Her little problem soon cleared up and her unmentionables are now problem free. But I won't show you a photo of that end. I'll show you this end instead.

And with her best pal who is frankly appalled that such problems should ever be mentioned in public.

Recently again

2010-09-09T13:09:00.019+01:00

Hot on the heels (and by hot on the heels, I mean a month later) of the frog cake, comes the anniversary cake for my parents. Fifty Six years. No parole.

Aided and abetted by The Younger One once again, we ended up with a cake sporting a distinctly 'spring like' appearance. Just right for September.

We took a trip to London and walked approximately fifty seven miles. Or thereabouts. We were supposed to be doing museums, shopping and eating, in that order but The Teenager suddenly decided we should 'go look at Notting Hill Carnival' which was all fine and dandy until I realized too late that I am not good in crowds. Not good at all if you can't see a way out. Still, we managed to glimpse a couple of giant glittery butterfly costumes and had our ears boomed out by the bass. And by the time we finally made it to Chinatown, the crispy seaweed tasted extra good. As did the hot and sour, the wonton, the duck, the chicken....

In the photo you will see soft furry creatures gazing in awe at ferocious teenager.

And in this photo .... crowds. As far as the eye can see.

And now a new term. I always think the autumn term is the strangest of all. It starts in sunshine and shirts and ends in darkness at home time. The other two terms are far less radical.

And writing? Novel #1 will be sent off to start its rounds in October(ish). I imagine it as a Gap Year for unpublished manuscripts. It will go out fresh faced and ready for adventure and return older, wiser and hopefully a little grubby but better for the experience. And Novel #2 is underway. I can't tell you how happy I am to be writing something new. And it's got nuns in it which means research. Now, I wonder if there is a nun museum...?

News To Me, Adventures of an Accidental Journalist is excellent. Really.

2010-08-26T10:21:00.010+01:00

I've been reading Laurie Hertzel's blog for over three years, and in all that time I've hardly missed a post.

Why? Several reasons.
Laurie is a good cyber friend and I like to know what she's up to.
She has adorable dogs and I pounce on their news and photos.
She's American and I love the language, our differences and our inherent sameness.
But there is also a more selfish reason. Laurie is a damn fine writer and I'm fascinated by how she tells a story.
Because she's a journalist, Laurie's stories are factual. There's little embellishment which means you're always secure in the knowledge that you're getting the truth. She's never mean about people. She'll tell you just the right fact to help you get the entire picture about a person or a situation. And her narrative is riveting, whether she's writing about her childhood, her travels or her
neighbourhood. It's just all such good stuff.

So I was excited when Laurie wrote a memoir about her accidental fall into journalism and her career in newspapers which spans three decades.
And I asked her a few questions ...

Q. One of the most fascinating aspects of the book is the 'bygone era' - the sixties childhood, newspaper rooms run in the way you see in the old films with men in Fedoras, your trips to Russia during the Cold war era. Everything was changing and evolving. Now you look back, are you amazed by just how much the world has changed?

A. It's funny, for a time in my life I specialized in 'end of an era' stories, the tales of the last mom-and-pop resort, or the last full-service gas station, or the last one-room schoolhouse. I even wrote about the last cobbler in one small Minnesota town. I certainly didn't realize that I was living sort of my own 'end of an era' story. But the way that newspapers were when I started out in the mid-1970s is not the way it is at all anymore. It's not just the hats, those fedoras, that the guys used to wear. It's the way the wire news used to be delivered, machine-typed constantly on big rolls of paper, and the way the pages were still hand-pasted by compositors, who cut them out with exacto knives and pasted them to full-size dummy sheets
with hot wax. The way the photographs were printed up in the dark room, smelling of those strong, acrid chemicals, with that red light glowing. It all just sort of slipped away.

So part of this book is a record of those times.

And yes, the Soviet Union. I was there at the very end, just days before the fall. And the stories I told about the American Finns who immigrated to Russia to help build the Communist country back in the 1930s. Funny that while I was telling end of an era stories, I was also living one.

Q. And after that big question, are there things about the 'old' newspaper
rooms that you miss? I know that the world of newspapers today is a very,
very different affair.

A. Oh, I miss all of it, you know? It was a rather inefficient way of doing things, with those big old cameras and heavy camera bags, and sending stories back to the newsroom not by email, but by writing them down in a notebook and reading them over the telephone, and running copy back
to the composing room by hand. But it had such dash, such flair, it was such a busy and exciting place to work, with that great sense of urgency, all these people working in such close quarters, the copy desk just inches away from the city desk, which was within hollering range of the reporters' desks, and the police scanner crackling away, and the wire machine typing
furiously. Newsrooms today are much calmer and quieter places. I miss the noise. I miss the fun.

Q. Your childhood is fascinating to me because it couldn't be more different from my own. Did being one of ten children reinforce your independence? You may have fallen accidentally into journalism, but it was determination and persistence which carved your career.

A. My childhood was steeped in words and books and writing, the sound of my father's typewriter as he sat upstairs working on his articles for The Nation and Catholic Digest and North American Review. We took reading seriously in that house, and we took writing seriously, too. 'I'm reading' was a legitimate excuse to get out of a whole lot of chores. I used it frequently.
My father was an English professor, and my mother was a law librarian, and every year for Christmas and birthdays we got books, books, books. And clothes, of course, because that was the only way we were ever going to get new clothes; otherwise, it was hand-me-downs.

But growing up in a family that size, you do learn to kind of carve out your own space, your own identity, and make your own way. You can't wait for someone to help you because they're likely busy feeding the baby or digging around in the couch cushions for lunch money for an older sibling, or trying to cook dinner for twelve every night.

Q. You had (and still have)† an instinctive nose for a good story. What is it that draws you to something which you know will make great 'copy'?

A. I used to be drawn to melodramatic stories/weepers, you know. Lots of human emotion and drama. And over the years I've learned to appreciate nuance a little more, and pay a little more attention to what the story means than to all the action. And I am much more drawn to humor than I used to be. But for me a good story comes in the telling. It's all in how you
tell it.

Q. You write fiction too and have won awards including a prestigious prize judged by no other than Anne Tyler. Are you writing now? I really hope s0 (Repeat, Anne Tyler)

A. Fiction? Ah, no. I haven't written any fiction since I left Duluth. But I've been writing more personal essays, which I'm finding I really like. Many of them begin as blog posts, and then I take them and polish them and rework them and they find homes in other places. I've been thinking of my blog lately as sort of the first draft of my life.

Q.Toby, your beloved (but since departed) dog makes an appearance in the book and even has his photo on the back cover. And quite rightly so. But how do your dogs Boscoe and Riley feel about this? Have they made you promise they'll be in the next instalment of your memoirs? There will be a next instalment, won't there?

A. Ha! You've struck a nerve! Doug claims that Boscoe claims that my book would have been a best-seller, if it had just included a certain Border collie. But the book ends before he was born. There might not be a next installment (though you can always read about Boscoe and Riley on the blog). But there might be a prequel. I'm thinking. Of course, that wouldn't solve the dog problem, since they weren't around then either.

Thank you Laurie. It's a great slice of life - historically informative, funny and people rich. It's a book which made me go 'wow, I wouldn't have minded living that life. Wouldn't have minded at all.' And I bet I'm far from the only one who thinks that. Added to which, the writer has such great hair.

Laurie Hertzel is books editor for the Minneapolis Star Tribune.
Her blog is Three Dog Blog and her website is here

And most importantly her book, News to Me, Adventures of an Accidental Journalist, is available from Amazon.co.uk, in fact from any of the European Amazons as well as dot.com of course. Go check it out. You'll be pleased you did.

Middle of August? Really?

2010-08-19T11:27:00.007+01:00

Hello.

Yes, it's been a while.
I am nothing if not consistent in blogging sporadicity.
Shall we move on?
Good.
So what's been happening?

Heat. First part of the summer holidays, we basked in the heat. Teabag loved it and we would share a sun lounger, me reading, her swaying gently like a furry teasel. Peggy, found the heat a bore. The only good thing about it was the fact that with all the doors and windows open she could hear every bark for miles around and respond to them. That didn't drive us mad at all.

(Peg in need of doggles and a cooling bowl of tea)

Sorting out bits and bobs for my parents. This is nothing new but since my father's been not so well, there are a few more things to check. Last week it was his new phone. We'd spent ages sorting out his Facebook, email and Twitter feed. Forget calling people. This nearly 81 year old chap likes social networking at his fingertips. Then his Twitter feed suddenly went Dutch. Whatever we did, we couldn't get it back into English. When we eventually cracked it, he said he'd actually quite liked it in Dutch. It's his birthday next week and I'll make a cake. The blue cake with the doe-eyed frog you see here, was made by The Younger One and me for my mother's birthday. It's difficult to get a sense of scale but suffice to say if I sat Teabag next to it, she'd be cast in its shadow. And scared.. There are four cakes wedged inside that icing and you could melt your teeth just by looking at it. Younger One was entirely responsible for the frog and the flowers. I'm thinking of hiring her out as (somewhere) there must be a market in frog 'n flower sculpting.

Meetings. Recently I've had to attend meetings. This is where grown up people sit around a big table and propose different ways of doing things in vaguely the same way. They also present lots of paperwork and eat sandwiches. I'm sure you're all very familiar with meetings but I wasn't. Not meetings like these anyway. I had to smarten up. Sartorially and mentally.

For a recent meeting, I managed to cobble together 'an outfit'. The teenager (the one we call Maya) laughed when she saw me. You look like you've just stepped out of BonMarche . Now if you're familiar with this shop, you'll know that this is the insult to end all insults. It is acrylic. It is pastel. It is old. My mother shops there so I should know. There is an accent on the é of Marché but she refuses to acknowledge it. I know. Infuriating.

But what the heck. No one really notices anyway. They're all too busy trying to keep up with the latest acronyms and not to drop egg mayonnaise on the minutes.

Seeing horrible people: In a local beauty spot, cans and crisp packets were being thrown out of a car. I'd noticed the car earlier - tinted windows, thudding music. I had that horrible 'angry but impotent' feeling because something told me not to approach them and for once I trusted my gut. But then I felt awful, like the most cowardly of cowardy custards and I hated that I'd been so lilly livered. I was plagued by guilt and had fantasies of how I was a super hero - Litter Woman - intimidating and fearless. If they didn't respond to a polite request, I would haul them from the car, slam them face down (gently) on the stony ground, crush the cans on their heads and make them beg for mercy and promise to never, ever drop even so much of an eyelash again. Too much? No, I thought not. And whilst they were whimpering, they would have an epiphany and realize exactly what they'd done wrong and vow to educate all their foul, litter-flipping, no-brain cronies too. And then they'd thank me. Oh yes, I have fantasies alright.

Wimbledon. Yes, I know. How can I mention Wimbledon in August? Well it's just because I want to tell you a quick story I remembered and I couldn't tell you back then because of - well - the not blogging thing. But I don't want to wait another year so ...

Watching Wimbledon and remembering when Virginia Wade won in 1977:

I was at the convent, in what was then called the 3rd form. Sister Marguerita was a big tennis fan so she brought a tiny TV into the classroom and fiddled endlessly with the aerial to get a picture without snow. She grew animated as the match progressed and when Ginny Frilly Knickers finally dropped to her knees in victory, Sister Marguerita leapt in the air, pink in the face, and cheered. We all stood up from our desks to join her. If you knew how dour this particular sister was, you would see that such displays of jollity were shocking - far more shocking than a Brit winning Wimbledon. Sister was Irish of course but her patriotism wasn't limited to the Emerald Isle. Or maybe she just really liked Ginny.*

By the way, did anyone catch that gem on BBC4 - The Great Outdoors ? Gentle, sharp comedy. Loved it but sadly only three episodes made.

* I bet I've told you that story before. Please forgive. My children keep telling me I repeat myself alot. Repeat myself I say. Repeat myself?

.

You have reached your destination. Have you?

2010-06-23T11:58:00.015+01:00

Theme of post: Home in the 'heart' sense
Tone of post: ~~Melancholic self indulgence~~ Mid-life ponderances.
Moral of post: ~~Ficklty~~ People afflicted with overly fickle natures should beware of their 'urges'.
Note to self: Do not make up words in this post.

Do you live in the right place?

I don't. I live in an absolutely fine place but not the right place.

I grew up in Hampshire, first in a small town, then in a tiny village. I went to school in Sussex. As a teenager, I couldn't wait to get away. University, work and later marriage took me to London and then up to Suffolk. I've never really had an urge to go back until now. But recently... there is something pulling. Just a little insistent 'go back down south' tug, tug, tug. Don't let me mislead you - home here is just dandy but it's not Home in a 'this is where I'm meant to be' way. I feel no loyalty to it, no affinity. The place names hold no associations. I have no deep-seated memories of here, no lineage. And that's ok. We make those as we go along and my children will certainly have memories. It's where we are for the moment and where we will be for the foreseeable.

But still ...

South.

Tug, tug, tug.

I google earth my old places and follow paths and lanes that my grandfather would have walked. I zoom in on a tree we used to play under forty years ago. I meander down the high street, round the lake and then follow the route I used to take to infant school. I scan across the hillside with the memorial for Edward Thomas and I can almost smell the wild garlic. Google Earth, Google Street, Google Scent. I can see the spot my brother died in a motor cycle accident and where my father was attacked with a hammer in his office during a botched robbery and left for dead. These are not all rose-tinted memories. Bad things happen in good places too.

This summer, I'll go back for a wander down memory lane. Perhaps show Younger Daughter just how far we used to walk in the 'olden days'. She'll see the house her grandfather was born in, and the walks her mother used to take with the gentle Cora dog. And maybe the trip will be enough to sedate this urge for a while. It may even banish it as I realize it's just a romantic longing, something that can happen when you're ... no longer thirty. Or forty. I am nothing if not fickle. We'll see.

Have you found Home? Is it your original home or your adopted home? And is it your forever home? Put it this way -if money and practicalities were not a problem, would you move tomorrow or stay put?

Some recent things

2010-06-15T22:34:00.007+01:00

Recently

Spent a day in Walberswick and got whipped with rain and sandblasted by the North Sea wind. I won't have to exfoliate for a year. (Like that happens anyway).

The wind, along with tidal surges, means that coastal erosion is a major problem. I don't fully understand the geographical forces but suffice to say that nearby Dunwich, once a thriving port, is now in the sea. Defences are in place but the problem is ongoing and expensive.

In Walberswick churchyard are the ruins of the former parish church. During the Reformation, large, showy catholic churches with their theatrical incense, brass and twinkly glass were pulled down. Austere protestant churches were built in their place. (I know you knew that. I'm just checking that I did). I walked back and forth through the remaining little doorways and stroked the stone. It never ceases to amaze me that we can walk in the actual footsteps and touch the actual things that people (little people judging by the height of the doorways) touched hundreds of years ago. 1493 in this case.

Had a good look at the gravestones and noticed that many of the inhabitants had lived well into their 80s and 90s. In the 'olden days' this was unusual so I surmised it must have something to do with the sea air. Or the fish. Or the austere church.

Discovered that Norman the toad has moved on. I do hope to a better place with plenty, plenty hot toad action. I would like to see Norm Jr under that wheelie bin in the near future. I have a water feature (cat bowl) ready for him.

Heard a woman in TK Maxx. She'd picked up armfuls of those tapestry Union Jack cushions that are everywhere now. These were £29.99 a pop. Oh I just love these she said extremely loudly to no one in particular. And I'm not even much of a patriarch. Younger Daughter looked at me. I know I shouldn't have felt smug. But I did.

Wore yellow. My mother has always told me 'yellow is not for you'. She repeats this pointedly every time I make a beeline for yellow in a shop. 'Move away from the yellow, she'll mew. There's nothing for you there'. But I decided to try it. And I like it immensely, whether it suits or not. Never mind- with my hair - that I look like a fried egg.

Talking of yellow - walked along a river lined with yellow irises. I'm sure there's a special name for them but I can't remember the names of people, let alone flowers. The evening river walk came complete with full midge attack. Several were inhaled. More were ingested. I do hope they're high in protein as I'm trying to up the protein and cut the carbs. Just a smidge. (Or should that be s-midge)

Read Maya Angelou's 'Letter to My Daughter'. Professor Angelou never had a daughter but this book is for you, you and you. And you. Even if you're a man. It's a small book but weighty with experience, clarity, humility and humour. She is only too aware of the paths that have been walked before her. And I'm sure she would approve of wearing any colour which delights you, regardless of 'suitability'.

Cooked my favourite dinner several times. It is difficult to tire of an oily, garlic fuelled ratatouille. For me anyway. The fact that it's impossible to mess up is a strong reason it's a favourite. Yes, I have photographed our dinner.

Do you think in years to come, people will look back, just as we look back at artefacts and ruins, and they will smile or grimace as they view the stored data of our lives. Did they actually eat that? And wear that? they'll ask. And if sea defences aren't maintained they may well ask And where the hell is Walberswick?

(Gosh, monster length post. Apologies. It didn't look that long in 'draft')

It's m'favourite.

2010-06-13T16:01:00.003+01:00

June is a special month.

It's full of promise.
It is at worst, mild. At best, flaming.
Sometimes both in one day.
It has hollyhocks and lupins ready to explode.
It has cheaper heating bills, less clothes and cleaner dogs.
It has The Teenager going to a leavers party and me being allowed to attempt an 'up-do' on her hair*.
It has the first week of Wimbledon.
It has beach trips.
It has naked feet and sandals.
It has reading outside. And writing outside. All sorts outside.
It has bright, sharp mornings and glorious, to-be-savoured long evenings.
It has nights the colour of the Quink ink we used to use at the convent. Not the blue-black but the blue.
Until the solstice, we are still on the right side of the year. And that's what is so thrilling about June. If you like summer, that is. Which I do. Do you?

*I have always loved playing with hair. When the girls were younger I used to insist they play hairdressers with me. Still do. But I get to be the hairdresser not the client. I'm very firm about that.

Postscript: This post has been sitting forlorn and forgotten in 'drafts' since the beginning of June. I thought I'd better post it before July.

Painting Them

2010-06-06T21:11:00.003+01:00

I like to paint my characters.

Some may call it procrastination.

I myself call it

... procrastination.
This character 'had it all' once.

And this character

still has it all. Or so she thinks.

These are odd bod characters.

None of them 'have it all' because let's face it - that's a myth if there ever was one.

And this is a jug of lilacs (and an iris). Not a character obviously, but marginally more interesting than some.

Do you doodle your characters? Or cut out their 'likeness' from magazines? Or base their likeness on an actor? Do you imagine what they would wear to a fete/a festival/a funeral? Isn't it interesting when their choices are marginally inappropriate. Do they sit in the passenger seat of your car and let you chat to them? Or is that a step too far?

Like ... Toadally

2010-05-26T16:11:00.007+01:00

Can you spot him?
This is Toad. Also known as Norman.
Norman lives under the wheelie bin. Luckily for him, he chose the recycling bin where nothing too heavy is ever thrown in, thereby reducing the risk of an amphibian* heart attack.

On the nights before bin collections, I carefully manoeuvre the wheelie over Norman. I would hate to squash him. Could you imagine the sound? As the bin has to go up on the road, Norman is left exposed but sensibly he hops under a nearby bush until his roof returns. My mother is all for picking him up (shudder) and putting him somewhere more toadish but I worry the dogs would get him. Or he'd be homesick.

I have one other slight worry. Say Norman were to somehow end up in the wheelie bin. Surely I could be fined for failing to comply with the correct toad recycling procedure. Maybe they are 'garden waste' or perhaps even 'general household'. I tell you it's a minefield.

* I had to look that up. I thought they were reptiles but toads and frogs reproduce in water which makes them amphibian. Maybe I should get Norm a little paddling pool. Perhaps a washing up bowl. Otherwise he's never going to see any hot toad action.

Update: I've just realised I've written about a toad. Under my wheelie bin. I mean, how small can one's life become? Stay tuned for tales of the spider in my bathroom...:-)

Peg Post

2010-05-18T12:26:00.004+01:00

You may wonder where the my name Peggy Flobbins came from. Or you may not.
But let me tell you anyway because it's not often that She can claim a thought simiar to that of a literary big brain.

But She can. Honesty promise.

I have always been on the 'baggy' side. They used to be able to grasp great swathes of skin and sort of rotate it around me. Even now, when I curl up, (even after She has dieted me) I still have a few wrinkles. But back then, I was really flobby. So they added Flobbins.

If you google my name (I have done this a few times) you will find blog references to me and Teas. But you will also see this

She explained it to me like this ...

A House To Let is a novella by a collaboration of four writers - Charles Dickens, Wilkie Collins, Elizabeth Gaskell and Adelaide Anne Proctor. The narrator, with the wonderful name of Sophonisba, has a maid called Peggy Flobbins. As Dickens wrote the first chapter in which the character Peggy Flobbins is named, I'm assuming he came up with the choice. And I would love to think, that whilst casting this character he sat, quill poised and candle flickering, looked down at his faithful companion curled up at his feet (and I mean his dog and not his wife) and said, My, how flobby she is. Flobbins shall be her name. Well, it could have happened couldn't it?

Now if She could just channel some more of Dickens' thoughts, Teabag and me could have a chicken dinner every day and twice on Sundays.

May I ...

2010-05-10T15:14:00.018+01:00

Yes, it's been a while. Two months and eighteen days a while.

March was ... a bit low as a grey, damp cloud descended.

April was ... better.

May is ... much better. And everything is freshly, lushly green and full of promise, which helps.

Sometimes I'd come by to leave a comment on your blogs but the words would come out mangled so I'd creep away. Better to say nothing.

Anyway, I may or may not have received this missive.

Dear Lane'swrite Woman

You seem to have fallen off the blog. Could it be that you broke your writing as you fell? I have seen little evidence of words being written anywhere. And I don't mean the copious shopping lists or emails to your bestie. I mean words, sentences, paragraphs. A facebook comment with a smiley does not count. Nor does leaving feedback on Ebay.

I am quite frankly saddened, nay disappointed at your lack of words. If you carry on at this rate, you will be a wizen old woman, gazing at half finished manuscripts, eating peaches from a can and with the laughably titled 'lane'swrite' floating vacantly around the ether.

Use it or lose it.

Yours with the mildest of concern

Tellit Likeitis

Now you see, taken aback as I was to read this missive, Tellit is absolutely right. And his (or her) words have been heeded and notebooks have been dusted off. May is the month of new growth and I intend to grow some new words. And re-jiggle some old ones.

Thank you Tellit.

The Guzzler

2010-02-22T18:57:00.006Z

I was going to write a little narrative about drinking. How I've always felt more comfortable if I know where my next cup of tea is coming from. (Yes, that sort of drinking). Or coffee. Or pretty much anything as long as it's warm. My mother always called me The Guzzler and I admit, my kidneys are constantly irrigated. Probably to flood plain level.

But today, I was slumpy. Heady. Throaty. Off colour in a ' need a Lemsip and hot buttered toasty - stat' sort of way. 'And maybe some of that cinnamon waffley ice cream whilst you're there'? Who am I kidding. The house was empty and even if it wasn't ...

The photo is rather sweet though isn't it? Or mildly freaky depending on your take. There were no new-fangled sippy cups in the early 60's. A child learnt mug control at a very young age. Skills for life, you might say.

Photo = me, c. 1963, demonstrating quite adeptly for one so young, the 'grip and grasp' method of mug manipulation.

Clicking

2010-02-16T14:46:00.004Z

Until recently we only had the five terrestrial TV channels. It was fine but occasionally the daughters would suggest that we enter the modern world of digital 'cos it's like living in the dark ages'. So we did.

On the day of installation we gazed at the new remote and began to click. Click, click click. I haven't stopped since.

There are would-be supermodels vying to become the Next Top Model of America/Britain/Uzbekistan. In one programme they were asked to jump from one leg to the other in front of a wind machine. The task proved arduous as arms and legs flailed and the wind looked in danger of blowing them back to Arkansas/Cleethorpes/Tashkent. Their eyes were wide with panic and they resembled baby giraffes struggling to find their feet. In Manolos.

We click on. Old UK sitcoms. US imports. We were mesmerized and still are.
You see, my mother always says that it doesn't matter how many channels you have, there is never anything on. But she is wrong. Oh, so wrong. There's always a House, an NCIS, a gentle old sitcom, Monk, a history programme. And the other morning I discovered Jeeves and Wooster at breakfast which goes perfectly with porridge.

We're still not HD'd, Blue Rayed, the thing where you can record or any of that. But this is progress enough. But I'm still guilty of hammering the clicker. One whiff of boredom and bam, move on. Funny how no one ever wants to watch TV with me. Or if they do, the clicker remains mysteriously hidden.

Big Breaths

2010-02-11T13:59:00.004Z

Take a big breath and blowwww.
Phooooooo.
There. That should have shifted the dust that's settled on this blog. Thank you.

I read something the other week which said of the fifty billion (or thereabouts) blogs worldwide, forty billion of them (or thereabouts) are now dormant. Forgotten, abandoned and quietly expiring on the edge of the internet highways. Forty billion stories with no endings.

Mine is in danger of becoming one of them. But when the time comes, I'll write The End or delete it. Truth is, I've not had much to do with the internet at all recently. Apart from browsing a bit, it's been like going back to the seventies but without the Vesta curries or KerKnockers . The last few weeks have been about family hoo-haas, the weather, work and writing. Much like you really.

The other thing is concentration. Since I stopped smoking back in July, concentration has been a bit hit and miss. I used to be able to write/read for long periods of time, popping out for the odd puff now and then. But no longer. I've learnt not to smoke but I still haven't learnt how to be a non smoker. It'll come.

Peggy on the other hand has no problem with concentration. She can stare at her squeaky toy (kept up out of her reach) for hours, no problem. Teabag has better things to do with her time.

Very sensible too.

Shrinkage

2010-01-04T11:27:00.005Z

I tried to put my jeans on this morning. After two weeks of wearing tracks or leggings it was time to get back into 'outside world' clothes. And guess what? Whilst my back was turned - or rather while I was busy eating - some kind soul has been into my wardrobe, washed every single pair of jeans on a boil wash and shrunk them. I'm sure they were only trying to be helpful but why would somebody do that? Why?

I will be breathing in for a few days. And probably not breathing out.

Walkies anyone?

Yo!

2009-12-22T09:01:00.020Z

Merry Christmas

from
Tiger

his bitches

and of course from me. Wishing you all peace, health and as many purple ones from the tin as you can handle.

Merry Christmas chaps xx

Chilly

2009-12-20T14:55:00.017Z

Our postman is very nice. He never acknowledges shabby morning attire. He's polite and efficient and our two second 'chilly again, isn't it' chat is all very civilized.

But the holiday season brings temporary postmen. Young ones untrained in the art of politely not looking at you directly. You half hope they have a mild myopia which would shield them from the fact that your face looks as if piece of puce coloured scrunched tissue paper has been smoothed over it. By a child not so handy with the glue. If they have to wait whilst you sign for something, their eyes may wander to the eye mask (only if it was a head achey night, you understand), pushed up on your head so that your fringe is standing on end. Teabag skits around their feet, delighted to welcome someone new. When she's happy she squeals. They didn't expect this when they signed up for a spot of Christmas delivering. It's beyond the call of duty and they turn quickly, slipping on the ice in their haste to get away.

If I'm not here, you can always leave it in the wheelie, I call to them but thanks to Teabag's volume, my voice goes unheard.

When you realize that you've answered the door for five days in a row in an aesthetically shocking dressing gown, you want to shout I've actually been up and 'working' for 2 hours. Really I have. But words are futile. The damage has been done.

And this morning it was a Post Girl. I detected a hint pity in her eyes. Does your mother never look like this in the morning? I want to ask. I make a decision to be dressed and brushed and dignified tomorrow to save them the angst. And then I think, no. They're young. They will heal. Soon it will all be over and the regular postman will return and we can go back to pretending we are all very civilised. Which of course we are.

Chilly again isn't it?

We've had snow. Quite a lot of snow for us and I can't remember the last time we had it this side of Christmas. Teabag and Peggy ran out on the first morning and sank shoulder deep into the white stuff. Which was fine and fun until they wanted to wee and realized they were in too deep to assume the regular position.

Jigging

2009-12-09T08:43:00.006Z

My mother had tickets to see The Lord of the Dance. I know. She had planned to take the girls but The Teenager (who will now be known as Maya as that is probably her name) had to tidy towels in a department store for minimum wage. So I went in her place. Well, you can't waste a ticket, can you. Not at 33 pounds a pop. Yes 3 3. In a regional, small town theatre.

The Younger One (who remains 'The Younger One' for now) was looking forward to it. She likes a bit of Irish jigging. My mother loves it. I was in two minds because as far as dancing goes, Strictly (Come Dancing) serves my dancerly needs on a Saturday evening perfectly. But as I said - 33 pounds and all that. Besides, it meant leaving the house after dark in a clean shirt and in my world, that's rare.

Our tickets were row C, but the front two rows had mysteriously disappeared, so we were front row. Uncomfortably close. 'We won't be able to see their clogs' said my mother. You can glean from this that we are not au fait with the terminology of Irish dance. I was worried. If a dancer lost a clog, we were done for.

The lights dimmed. There was an almighty explosion. Had something malfunctioned? A bomb? Could Michael Flatley's jiggers really be a terrorist target?
'Should we evacuate'? yelled my mother over the booming Irish music.
'I think I already have' said the elderly woman in the next seat.

The dancers flew onto stage, all sequins, flailing legs and bouncing curls. And that was just the men.

Truth was, they were really quite incredible. Just when you thought they couldn't dance any faster, they cranked it up another notch, umpteen synchronized pairs of legs doing impossible things. Ramrod straight backs. It was quite the spectacle.

Whilst we couldn't see their feet, we were close enough to see that after almost two hours of strenuous dancing, they were barely out of puff. And there was another advantage in being so close. The lead male dancer would catch my mother's eye, smile and wink. She adored that. In fact the look on her face was worth missing Strictly for. Clapping for an encore she even shouted 'More'. Just the once.

And I bet - bet the ticket price itself, that everyone in that audience, once they'd got home, with the explosions and Irish music still ringing in their ears, had a little go at doing an Irish dance. Bet you.

Not that I did of course.

Peggy Flobbins' Double.

2009-11-29T15:56:00.003Z

Peggy asked me if she could have a quick go on the blog. I said 'we'll see' but she gave me the look. And when Peg gives me 'the look'...

it's very hard to refuse. So here she is.

I've been allowed on the blog - just for a moment - to tell you something that happened. You may not think it exciting but c'mon -when I tell you that a new lushury blankie is the best thing since sliced chicken for me and Teas, you'll unnerstand that it's the very simple things in life that get us all waggy.

So ...

In American Kentucky is a lady called Faye who had a postcard from someone in Leicestershire and on that postcard was a dog called Samy and I think Samy is my gran. Or grandad. What do you think?

See? It could be me couldn't it? Although I can't quite make out whether this dodgy (that's what me and Teas call dogs) has a mohican like me, it definitely has my facial expression (Teas told me to write that. Facial expression.)

Just for comparison, this is me. I stood near some leaves just like Samy. I think we are Double Dogs and probably related.

I would love to know what Sammy smells like. Then I'd know if we're family. I smell a bit sweaty, a bit dusty and very lovely. Except when She baths me in Special Anti- Allergy Sensitive Skin Shampoo. Then I smell fresh as lavender and every one comes to have a sniff of me.

I just wanted to tell you this. I know I had to use The Look to do it but sometimes a girl has to use whatever works.

I wonder if Teas has a Double Dog somewhere out there. Sometimes I think she wonders too. 'Specially as she's probably a grandma herself by now.

Cosy

2009-11-25T10:09:00.005Z

This time last year, I was feeling a little...low. It happens most years when the clocks go back. Unable to concentrate on anything for long, I started to crochet what became known in our house as lushury blankie. (Peggy speak for 'luxury blanket').

It looked like this

Peggy had her eye on it from the very start. Every time I picked it up to to do a row, she would be there, tangling herself up in the wool and trying to curl up on a corner, determined to lay claim to it before anyone else.

Now it's finished and it looks like this - over six feet long and as wide as my arm span. It's everything Peg hoped for and more.

And it's proving very popular

For when there's something good on TV

And for when there isn't

Freedom

2009-11-17T09:14:00.005Z

It was 26th July at 10.30 am. A beautiful Sunday morning. I didn't even realize it was happening as I exhaled a last, delicious plume in my comfy garden spot and nicely satiated, stubbed out for the last time.
But that was it. Something had just clicked. No more.
I had to unpick the fabric of my routine and sew it back together with a brand new pattern. Every time I let the dogs out, I had to stay inside. I couldn't trust myself to join them in the garden. I couldn't sit in my usual sunny spot and watch the birds. I couldn't linger. If I stood still at all, the ache would gnaw too deeply. I cleaned the cooker and walked the dogs rather more than was necessary. If I'd been a runner I'd have doubled my miles. I couldn't write because I couldn't sit still and my mind was too fizzy. If you spoke to me I would snarl. I was not nice in those first weeks. But it got easier and I'm nicer now. Although I still haven't managed to erase that demonic stare and probably never will.

Painting by Nicotine Free Woman

Do My Buns Look Big in This?

2009-09-29T09:59:00.009+01:00

Peggy Flobbins can't be trusted.

Teabag can (sort of)

The cakes remained drool free. At least for the duration of the photos. Now, my question to you is ..... do my buns look big in this? (I know, they're really fairy cakes but that wouldn't pun, would it). I'm template tinkering again and experimenting with uploading big photos which I've only just discovered how to do.
Are they falling off your screen?

Oh and help yourself. They are courtesy of The Younger One. Who is now at Big School. How did that happen?

Hi

2009-09-24T09:13:00.002+01:00

Predictions.

2009-08-07T12:45:00.009+01:00

If I ever get demented or concussed and need to be asked questions such as 'what's today's date?', I will fail miserably and be bundled up and put away.

If you tell me we're meeting up on the 21st, I will think that's ages away purely because I have absolutely no idea when it is. In order to work out what today's date is, I think back to the last important date on the calender - say my mother's birthday which I know was on a Wednesday - and then work it out on my fingers from there.

This is why I'm genuinely shocked to discover it's August. Time runs at a speed I'm not comfortable with. It should be late June. But it's not and I seem to have fallen off the blog. It was very rude of me not to say toodle pip. So I'll say it now. Toodle pip. Just for a bit.

But before I go, I just want to show you this award from Calistro, whose book Heaven Can Wait is out in October. It was awarded for appreciation of my psychic abilities in predicting her career. Well, it wasn't difficult as there was never any doubt that her career would take off big time.

Now should I dye my hair black? My psychic powers are telling me ....

no.

Very loudly.

And Mystic ~~Meg~~ Peg is now telling me it's time for walkies. And Mystic Peg is always right.

Plots and pots

2009-06-22T12:40:00.014+01:00

I finally escaped the clutches of the little movie men. And guess what? The writing pants seem to be working - just a bit. They're a tad hot in this lovely weather but needs must.

My little brain has been occupied with trying to tone up a flaccid plot. In fact it's so flaccid it's positively obese. All it wants to do is loll around watching Wimbledon or sit in the garden thinking about not weeding. Or is that me?

Anyway, the sun is shining. Not too hot, not too windy. Perfect, thinks Teabag, for a bit of flower sniffing.

Therapy

2009-06-10T10:24:00.005+01:00

This is the last one. I promise.

Surgery

2009-06-03T09:25:00.006+01:00

A Telling Off

2009-05-25T11:02:00.004+01:00

Warnings

2009-05-12T09:46:00.004+01:00

So. I'm in the Royal Mail sorting office, dropping off a couple of parcels and collecting another.

There are about seven people in the queue. One of them is animated and loud. There's no escaping him.
They're reducing the population. Poisoning us. Toxins in the food. YouTube it. By 31st December - newyear'seve - we'll be dead.
He repeats this, numerous times. Loudly, in some guy's face.
People are shifting uncomfortably or studying their red Royal Mail 'Whilst You Were Out' cards.
When the focus of his rants is served at the counter, he looks around for his next victim, chanting all the time - They're reducing the population. Poisoning us. Toxins in the food. YouTube it. By 31st December - newyear'seve, we'll be dead.
He swivels round.
Please don't let it be me.
Please don't let it be me.
I examine the addresses on my parcels carefully. What would it be like to live in Ormskirk? Or Basel? Do not make eye contact. Do not make eye contact.
I look up.
He pounces.
They're reducing the population. Poisoning us. Toxins in the food. Youtube it. By 31st December - newyear'seve - we'll be dead. And so on. And on. You get the jist.
All attention is now on me. There's palpable relief from my queuing audience. I squirm in the spotlight, trying to look cool, like I know how to deal with the unfortunate Mr Loopy Loaves but my face grows hot.
He's too close. I'm tall enough but he's taller. He's wearing dark glasses I can see my reflection in. Inexplicably, my mouth contorts into a smile.
That does it. He takes it up a notch.
You may well smirk. You won't be smirking on 31st December - newyear'seve. They're poisoning us. Smirk all you want. He likes the word smirk and now he steps even closer. Hair sprouts from one nostril but not the other. I step back. He steps forward. I try to gauge just how menacing he is. The bloke behind me politely gives us a wide berth.
A genteel elderly lady who has passed the time sticking a hundred penny stamps on a parcel steps in. She's about four feet tall. She looks up at him.
Speak to Jesus. He will help you.
He pauses from his spiel and I think she may have scored.
But now he's louder There'll be no Jesus on 31st December, newyear'seve. Toxins in the food. YouTube it blah di blah. His body is getting more agitated and he's pacing round me. You'll see. You'll see, Smirker. Poisoning us. You'll be dead. Dead. Dead. Spittle sprays in a dusty sunbeam towards me.

Mercifully, someone comes out from the staff door and takes his card. He pauses long enough to sign for his parcel and then he's off, after his parting shot You'll be dead Smirker. Dead.
The room exhales as one and there's nervous laughter. I feel for him. That could me in a few years - Rejections. They just keep coming. You can barricade the letterbox but still they come. Even on 31st December, newyear'seve.

I'm served and leave. I expect to see him shambling off down the road or maybe waiting for me to have another go. My car keys are at the ready. But he's getting into his car. Not an old wreck but a very nice car. I get into my old wreck and wonder if it was all a ploy to be served more quickly. And if we're really going to die on December 31st, I'd better get writing. Although he didn't specify the year. Or on which planet.

Buttoned Up

2009-05-05T11:16:00.004+01:00

Now, I don't often buy fripperies because 1) I'm not in a position to and 2) I'm tight like that. Books, notebooks (and bags) don't count. Nor do calligraphy nibs (my latest fad).

But do you ever see something and think - that has my name on it? The other day, I saw such a thing.
I was in a cafe and across the room was a necklace which sang to me. The necklace was actually on a woman, it wasn't sitting there having a latte on its own. Due to my new found vision I keep looking at things and thinking - I can see that that. And that. And I could see this necklace, clear as day and it spoke to me. (See it sang and it spoke). It said - I'm only made of buttons but look how nicely I sit on this here neck. Behold my colours. I'm not ostentatious but am perfect to jooj (?)* up a plain old shirt. Now I have to say, that I don't often covet other people's things. Their dogs maybe, or their publishing contracts, but not their possessions.

So, I tried to forget about the buttons but they were insistent. I did a casual Etsy search. It was so casual, I almost wasn't there but with no effort at all, the button beauty appeared. I go with anything it said. Buy me it said and so I click, click, click did.

Yes, in the scheme of things non-consequential, a pfft and a sorry excuse for a post. But I like it. You don't have to. Just tell me - what have you bought lately that is totally non-necessary but very cheering. Food doesn't count. Unless it's special food.

*can anyone shed light on an acceptable spelling of this word? jujz? Joojz? As in 'to brighten something up'.

Canine Crime Wave

2009-04-29T11:49:00.004+01:00

I was hoping it wouldn't make the papers but sadly, we now have a criminal record in the family. You may have to click on the image to see the whole sorry story properly.

Thanks to Karen for this link. It was hard to resist.

Eyes#2

2009-04-24T18:05:00.010+01:00

I have new eyes. It's amazing. I can see you. And you. And my goodness, that's a hat you're wearing, not your hair. And you over there. You're male when I could have sworn....

I'd been been wearing the wrong prescription for way too long and what I thought (or was told) were ocular migraines, was in fact PVD. If you don't like the words jelly and eyes in the same sentence, then don't click on the link. It's a bit of a squeamish combination. At least it is for me. The Teenager has no such squeams and has taken to contact lenses in the last couple of weeks like a .... well, a teenager concerned with looks. I went along with her whilst she had an hour long trial to learn how to use them and I couldn't watch. All that pulling back of eyelids and talk of fluids was too much. You'd think I'd be used to it as The Younger One was born with Nystagmus and a squint and spent much of her early life having various eyeball-y tests. But no.

And in other news a poem of mine is going to be in Issue 4 of First Edition, available from all good WH Smiths and Borders (and online) from May 7th. I am just a little bit pleased about this. Did you detect that rather subtle understatement? Did you? And whilst we're on the subject, fellow blogger and jolly fine Spiral Skies has a story in Issue 3 which is out now. So yes, a little bit pleased.

Hunting

2009-04-11T10:34:00.016+01:00

In the past few weeks I must have walked past, but not bought, Easter eggs 46, 290 times. Or thereabouts. My reasoning was 'I'll do it later. Maybe tomorrow'.

And then Later became Tomorrow and Tomorrow became Today and tomorrow is Easter Sunday and The Teenager asked if I'd remembered to buy some eggs for The Younger One. Ooops.

So we went out.

But they were all gone.

Gone. Swiped. Bought. Empty shelves. And I couldn't understand why? Does the credit crunch slash recession mean people are thinking Well, if we can't afford to go out this bank holiday, we're damn well going to eat our body weight - and then some - in chocolate?

We went to Tesco. There were two horrible looking Disney things, a Green & Blacks (broken) and a cake with an egg on it.

We went to Sainsbury's. (small branch). There was a Kit Kat Chunky egg (bleurgh) with a dinked box and some grubby looking white chocolate on sticks.

We went to Sainsbury's (superstore). There was a sign on the door. Only six Easter Eggs per customer. Cripes rationing, so maybe hope of finding some? All shelves naked.

We went to two other supermarkets. Nothing. We tried the local Co-op. Three horrible looking tiddly Disney things. Two broken.

We tried fourteen (or thereabouts) garage shops. Only daffodils and Red Bull. Didn't think The Younger One would be that thrilled.

We tried twenty two (or thereabouts) corner shops/village shops. They've cleaned us out this year said all the tired looking shop assistants and I started to harbor a severe grudge against the greedy they.

After clocking up thirty miles (true), we began to admit defeat and were contemplating how we could cunningly get round the problem. Melt a few bars of Galaxy and mould them into bunny shapes? Roll some hard boiled eggs in smelted Toblerone? I was actually getting quite excited about the possibilities as we pulled up at last shop. And Behold, there were shelves of eggs - bog standard, normal, unbroken eggs. It was wondrous. It was probably a miracle for now the Easter Bunny will arrive fully loaded. And when he rings the doorbell and runs away, I will try to catch him and have a quick word. Words to the effect of ... next year get your damn fluffy-tailed act together and stop - please stop - leaving things to the last minute. Because where chocolate is concerned, you can never, never leave things to chance.

Happy Easter chaps.

The photo is my brother, 1960's. In those days the Easter bunny was organised and you always cut your egg with a knife. Check out the wallpaper.

Excuses

2009-03-29T19:49:00.014+01:00

I've been a bit neglectful of the blog recently. And of you. And myself come to that. You should see the hair.

Funnily enough, the subject of last week's Novel Racers coffee morning post was 'How do you manage to make time to write when you're silly busy?' There were some interesting answers, not least about the state of our homes. The plain fact is, when life gets naughty busy, the blogging is the first thing to be put aside and quite rightly so. But then, sadly, the writing follows because no bill is going to be paid as a result of it, no parents taken here and there, no children/dogs fed, watered and exercised. It's just a simple case of priorities.

I've also been having a bit of eye trouble. Had an 'episode' in the supermarket on Saturday, which resulted in an abandoned trolley and phone calls to find out why one eye had inexplicably stopped doing what it is designed to i.e - see things without a full firework display in the way. Luckily 'normal' sight came back but 'eye people' must be seen. Reading the computer screen has become increasingly tiring, which is another reason why I've not been around to visit so much.

So, those are my excuses.

Ooh and The Teenager had a birthday last week. She was 17. There was a fish and chip supper and chocolate cake. And her provisional driving licence has been applied for. Heaven help us. I may need several new pairs of eyes in order to teach her. And maybe a spare heart.

A Post in Which Very Few Words Appear Due to Being a Bit Busy

2009-03-17T19:53:00.002Z

Discovered the web cam works, after all this time. But what do you use it for? Except to see what you look like reading blogs
or practise fake smiles instead of writing.

But then of course Teabag wanted to see what the 'smiling'(gurning) was about...

which meant of course, Peggy had to have a look too.

So this is us, looking at you, looking at us. Not writing.
Wave.

Twitter Titters Comic Relief Book. Including Me.

2009-03-05T07:39:00.011Z

A bit of good news on the writing front. Ususally when I send a story out, it pings right back with a "Thank you for submitting your story but ...." This time, the only but(t) was mine doing a little celebratory dance. I'm glad you couldn't see.

One of my stories was selected to go into a comedy book to raise money for Comic Relief. Comic Relief , for those not in the UK, is an annual fund raising day. Children dress up to go to school and wear red noses. There are sponsored events all over the country and a telethon all evening. It's been going since 1985 and raises millions every year.

This is what the organisers of the book, who have worked incredibly hard to get it out so quickly, say.

'TwitterTitters - A tweetin’ hilarious collection of new comedy writing, selected to raise money for Comic Relief. Includes foreword by Chelsey: OMG! Writer Nat Coombs and exclusive new writing by Phoenix Nights co-creator Dave Spikey. TwitterTitters is a project by an independent group of fundraisers for Red Nose Day 2009'.

So I was chuffed to be selected and doubly chuffed that it's for a good cause. And I was super chuffed when I heard that Calistro also has a story in the book. When my copy arrives I may just go and sit in the busiest cafe, read it and laugh very loudly. People will be so intruiged they will have to find out what I'm reading and buy it themselves. Or they will alert the management and I'll be escorted off the premises. Either way, it's all for charidee.

You can read more about Twitter Titters here and if you're on Twitter, get all the latest here

Twitter Titters is available to buy or download here. Buying it would be a very good idea.

An Interview with Fiona Robyn

2009-03-04T07:47:00.002Z

Fiona Robyn has kindly stopped off here today as part of her virtual book tour. Her début novel The Letters is out now. It's a cracking book with vibrant characters, sparkling prose and a damn good page-turning story. Violet Ackerman is divorced with four grown up children. She 'ups sticks' to live by the sea where she starts to receive a series of mysterious letters written almost fifty years ago.

Hi Fiona and thanks for stopping by. I was immediately interested in the character Violet. She's 51, forthright and doesn't suffer fools. However, one of the ways we get to see her softer side is through her devotion to her cat Blue. His mannerisms are finely observed. You are obviously a cat lover?

Guilty as charged!

Blue has a very calming effect on Violet. Do your cats have that effect on you?

They do. Their lives are a little simpler than ours, I suppose – no emails to reply to, no hoovering. They also do stretching and sleeping very well – as I type Silver is curled up on a cushion nearby, and Fatty is stretched diagonally across the bed. They’re both smiling.

My cat doesn't do a lot. Do you think I should ask him nicely to be a little more inspirational?

Don’t be silly – when does a cat ever do what you ask? That’s another thing I like about cats – their contrariness. Not like those eager-to-please dogs!

How long did The Letters take you to write? And how many drafts?

I interrupted myself in the middle of The Letters to write A Year of Questions, so I suppose about a year if you don’t count the hiatus. There are usually about three major drafts, and then I’ll go over it again and read it aloud, making minor tweaks as I go.

Do you write longhand or straight to screen?
(Please tell me you like notebooks)?

Straight to screen – there are too many words in a novel not to. I use notebooks for my journals and to write poetry – I do have a stationary fetish. You can never have too many notebooks.

This is your début novel and you have two others coming out. The Blue Handbag in August and Thaw, next February. You're impressively prolific. As a wannabe, who's still struggling to complete her first book, how do you organize your time?

Don’t be fooled – it just took me a long time to find a publisher so the novels had piled up! Over the years I’ve worked towards setting my working life up so I have the mornings free to write. Having said that, I continue to struggle to get my first draft finished – you’d think it would get easier. I wrote the first draft of my first novel (Thaw) in half hour chunks before my full time job, so there are no excuses really…

Do cats make an appearance in these other two books?

Leonard from The Blue Handbag is more of a dog person, so he has a little terrier called Pickles. Ruth from Thaw would probably have a cat if she didn’t live in a little flat, but I don’t seem capable of leaving them out of the story altogether.

What are you working on now?

My current novel is about a nerdy boy called Joe who visits his aunt in Amsterdam when he’s a teenager and again when he’s 27. I’ve already got a trip planned this summer to go and gather some authentic Amsterdam detail. What a great life, eh? I’m very lucky.

Thank you Fiona. Shall we have some tea now? I have Jaffa Cakes?

Jaffa cakes sounds good to me ; ) Thank you for having me, Lane.

The Letters is published by Snowbooks. It can be purchased here or here.

Fiona's blog can be found here. And her website here

Competition Time

2009-03-02T11:40:00.012Z

Shirley Wells needs your advice. Shirley is a writer of crime and romantic fiction and her new book Where Petals Fall is due out on 26th March. To mark this, she's holding a competition. Tell her the best piece of advice you've ever been given and you could win a signed hardback copy of her book. Now Shirley likes snow so I suggest you all enter and advise her to avoid yellow snow. Or maybe even brown snow. That way, I've got a much better chance of winning.

Go here to find out everything you need to know about this rather splendid competiton.

BSOD

2009-02-26T13:40:00.011Z

I am Lappyless. My laptop exploded. Actually I exaggerate. It went pffft in the middle of what was probably the most scintillating sentence ever written. Or maybe it was the dullest and the laptop died of boredom.

Anyway, my 'puter access is limited at the moment. I'm using The Younger One's computer to write this but it's not the same as I have to sit on a tiny chair and have two thousand pairs of eyes staring at me. I don't mind Paddington - he's cool - but some of these bears/cats/horses/sheep have a sinister look about them. And I've been worried, big time, for what has been lost.
So, I had a word with St Isidore who's the patron saint of laptops. Indeed, he is the patron saint of the entire internet. I expected him to ignore me, seeing as I haven't been around for over thirty years. He's obviously not one to hold a grudge though, because behold, data is being retrieved and programmes painstakingly reinstalled. And of course I must also thank G, for it is he who has done all the hard work.

Remember - back up, back up, back up. Because when the pfffft comes, you really don't want to be cursing St Isidore's boss or his mother. Or whimpering. Not that I was, of course. Much.

Hope to be back, around to visit, and (relatively) normal soon.

Pen

2009-02-23T10:09:00.006Z

I have a pen.
A very expensive pen.
I have never used it.
Because it is expensive.
And it doesn't work.
It is this pen

It was a prize in a writing competition many years ago. So long ago that, if you squinted slightly, I could have almost passed for a young 'un. Pebble Mill was on the TV and it was this very programme in which they said 'write a story and if you win, we will give you a pen and put your name on screen'. Denise Robertson, bless her, was the judge. The story was awful. It had a moral. But soon I was the owner of a very fine, expensive pen (that doesn't work) and a book (paperback) signed by some writer I can't remember. Sally someone. She'd probably been in the studio the previous week and done them a favour. And she didn't so much sign the book as just write her name, in the top corner like she owned it.
Anyway. The pen. I could see it was a nice pen but as it didn't work, I didn't really bond with it. I could have bought a replacement refill but refills for the montblanc solitaire meisterstuck 1648 are not cheap. And besides, what would I do with an expensive pen apart from lose it. So it stays in a drawer. Every so often, usually when faced with the gas bill, I get it out and debate whether to sell it. But I dither. Sometimes I think I'll splurge, buy a refill and see if old Monty and I can bond over some words. Sometimes it reminds me of the day when Denise Robertson announced my name and I pogo-ed vigorously for a few minutes. But it also reminds me of something else that happened that day. The phone rang and I thought it would be my mother bursting with congratulations. Well, it was her alright but her voice was funny. My father had been attacked at work - hit over the head with a hammer in a bungled burglary and left for dead. He didn't die but that's a story for another time.
So it was a bit of a mixed day. And the pen remains... just a lump of expensive metal to which I have no real emotional attachment. Very pretty but not fully functioning. A bit like a WAG amongst pens. Which may, or may not be sold.

Retrospection

2009-02-16T11:14:00.009Z

Pieces subbed this year = 10
Pieces pinged back with a 'No' = 3

The trouble with trying to sub is that it takes so long. Retrospective subbing that is.
It's never a good idea and it really doesn't work.

You may have a story suitable for Magazine A but Magazine A wants 2000 words and yours is 1000. Magazine B wants 1000 but your piece is not literary enough. And so you edit/add/ rewrite and research other markets until you realise that it's really better to step quietly away from the story and leave it to fester in its natural habit, The Big Box File of Practice.

But you continue because there are a thousand markets out there and you must have something in your pile suitable for one of them. And you really, really want a credit. (You know those bios that they ask you to write? I just can't bring myself to include a ten year old credit). But it's like a jigsaw - one of those million pieced, baked beans ones and it's all too hit and miss. You don't want to let these bits of writing go. You want to let them have a try somewhere and another day goes by while you're trying to mould and fit, mould and fit but remember these pieces were written with no market in mind - no journal, no competition, no e-zine. They were just written and the word count was whatever they turned out to be. Surely if you throw enough out there, one of them will score?

No.

Well, you might get lucky but it's unlikely. And it's a waste of time.

Meanwhile, the book you're supposed to be writing has taken a back seat as yet again you have failed to achieved a writing balance. The book was supposed to come first. The subbing was supposed to be secondary.
So the pieces will stay in their box. I will focus instead on targeting chosen markets, fulfilling competition briefs and getting on with the rewrite of the book which I'm now convinced is in the wrong tense, pov and probably has the wrong story. But that's another post. In other words, I've learnt something since January 1st. Wonders will never cease.

Please note that the use of the 2nd person 'you' in this post refers only to me. You, of course are far more sensible.

Lisa Ratcliffe

2009-02-06T09:22:00.006Z

Lisa Ratcliffe
was beautiful, brave, feisty and funny.
Sleep well dear girl. We'll miss you.

Visitors

2009-02-03T14:27:00.002Z

So I was browsing the stat counter as you do .... once in a while. All the usual keyword searches were there - nuns, nits, that sort of thing. But then, who did I see had come a visiting? Only the very Queen herself, that's who. I knew it was her because the referring link was www.ma'amasinspam.buckhouse.co.uk. Well, who would have thought that HRH herself would drop by? Do you think she sits in bed of a morning with a cuppa and a custard cream, scanning the blogs of the common people? Mind you I don't think there's much here to interest her, what with the lack of hunting and fishing and head scarves. Peggy doesn't even come close to resembling a Corgi and I don't own a Land Rover. Or even a crown.

Actually I wouldn't be all that excited if the Queen had dropped by*, not being much of a royalist**. Now, if it had been Mr Dylan, I may get a little agitated and even combust. Just slightly. However, I hear he's very busy and doesn't like computers so I'll settle for any of my favourite writers who can give me some tips on how to sit still and focus for more than five minutes. On second thoughts, I can answer that myself. Just sit still and focus. Not rocket science. No secret tricks.

So who would you most like to visit your blog? They wouldn't comment of course because that would spoil things. Just read. They must be alive. Or sort of.

*which of course she didn't. She had someone do it for her.
** don't tell my Auntie Vera

Fashionista

2009-01-28T10:38:00.015Z

Talking of clothes - we were talking about clothes weren't we? Remember the filly-bummed romper suit?
My mother took great pride in dressing me up.
This photo reveals a frilly dress, cropped cardigan and several chins. Oh and a packet of matches by the look of it. Not far off the Amy Winehouse look today. Except the chins of course.
Not only did she dress me up but she did weird things with my hair. Even my brother can't contain his mirth at what can only be a flowerpot on my head.

Her finest moment in 'dressing up daughter' occurred here, when and in true 60s wedding style, a little meringue was lovingly reproduced.

So young and so malleable. But I had the last laugh

I developed a taste for a far more casual look which has stayed with me.

Note the tartan trousers. Even the doll is sitting up and taking notice. I think she is probably gasping. Behold also the leopard print slippers and the very dapper plastic handbag. I think punk rock may have been heavily influenced by this sartorial combo.
Nowadays it's mostly jeans. Jeans, jeans and more jeans, although now I quite fancy a pair of tartan trousers.
You're a varied bunch, so go on tell me. What's your sartorial style? To ask what you're wearing today sounds a bit 'weirdy-heavy-breathing-phone pervish' but you know what I mean.

Olde Times

2009-01-22T08:46:00.004Z

It's been a bit of a rushed week so I was pleased when French Fancy kindly tagged me for a photo meme. Good, I thought. No brain required. You only have to look in your folders and pick the fourth photo in the fourth folder. Now as luck would have it, this folder is not full of Peggy, Teabag or children. It's stuffed - positively bulging in fact - with old photos that I've been scanning.

My father was (and still is) a keen photographer. Way before I was born, he'd divided off a piece of what would be my bedroom and made a darkroom. I learnt very early that the red light on the door, meant 'Do Not Enter'. And if I was allowed inside the tiny space, I had to be very careful and not touch any of the huge chemical jars or sloshing trays. Miracles happened in there. I saw them. Ghostly images would appear on blank sheets of glossy paper and grow darker until you recognized your mother, your brother, your dog peering back at you. But the smell was overpowering. It was overpowering for him too and later he developed an allergy to it, had to stop developing prints and the darkroom was pulled down. My bedroom miraculously doubled in size. But in those years, judging by the amount of photos I'm wading through, he must have photographed us almost daily.
So, the above photo is number four in the folder. It's about 1963/4. Frilly-bummed romper suits were all the rage. Weren't they?

And I bet you can't guess where this photo was taken. The little lump in the foreground is not an ancient relic.

**********************************

If you'd like to do the fourth photo, in the fourth folder, consider yourself tagged.

Close Up

2009-01-14T11:31:00.008Z

I did solemnly swear, somewhere back at the beginning of the year that I would submit some bits and pieces this year. And so far I've submitted three. That's two more than last year.
And I did solemnly think about confidence and where it comes from.

It's taken me a long time to realise that writing is something I do. Not necessarily great at, or even prolific but it's something I do regularly and something I love. And yet I could never admit this. It sounded overly confident and if you were educated by the Sisters of Mercy, confidence was placed high on the sin scale. Even though I had a couple of good things happen on the writing front, many moons ago, I never pressed for more. Getting published means fighting to be noticed and we are constantly told how hard it is. Not being pushy and frankly lazy, I sat back. I thought I had time and I didn't have an ego that believed what I had to say was any more valid than the next person. Deep down, I believed that only clever, snappy people got published. Outgoing people with interesting lives. Now it astounds me when I read the bios of new writers who are so young. And although many are clever and snappy, some aren't. And then there are those who are just ordinary and past forty. Some are fantastic, many are great, a few are not worth writing home about but what they all have in common is that they 'went for it' because no one is going to swing by your laptop and beg to publish what they see.

Now I see things a bit differently. Close up if you like. What's a bit of rejection in the scheme of things? Some people don't like what you write? 'Tis nothing. It's the some who do who matter. So no more 'what ifs' and worrying about this, that and nothing. Life is way too unpredictable to waste. And I say this as one of our dear blog friends is battling the biggest battle of all. Lots of you know her and I haven't asked permission to link, so I won't. But suffice to say, she is courageous and inspirational. And there is hope. There has to be.

Photo: My brother, who didn't have the luxury of what ifs, viewing life close up.

Shut That Door

2009-01-08T11:20:00.008Z

Shut That Door. If you're British and over a certain age, you'll probably recognize Larry Grayson's catchphrase. I'm not quite sure why he said that but if it was because he was cold, I know how he felt. It's all I've been saying for the past few days. Call me a Soft Southerner but I'm not cut out for this cold malarkey. We - the Soft Southerners - are not programmed for extremes and are certainly not equipped for it. Used to around 300 days a year of pretty much grey temperate skies, we wither as soon as the temperature drops below zero and swelter when it goes over 'warm'. I have no thermals, no fur lined boots and no insulated house because for those few days a year, it just doesn't seem worth it. Instead I robotically repeat 'Shut that door' every time someone wafts into a room, leaves it open and evacuates the warm air I've been greedily hoarding all day.

It's a new term and I walk The Younger One to school. Getting dressed for the cold takes an extra half hour. We waddle out in our layers and crunch over icy ground. She wants to slide down a frozen hill and I say ' you'll get your feet wet, fall on your bum and be cold all day. You can do it on the way home'. But as she quite rightly points out, on the return walk, the hill is uphill. Peggy shivers and curses me because her coat doesn't fit her any more. I tentatively suggest she might want to diet, just ever so slightly, and she ignores me.

I phone my mother because the BBC weatherman has kindly reminded us to check in on the frail and the elderly in these low temperatures. Actually I phone her because I quite like her and do it almost every day. 'Oh' she says. 'We haven't even even got the heating on. In fact your father's in his shirt sleeves. I don't know what all the fuss is about'. They're Southerners too. But not Soft.

Photo: Peggy and Teabag, the Yin and Yang dogs, in a small patch of sunshine.

A Feeling?

2009-01-03T21:18:00.016Z

Do you ever look back at your old blog posts and cringe? Even just a little? I have occasionally winced but not enough to ever take one down because at the time, I thought it was ok. Therefore it's history. And anyway compared to re-reading old journals, which is enough to make one feel nauseous, they are nothing. Maybe a bit of bad syntax here or some fuzzy thinking there. Sometimes a quiet and wholly inappropriate moan. Why do I ask this? Well I was talking to someone the other day who was almost googly eyed at the idea that any sane, semi-intelligent person would want to spend time writing bits about their life for strangers to read. And the fact which made their eyes positively swivel was that it is unpaid. Just as baffling to them was why anyone would want to spend time actually reading snippets of other people's daily lives. People you've never met and will probably never meet? Isn't that a bit sad. Isn't that a bit nar-sar-cistic? (their pronunciation)

I didn't want to come across like a crazed evangelical because the truth is, unless you actually do it and give yourself over to it, you cannot possibly understand. And when you say it out loud, it can sound a bit sad. But it's not. It's really, really not and I could list 100 reasons why it's a good thing. But I won't. I'll list 10.

1 Horizons (broadened)
2 Knowledge (gained)
3 Compassion (ties in with knowledge)
4 Affirmation (that there are good people in the world. Loads of them. In fact they are the majority.
5 Humour (very important)
6 Friendship (It may be cyber but that's fine)
7 Support (again it may be cyber but it's better than none)
8 Empowering ( strong word maybe, but it's always nice to hit that 'Publish' button).
9 Light relief (and oh how we need that)
10 Care to add one?

Suffice to say, I kept schtum about my little pin-prick space in the blogosphere. The person in question can continue to read blogs in newspapers (apparently 'that's different').

But I have a feeling - a sense that blogging is changing, just ever so slightly. A teeny tiny shift. Not ours individually perhaps but overall. As online communities grow and people feel accepted, blogs are becoming more conversation driven and less 'look at me, aren't I clever/funny/buy what I'm selling'. I know that I steer clear of blogs where the author never reciprocates. I refuse to become a fan. Having said that, I do read some that have a 'no comment' facility and that's fine. I go there to learn something.

How can I make such a sweeping statement, you may ask? Does she have 2 million blogs in her Google Reader? Actually it's 137 but as I said it's just a feeling. Is it something to do with the economic downturn that makes people want to reach out? Is it to do with the fact we are more isolated from friends and family nowadays and just want to chat? Is it something to do with the fact that in a media driven world, we all want our say - to be heard and to listen?
Is it a bit of everything? Am I mistaken? I don't know. As I said, it's just feeling and I have faith in 'feelings'.

Apologies for the length of this post. I don't what came over me. Normal length and trivia will follow. And I look forward to reading yours (obviously not trivial) in the coming year.

Fat

2008-12-30T10:52:00.007Z

I could tell you about my knee. Those of you on Facebook may already know the story of the turkey, the hot fat and the knee, resulting in the blisters, the bubbles and a slight limp.
But I'll tell it again, just as a warning for those who think a sherry or two, whilst tending to a fowl bigger than your first born, is ok.
Instead of carefully pulling the tray out from the oven, you may yank it just a tad too enthusiastically. The carefully basted bird may make its last bid for freedom, fly across the kitchen floor and end up near the dog bowls. That's fine in itself, save for the hygiene factor, but it's followed by a tsunami of hot fat, which flows in waves down your jeans. At first you feel nothing, maybe due to anaesthetising properties of the sherry. People are yelling at you to 'Get 'Em Off' like a stripper. But I, being a modest sort of stripper, hot foot it upstairs but it's too late. The damage has been done and even after fifteen minutes under a cold shower, the knee has erupted into red welts and blisters.

Apart from being forced to wear a ridiculous flowing summer skirt, and being paranoid about the teetering bubbles bursting on my clean sheets, it's all ok. And the turkey was very good. As was the rest of Christmas. I'm just thankful I don't have one of those built in, high up ovens. Think of the bosoms. Actually don't think of them.

I was going to photograph the knee but I'll spare you. The photo is of a notebook The Teenager had made. Now you can go 'aah' instead of 'eurgh'.

Happy New Year chaps.

The Claws Guy

2008-12-22T00:09:00.007Z

"Who is this guy in the frock? Should I know him"?

"Aah. He's the present guy. In that case ..."

"Me an' Teas has been very, very good".

Merry Christmas to all our friends on the blog.

We wish you all

nothing ...

but ~~peas~~

~~piece~~

PEACE.

With love from Peggy, Teabag and Her. xx

200

2008-12-10T11:42:00.008Z

My blog is worth $27,662.46.
How much is your blog worth?

I thought about selling but considering the feebleness of the pound, maybe it's best to hang onto it for a while.

Also, this is post number 200. 200 posts about tiny things in a tiny life. In the grand scheme of things it is but a pfft. Not even a pfft. More a pf. I'll give you an example of how pf.

Yesterday I stepped in a puddle on the kitchen floor. I blamed the dogs. Statistically it was more likely to be one of them than the children. Mopped it up. Ten minutes later there was another puddle. Blamed them. Mopped again. Blame/mop, blame/mop went on all day until I began to think one of the dogs had serious bladder problems. Late last night I finally twigged. I'd switched off the small fridge (as opposed to the big fridge) on Sunday, to clear the ice monster in readiness for Christmas nibblies.

And this morning I found seven remote controls in a drawer. But where are the machines?

That's got to be worth $27,662.46 of anyone's money.

On Vogue

2008-12-06T11:08:00.013Z

My local library is tiny, friendly and relatively quiet and I spend a lot of time there. So when a part-time job came up, just covering shifts and weekends, I thought why not, I'm here anyway. You may remember I got a 'job' teaching creative writing back at Easter, but since then there have have no funded classes and those teaching adult literacy are hanging onto their placements for dear life. So I filled in my application and waited for the wheels of the local authority's HR department ( Note to HR department that it's 'aitch' not 'haitch', ) to turn.

The answer was a no. Didn't even get an interview. Reason? You have not shown a demonstrable knowledge of, or experience of, customer service.

Pfft. I forgot to put on the application form how, aged 17, I worked in an off-licence and dealt with the nastiest old man in the town every Saturday. His mission was to make my life a misery over the purchase of Concorde wine and Rothmans. And then there was the Gas Board - "Change of Tenancy. How may I help you?" And the chicken farm. I was very polite to the chickens. And aged five I was an exemplary member of the Tufty Club (where children went to learn how to cross the road and you could drive around in little pedal cars). I always made sure everyone had a fair turn at being the Lollipop Lady. But how far back should you go? Apparently teaching experience doesn't count for 'customer service credits' which surprises me. Anyway, I would obviously be rubbish at helping an elderly gentleman locate the James Pattersons. I would no doubt snarl, grab his walking stick and use it to poke him in the right direction.

And this is why my fizzog is gracing the cover of Vogue. I may not be able to demonstrate customer service but I can put my face on Vogue - even if it is a grumpy face. But it's been an odd week and I still haven't located any de-grumpinated coffee.

You too can be on Vogue, or on billboards, or even on Warhols if you go here. Big thanks to my lovely friend at the art of small words for the link. It was just what I needed.

The C Word

2008-12-01T08:55:00.013Z

Nobody is allowed to mention the C word in my house until December. Now it's December - without my permission, I might add - and I have to let the C word in. I have to admit that I'm not the most serene woman in the run up to the 25th. Basically, it's just more to cope with and the weight of responsibility in making a It good for everyone can be .... how can I put this ....flaming tiring. But now that the first door of the Advent calender is open, it's countdown time and the mammoth game of beat the clock/balance the books/keep smiling begins.

But I am being grumpy. I will go and take some de-grumpinated coffee and remember that I'm fortunate, with untold riches - children, animals and a passably functioning mind and body. And Very Nice Karen has passed on this Scribblicious award. And I don't have to pay for it. See, the best things in life are free. Crikey, if it were Pay As You Go Blogging, I certainly wouldn't be here.

I'm not passing it on specifically because I've sort of forgotton 1) who I've passed awards onto and who I've forgotten and 2) who does awards and who doesn't, and 3) because you're all Superior Scribblers anyway. That's why I read you. Please take.

And talking of free, I've added a new blog. It's bits of writing scooped up from various places in an attempt to be organized.. Did I mention it's free. It's over there >>>>>>>>>

Time please, ladies and gentlemen

2008-11-27T11:04:00.005Z

If you ask my mother the time she will answer 'It's five and twenty to eleven'. Even if it's quarter past three.

Not really. What I mean is, rather than say it's ten thirty five or twenty five to eleven she will say five and twenty to. Sometimes she'll say 'It's just gone five and twenty to' although to my knowledge she has never said it's 'four and twenty to'.

So - quick question. Purely in the name of writerly research. Is this a normal mode of time telling vernacular or is it limited to older people? Short of standing outside M&S at thirty five past the hour and pouncing on people to ask the time, I can't be sure.

Teabag's Finest Hour

2008-11-25T10:17:00.018Z

I hear that Young Peg has been on the blog again, touting for the 'aah vote'. I assume she got it. Don't get me wrong. She is nothing short of delightful, even if she does use her (considerable) weight to barge me out of the way to get to food. However, in the brains department she is not what I would call ... fully loaded. Now I enjoy a game as much as the next mutt, but I do like to expand my outlook as well. This may be because of my origins, which weren't as easy as Young Peg's. Now, Poppy, over at French Fancy's house, has prompted me to tell you where I came from, so whilst the laptop is free for five minutes - here goes.

I came from the same rescue centre as Peggy. I was left there one night. I was tied up, had broken bones and was pregnant. I was about eight months old. The centre fixed me up, I had my puppies and my new family came to visit me for weeks whilst I was being treated. Eventually they took me home and gave me a new name, a new life and new challenges, the first of which was meeting Tiger Boy. I realised, after a Stare Off of epic proportions, that he was pack leader and now we treat each with the utmost respect (although Peg gets away with murder around him).

I still had problems though. I was not keen on men, especially men in hats. I had no idea how to behave around people. I had no idea about where to 'go'. I hated being left alone. I barked way too much. Most of this, with the help of Them, Peg and my own good sense, has been fixed but I still get over excited when out, and find people outside the house threatening. Inside, however, I adore anyone who steps over the threshold but apparently this is another problem and I must learn restraint. I fully realise, through my training and my extensive research on The Google, that we dogs live in the moment and our pasts should not be used as an excuse for our behaviour. My training is a work in progress but I can honestly say I've come a long way.

PS - It is well known that I am addicted to The Google. I was last allowed on the blog here and wrote about the shocking things one can find on the internet. If you're careful though, it is a wonderful tool and not just for Dogster or blabbing about on The Blog that She likes so much.

PPS - The photo is of is my finest hour at the village fete. The Younger One and The Teenager spruced us up and put us in the ring. The green rosette is Peggy's. You will note that it is a 4th. She was 4th best rescue dog. I must add that there were five in the class. My rosette is a 2nd. I was 2nd best bitch. Can you believe that? I was thrilled. And unlike Peg's, my class was huge.

PPS - I really don't expect any 'aahs' but a sage nodding of the head would be much appreciated.

PPPS - I've just realised how sensible this post is. None of the usual innane stuff that goes on this blog. I've also changed to a more sensible colour. Do you think She'll notice?

Peggy Steps In

2008-11-19T11:40:00.006Z

My owner was tagged by Absolute Vanilla (what sort of a name is that? Absolute Chicken Supreme would have been my choice) to reveal seven interesting facts about herself. Now as far as I'm concerned my owner has already revealed way too much about herself and our goings on, on this bloggie thing, but as she is busy this week, I thought I'd step in and tell you stuff you already know about me. And anyway, she hasn't let me on the blog since April. That's years ago. By the way, the photos are recycled but I just want to hear you go 'aah' again. You will go 'aah' won't you? I was a baby then, just so you know. I'm a bit bigger now.

1. I was born three years ago. I don't know where. At three weeks old I was put in the rescue centre. I spent the next few weeks sharing the kennels girl's sweatshirt until I was old enough to go to my new home. I knew They would have me. I was brilliant even then.

2. I have many different names. My full name is Peggy Flobbins but I am also called Peg, Peggily, Piggily and Pegster. They also call me Crusty but I choose to ignore that.

3. My best friend, apart from Teabag, is The Tiger Cat. I call him My Tiger Boy (like that song about an American Boy) He is even more brilliant than me. I used to think he was my dad until Teas put me straight. He has always looked after me and let me sleep with him. He even lets me lick his face when he's just eaten. When I go over the top (apparently I do), he bats me round the head with his paws. Ace fun.

4. I love waking up. It's the best past of the day. It's my job to wake everyone up and I'm really good at it. She let me tell you about it back in April. and I must say, my powers of Thought Transference are improving. I have got Them all very well trained.

5. I love dinner time. It's the best part of the day. As soon as the bowls come out, it's my job to round the others up. I'm really great at it. I'm great at eating it too. I can eat my dinner in 38.5 seconds and then I always try to nab a bit of Teas's but I tell you - that little dog can growl when she wants to.

6. I love going to bed. It's the best part of the day. It's my job to mess up the bed good and proper before She gets in. I'm really good at it. Then I make sure Teas is tucked up and I wedge myself up tight to Her, have my nose rub and sleep. I'm really good at that too. And since my post quite a long time ago (I just love linking to myself) I have had not so many complaints in the gassy department, thanks to the advice of a lady in Minnesota.

7. I love life. I love every single second of every single day (except loud bangs, scary dogs and bossy pigeons). Teas says I'm simple. That's a good thing, right?
And remember, 'Don't be ... fooled by the socks that I've got, I'm just Peggy from the blog.' I told you this post is recycled.

Now the rules of this taggy mememe are that I must tag some of you. So if there are any pets out there who would like to - please do. Otherwise I'll just have to tag Lady Teabag and you really don't want to read her 'interesting' facts, believe me. She's about as interesting as a three week old chewie. That's been left in a puddle.

Focus

2008-11-12T10:04:00.007Z

I had a whole day - when I say whole I mean within school hours - in which to write. These are rare. I wasn't going to waste it.
And so I ....

Arm myself with plate of thickly Marmited toast and tea and open current Novel.doc.
Stare at doc.
Open Children's Story.doc.
Stare at doc.
Have quick game of Scramble to wake up mind.
Write 150 words.
Have quick game of Scramble as reward.
Delete 100 words.
Go to find Rocky Bar as consolation.
Write another 200 words.
Have quick game of Scramble as reward.
And a banana.
And another cup of tea and three Malted Milks.
Spot several emails winking at bottom of screen and go to investigate.
Decide email from long lost friend has to be answered immediately and regale them with story of my life story 1998 -2008.
Have ham and mustard sandwich to keep up strength after extensive email writing. And coffee.
Have quick game of Scramble to work off sandwich.
Try to decide on ending for children's story and sit and stare at gentle rain for 30 mins.
Have quick game of Scramble to kick start mind.
Write 300 words.
Go to Novel.doc and scroll back and forth until scrolling finger is noticeably shorter.
Realize in a time-line of one year, the main character who is neither Muslim, Jewish or anything else, does not have a Christmas. Or a birthday. Decide to repair this but first ...
Go to get yoghurt to replenish calcium in scrolling finger.
Whilst there start to make the dinner and get creative adding the contents of fridge to casserole and fiddle about with my dumplings. Make cuppa.
Write 300 words.
Do not delete any.
Have game of Scramble as reward.
Have quick whip round house with hoover but get waylaid by The Teenager's make up bag and have rummage hoping to find something new which will transform face into that of dewy young person. Try on glittery eye pencil and am shocked at the result. As if I have been exhumed. Last month.
Am astounded at the time.
Get stuck in.
Time up.
And I was doing so well.
(Am thinking of inventing a velcroed writer's chair. Would come complete with velcro body suit with built in Rocky Bars).

________________________________________________________________

And in other news, here's a special Dummy award from Dumdad.

He lives in Paris so he's not so dumb.

The award was for getting the answer to a question wrong. I love it when that happens.

Stolen

2008-11-10T16:41:00.006Z

The Younger One has been very poorly. Very poorly indeed. She's missed a week of school, lost weight she can ill afford to and got me a bit worried.

Thankfully she seems to be picking up. She didn't fancy eating cake but she fancied making them. Taa daa.

<<<<<<<<

Never one to miss a cakie photo opportunity, I went to get my camera and can you see what happened? Was Peggy the thief? No. She couldn't reach them for she is too stumpy. Was it Teabag? Even she can't spring that high. But could it have been both of them working as a close knit team, wearing balaclavas and devising a route across chairs and tabletops to get to the booty, with the music to Mission Impossible in the background? If it was, they ate the paper too. But they would never have stopped at one. The Younger One says it wasn't her so was it me? Was it one of those blank, eat something without even realising it moments that don't register. Cake amnesia? Maybe, but I usually leave evidence all down my jumper and there was none. So own up. Was it you?

Whizz Bang

2008-11-06T16:41:00.009Z

After an evening of shivering, shaking and hiding under her blanket, Peggy finally peeped out, breathed a sigh of relief and slept the sleep of an exhausted dog. Complete with extra deep snoring.

Fireworks reduce her to a quivering wreck. She couldn't even be tempted to a game of sockie. Teabag tried in her own sensible way to distract her by setting up a game of Chase Me Really Really Fast Round The House but her efforts were in vain. Peggy was scared and she dived for cover.

Hopefully we've heard the last of the whizz bangs. I can hope.

Removed.

2008-11-04T09:41:00.012Z

The Teenager and I have parted company. We are no longer friends. It was easy. It was amicable. It was on Facebook. We'd been friends for a long time, playing together and laughing at silly things but it was time to move on. As her group of friends grew and grew, it didn't feel right to be the old woman with the same surname lurking amongst the young things. In just one click we are 'removed' which is just as well as too much 'symbiosis' tends to cramp one's style. That would be my style. No more eye rolling when she asks what on earth that last 'status' was all about. And why do I always have to mention food. I'll miss our occasional games of Sramble though. What I won't miss is the fact she always thrashed me and I will never beat her highest score. We still communicate in cyberland. She emails me from across the hall, anything she thinks I may find amusing (like old Hammie there) so I don't feel too bereft. Sometimes we talk in Real Life too. And now she can write about her evil mother and I can write about my not in least evil daughter* and neither of us will ever know. Can you hear that evil** laugh?

*I have to say that as she may read.
**word 'evil' overly used for effect. We are not really evil at all. Only mildly so.

And to those readers across the pond - May your queues be short and the outcome be the one you're hoping for. (baited breath here)

Photo courtesy of icanhascheezebuger.com.

Running For Cover

2008-10-27T09:58:00.009Z

I've been a bit out of sorts recently. Not quite right. Not drastic, just a bit flat and off kilter. Like my face has my name on it (not tattooed of course) but it feels a bit different inside. The old day to day problemos embedded in life's rich tapestry haven't helped. Not being able to settle to write, paint or even read, I needed something. Something mindless. And then I remembered Yvonne talking about her new found delight in crochet. She's so into it that she set a competition and made us all scarves. Anyway, yesterday, still unable to settle or focus on anything, I decided to have a go. I found some demonstrations on-line and after gathering up every bit of mankey coloured wool I could find, set too and started ... The Blanket of Calm. Yep, it's 6ft wide (approx 200 stitches) and will be as long as ... it takes me to finish. The colours are pretty dull at the moment but they suit my mood and the time of year and do you know what, it really is calming. I can crochet in complete silence and my mind rests. I can crochet with headphones on and soak up Mr Dylan. I can even crochet with the TV on, daughters nattering and Peggy trying to play with the wool and still find that part of the mind that can focus and not drop a stitch. It's brilliant. So thanks for that Yvonne.
What do you do to try to soothe yourself when the going gets tough? And how big do you think this blanket will grow? Will the novelty wear off and it remain a narrow strip or will Peggy and Teabag be able to use it by Christmas? I'll keep you posted.

And on another note, thanks also to Tom Foolery for her TFX writing competition. We were awarded personalized awards, each with TF's own, very lovely photos. She really is very good.

Running Out of Time

2008-10-17T13:38:00.009+01:00

I've just finished reading a book about running. As someone who has no interest in running and finds even the idea of it stressful, it was fascinating. Walking I can do. Walking I enjoy but running is not in my soul. But it's in Haruki Murakami's. He's one of my favourite writers and his latest book What I Talk About When I Talk About Running, could just as well have been about walking, fly fishing or extreme hoovering because it's really about discipline. Whilst he documents his mileage, his running times and his jippy knee, he also muses about what it takes to be a runner and a writer. He has a clarity that is inspiring, sets goals that he constantly achieves and has incredible discipline. He was asked what it takes to be a writer.
He lists them in order of importance.

Talent, Focus, Endurance.

This may be stating the obvious but it jumped out at me. You can have all the talent in the world but if you can't focus and sit still for xx hours a day, every day for months on end, you will never finish a novel.

He also cites the '1:10 theory'. i.e you can't please everyone. If one person out of ten likes what you do, you're ok.

And he takes naps. I like naps.

And the reason for the title of this post? This week, I became older than I've ever been. I need to ingest some of Murakami's Zen like approach before it's too late.

You may also be wondering why my cat is adorning this post. This is because he is the closest thing to a Zen like being in this household. If he could type, he'd have written ten novels by now. When he's not practising Extreme Sleeping of course.

Have a good weekend chaps.

Poverty

2008-10-15T08:53:00.006+01:00

Today is Blog Action Day and this year's subject is poverty. I signed up a while ago and then when the time came, thought what on earth can I write? What do I know about poverty. I've known about being poor but that's another thing entirely.

Let's clarify. Poverty isn't poor. Our leader would have us believe that poor is defined as someone who lacks Broadband. Poverty is way down the ladder from Poor. Poverty is lack of food, inadequate housing, sanitation, medication and education. Poverty kills. And for those who are still alive, it's a living death.

The word abject often precedes 'poverty'. Abject poverty.

Abject : utterly hopeless, miserable, humiliating, or wretched.

The vast majority of those in abject poverty throughout the world are trapped and isolated. And here's where some naive, simplistic thinking comes in. It's not a new idea. I may have read about it, in one of Jeremy Clarkson's columns, although I may be wrong.

Just about every town in this country is twinned with a town in Europe. Why? For no other reason than the local dignitaries can enjoy an annual jolly. Have you actually ever benefited from being twinned with Nimes or Mesnil-Le-Roi? So why not instead, connect with a village in Africa/India or where ever would benefit from a personal connection with other human beings who give a damn.

It's a tiny thing. It's not an answer. In the big picture, it will make no real difference at all. We can't depose the dictators, eradicate corrupt governments or make it rain but tiny things make a difference. They create humanity. If one town could help to make a village less utterly hopeless, miserable, humiliating, or wretched, it would be worth it. Simplistic and naive it may be, but it's far more sensible than spending public money on checking out the local brie making facilities in your exquisitely placed twin town. If you know a face, a person, a family, wouldn't you want to donate, raise money, do something? One often heard complaint of 'giving to charity' is that you don't know where the money is going. Well, with a twinned community, you would.

For a decidedly more in depth and incisive post, head on over to Absolute Vanilla's blog. While you're there, scroll down to see photos of what can only be described as examples of shameless discrepancy in the modern world.

Fiona's New Book

2008-10-11T16:52:00.010+01:00

Some of you may know Fiona. If you do, you're lucky because she is a thoroughly good egg and a great friend. She has also written a new book. The widgety thing on the sidebar will lead you to it.

If you've ever wondered what's involved in petsitting or dog walking, then this is the book to have. Maybe you, or someone you know, is interested in starting a new business. Ditto. Maybe you're just interested in animals and those who look after them. Double ditto. It's also useful if you're seeking an alternative to kennels or catteries and want to know more about what a professional petsitter does. It's packed full with practical advice and smattered with Fiona's personal experience. What she doesn't know about the business, frankly isn't worth knowing.
Fiona's blog can be found here.

Blips

2008-10-07T11:47:00.013+01:00

I'm great at giving advice. You can do it. Just get the words down. It will happen. That sort of thing. And I mean it because I genuinely believe in the people I encourage.

But how do those words of encouragement we dole out so liberally to others, translate to ourselves?
I'm two thirds of the way there on my second rewrite. Over two thirds. And the rest is planned out and just waiting to be written. I'm trying to focus and finding that focus slightly blurry. Is it fear or is it laziness? Fear would mean scared of the next stage which will be the final edit and then pitching. The more I've learnt about that, the more daunting it is. Laziness would mean I would have to face the fact that I lack motivation and that's worse. If someone had said back in the summer of 2006 "Ms Lane Doodah (for that is my name), I need 80 thousand words from you on the subject of your choice, delivered to my desk one year hence" they would have had it. Probably early. Left to my own devices, I've meandered. There's also the self doubt. If I knew in my heart, this was a cracking book, wouldn't I just be racing to the finish line to get it out, instead of taking forever to write something that could quite honestly have been written in eight months? Ok twelve. ~~Anyone would think that it was work of deep and meaningful literary fiction instead of a what is basically a light read.~~ Scratch that. I still stand by the belief that easy reading is hard writing.

I will finish it because I want to get on and write the next one. It's just taking longer than I thought. And that is entirely down to me.

Do you ever stall when you haven't got that far to go? Do you struggle with your motivation? Or do you just get on and do it, day in, day out until it's done? I hope you do.

Hottie

2008-10-01T10:37:00.010+01:00

What's nothing much divided by diddly squat? The answer is Not a Lot. Struggling to to acclimatize to the onslaught of autumn, I am suffering from Very Slow Brain and an overwhelming desire to sleep more than is necessary. There's a harsh chill in the air and the evening throb of grasshoppers is fading fast. In fact all the blighters seem to have ended up in my bathroom which makes for interesting showering. I refuse to put the heating on just yet. It's too early. And yet ... there are only a certain amount of layers one can swathe oneself in before before mobility becomes encumbered. It's time to pull out the blankies and my new friend who I like to call M'hearty. He is hot and is serviced nightly. Sometimes even during the day.

Anyway, I have a few clear hours today and must use them wisely to write words. I must not waste them. Almost a year ago I wrote about what can happen when a few hours are available but frittered. That will not happen today. I will put a dog on my feet, M'hearty on my lap and avert my eyes from the gale blowing outside. And not, repeat not, fall asleep.

The Power of Cake

2008-09-24T10:49:00.003+01:00

When you're baking something like this ...
you tend to get stared at, something like this ...

and this ...

You may give in ... just a little bit,
and later,
you turn around
and see something like this ...

Ask Auntie

2008-09-17T09:48:00.004+01:00

I don't usually take much notice of the keyword analysis in 'statcounter'. This is because most of mine seem to be searches for hot bitches (thanks to Teabag and Peggy), nun's habits and notebooks.
Anyway, these two searches made me smile and I apologise to the poor souls who needed answers but were given Laneswrite instead.
I feel compelled to answer them now, just in case they search again.

Would Frontline work on nits? As Frontline is a flea treatment for dogs and cats, I can't see any reason why it wouldn't work on nits. First catch your nit. Then squirt a little of the Frontline solution between its shoulder blades. Your pet nit will then be flea free for four weeks. Give it a biccie crumb for being a very good nit. Then squash between forefinger and thumb.

Drinking out of a chipped mug. Is it dangerous? Allow me to be pedantic and clarify the size of chip we are dealing with. If we're talking a minuscule chip, you need only turn your mug the opposite way. Simple and if you hadn't thought of that, I have doubts over whether you should be in charge of a keyboard. If however, the chip is say ... larger than 2.5 inches, it is probably safe to call this a chunk and your tongue could be in for a shearing and your chest may be due for a scalding. In short, yes, this is dangerous and I would advise chucking it . However if you are low on funds and the relinquishing of this mug would mean tea from a jam jar, you could always use a straw.

Any other questions?

I can laugh. These are far more sensible than most I type myself. A quick rummage in my search history would reveal a woman suffering from hypochondriasis, dubious morals and little brain - all in the name of research of course. When you're writing, you tend to google just about everything. Also when you're not writing. At least I think you do or maybe it's just me.

Apparently more than 200 million google searches are performed each day. I had to google that.

**********************************************************

On another, far more important note, bush mad Absolute Vanilla has pointed us in the direction of Blog Action Day. It's on 15th October and the subject this year is Poverty. Their aim is to raise awareness and trigger a global discussion. All you need to do is register and blog about poverty on that day. It can be your view, experience, opinion, story, anything. Click on the link for details.

United We Stand ....

2008-09-15T09:18:00.004+01:00

The Teenager and I are gearing ourselves up. There is a task at hand so heinous that it requires floral rubber gloves and guts of steel.
As we stand amongst the jungley vines in the forgotten bit of the garden, we pause and evaluate each others' strength. Will we be able to work as a team or will one of us crack and run screaming back to the sanctuary of the house, leaving the other to face this onerous undertaking alone?

Did we see it through? Yes. Do we always wear matching clothes? Definitely not.

And the task? I'm not going to tell you. It would disturb your sleep, put you off your food and maybe send you heaving into the nearest receptacle. See how sympathetic I am to your sensitivities?

Suffice to say it was a job well done.

Widgetry

2008-09-11T13:44:00.006+01:00

There is a widget. It is a widget so clever that it takes you to places you didn't know existed. It also takes you to some you did but that's part of the fun. As far as I know it doesn't take you back to yourself, so that's a relief.

This widget comes via Caroline Smailes and it's to celebrate the launch of her new book Black Boxes.

So... use your digit, click the widget, go and visit. It's on the sidebar. Scroll down a bit.

Ambidextrous Upsidedowness

2008-09-09T09:55:00.001+01:00

Much as I loathe all this new term stuff and the loss of freedom it entails, it sure does kick a lardy arse into action. This morning I have -
Made The Younger One toasted bagels and fresh orange juice, squeezed by my very own hand. Actually I used two hands. Ambidextrous squeezing.
Delivered The Younger One to school with all the right bits - on time.
Walked the dogs (well that was actually combined with the delivering bit).
Made a peach upsidedown cake which involves peaches and some upsidedowning.
Eaten some of the above upsidedowness.
Wiped down Teabag who now looks very perky.
Thought about wiping down Peggy Flobbins but will defer that till later. After cake break#2
Marinated - yes marinated some chicken for tonight. Oooh get me.
Written this post.
Now all I have to do is find that w-i-p Word.. It's here somewhere. Open it and suck some words from brain. How hard can that be?

In case you are beginning to feel frissons of being impressed - don't be. This new speedy enthusiasm won't last. I give it two days and then it'll be back to the usual 'oh god is that the time - have a banana - where's your PE kit - don't let that crusty dog anywhere near the beds - get in the car quick - get the cat out of the car - what do you mean we've forgotten your lunchbox' normality. Will make more peach cake though. It's the only thing that makes the end of the summer and the return to what laughingly passes for routine, bearable.

Split Personality

2008-09-02T16:41:00.003+01:00

When I read that the Wife of a Very Famous Chef had published a children's book - my character did a two-way split.

Ms Snarky started to grind her teeth and froth because Ms Snarky her very self is writing a traditional children's book. Late again.

Ms Nicey Nice wishes Wife of Very Famous Chef all the best because she is probably a Very Lovely Person.

Ms Snarky growled at photos of Wife of Very Famous Chef in corn fields wearing pretty frocks because Ms Snarky can usually be photographed clearing up doggie doos in ugly shoes and would like a pretty frock. Or two. And not have to clear up the doos.

Ms Nicey Nice thinks well good for her. It's not her fault that she is fabulously rich because of cheffy husband and has publishers tripping over themselves. There's money to made in that there surname. Ms Nicey Nice would probably do the same.

Ms Snarky thinks I bet she didn't struggle to fund postage/printer ink/paper for manuscripts because she is supporting one child with a serious nectarine habit and the other with - well, habits.

Ms Nicey Nice is determined to withhold opinion until she has read said book. It may well be extremely good.

Ms Snarky is still frothing.

Ms Nicey Nice wrestles with Ms Snarky and wins because she just wants everybody to happy and love each other. She will also finish her 'traditional' children's book and photograph herself in winsome pose in a field. Probably standing in a cowpat.

Are you a Snarky or a Nicey Nice? You could always be somewhere mid ground of course. Maybe Ms Snice?

And in other, more uplifting news, Angie, from the insanely cleverly named blog Angie's Write has given me this award. It's a very pretty teacuppy award. Just my cup of tea in fact, as is Angie. She is definitely Ms Totally Nice. I'm going to pass it onto a couple of relatively new but extremely nice ( I like this over-used but under rated word) bloggers - Pat, with her lovely new dog and Annie B who has just sold a story. And also to Calistro who has just had the most exciting and well deserved news.

Wonders...

2008-08-31T09:41:00.005+01:00

This is a photo of my brother. It was taken a few days before he died in 1973. He was eighteen. I was eleven. He would have been 53 today.
The world is a very different place now. Technology has exploded and transformed every nook and cranny of our lives. Thirty five years after his death it enables me to show you what he looked like with just a couple of clicks. We take it for granted but it's still pretty amazing isn't it.

Cheaper Than Chips.

2008-08-21T19:30:00.003+01:00

Venue - Sainsbury's. Late last night.

Mission - Butter and cat food.

Came across reductions and made mistake of stopping.

Cherry scones x 4 - 10p.
Well it would be a crime not to...

Raspberry turnovers x 2 - 10p
A crime also.

Mixed Pepper Salad - 20p
Very nutritious.

Pasta Salad - 20p
Would go well with peppers.

Seafood Medley with the tub lid ready to explode - 20p
Not on your nelly.

Scan rest of reductions in hope of nice Shiraz at 10p. No such luck.

Pick up cat food, pay and exit.

Did anyone spot what was forgotten due to this reduction diversion?

I tell you, scones just don't taste the same with mayonnaise.

(And the pepper salad was atrocious.)

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And in other news - The Teenager got whizzy results in her GCSEs. Well done my girl.

Fresh Air and Very Bad Hair

2008-08-17T20:46:00.013+01:00

On the beach (eating) and

on a boat gazing

and tired, cross and wet

And just for Babaloo and other Croc lovers/haters (click to enlargen)

The t-pod. A Progression to Paper

2008-08-04T09:38:00.004+01:00

There's procrastination and then there's procrastination. Last year I wittered to you (here) about my cunning invention - the t-pod. Desperate for a cuppa first thing in the morning and after my nap(s) and with no-one ever on hand to make one, I looked for a teasmaid (teasmade?) and found them all to be horrendously ugly. Hence my invention - the t-pod.
It would be sleek. It would be glossy. It would make just one cup of tea to get you on your way. It would resemble the London Gherkin building but be cheaper to build. Single people would love it. Couples could have one each, in the colour of their choice and with their favourite tea. His and Hers. His and His. Hers and Hers.
Since then I have done costing (no I haven't), made a prototype (no I haven't), worked out how it will actually work (no I haven't), got a patent (no I haven't), registered the name (no I haven't).
I have drawn a picture though. You want one don't you. I may have to make a sticky-back plastic mock-up next - not having any components (that's 'electrical' lingo) to hand.
It wouldn't make coffee though. If you like coffee first thing in the morning you'll have to go downstairs and make it yourself, you lazy thing.

Trolleyed*

2008-08-01T12:20:00.007+01:00

It's my mother's birthday next week. She has requested a shopping trolley so she (i.e. me) can lug her purchases home from town with relative ease.

I went for the bright option. I'm not sure she will be impressed but it will make trailing along behind her in Marks and Spencer's a little more ... interesting. I may even borrow it for book signings.**

*note on the title for non UK readers. Trolleyed (trollied?) is an urban slang term for the state one finds oneself in after indulging in 'the over consumption of alcohol'. I have never found myself in such a state. Ever. I wasn't even trolleyed when I chose that trolley. Honest.

** book signings require a book to be 1)written 2) accepted and 3)published. I am still on 1.

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I've been Off Blog for a few days but had a look through my ridiculously enormous Google Reader list to see what everyone has been getting up to. There was an award from Debs in France. She called me bonkers and I was rather chuffed about that. She also was sporting the biggest bum bruise I've ever seen. Looked like she sat on a rotten aubergine but far more painful. Thanks for the award Debs and hope you're sitting comfortably now.
I must to (as my Spanish friend always says) pass this onto seven (seven!) other 'Brilliante' blogs. I think you're all deserving personally. That's why I have a ridiculously enormous Google Reader list. Anyway - if you haven't read any of the following blogs before, they are all well worth a visit -
Graeme - for telling it like it is. He writes an extremely elegant rant.
Casdok - who is one - and I don't use the word lightly - inspirational woman
Carol - who has given me such an insight into life in Thailand and is always funny and lovely.
Laurie - who must be so sick of awards but I'm flinging this over to her anyway because she's great.
SpiralSkies - Anyone who can lure Keith Chegwin to her blog and win him over is worthy of an award. She is also Queen of the Quip and very nice. I've met her so I know.
Aims - who is writing about her life with skill and intensity. She's feisty and fun too.
Travelling But Not In Love - last seen on some exotic island. You never know where he's going to be or what he's going to do/say next. Go see.

Have a good weekend chaps.

Festival Days

2008-07-21T12:19:00.008+01:00

Yep, they're pink.

This weekend was spent at the Latitude Festival, courtesy of some free passes. For those who haven't heard of it, Latitude is like a mini Glastonbury, but with literature/poetry/dance and comedy as well as music. It's also achingly middle class and festival goers were awash with Boden kiddies and Cath Kidston wellies. It was actually quite good, partly because it's set in the grounds of an estate with stunning forests and lake all lit up with coloured lights and partly because we live not a million miles away so no need to camp amongst thousands of other damp revellers.

Anyway - for the writerly amongst you, the literature tent was my first real taste of seeing authors read, do Q&As and signings. There was Iain Banks whom I missed. There was Esther Freud and Raffaella Barker, both of whom I missed. There was A L Kennedy and Hanif Kureshi. Missed them too. See a pattern here? There were others writers I've never heard of but who read brilliantly and had long queues for their signings. Then there was a woman. We settled down to listen to her read. What we heard was hard core, expletive filled description of a violent act I had no wish for my kids to hear. I tell you, I couldn't get them out of there quick enough. I don't know how the rest of the audience reacted. Stunned I should imagine but with a small round of terribly British applause for being so 'edgy'.

I felt sorry for the lesser known writers with their little wheeled shopping trolleys full of books waiting to be signed. But not that sorry. They're still further along the road than me. One chap was so thrilled to have someone approach him that he wrote a veritable essay in their book, bless him. And note to self and anyone else who ever does a reading. Audiences are easily pleased. Don't just rush off the stage without thanking them for getting a numb bum whilst listening to your earnest offerings. The ones who smiled, thanked the audience or told a daft joke, went down a storm. Dave Gorman took photos of his audience and they loved it because now they have story to tell.

And the music? Well, out of about five stages and a staggering number of bands, I think I knew about three of them. One of those was Blondie. Good grief, that woman can still bring the house down. I think I may even have twitched a bit and mouthed all the words in sad old lady, 'I was there first time round' sort of way. Even The Teenager thought Ms Harry was cool - and that's saying something.

I'm (more or less) off blog for a few days. It's the end of term (hurrah) which means routines go bottoms up and I need to get some writing done. Otherwise I will never be one of those writers with a wheeled trolley, willing people to talk to me. Well I could be, but the trolley would be empty and that would be just weird. Almost certifiable in fact.

Piles

2008-07-16T11:12:00.007+01:00

Nik Perring, who is very nice and has great links and words of writerly wisdom, has asked his readers to do a 'sort of meme' and photograph our bookshelf. It must be as it is with no cheating, no tidying up (as if I would) and no slotting in some high-brows. Problem was, which shelf to photograph but I went for this one because some of my all time 'faves' are squashed in there. There is one book here I didn't finish. Can you guess which one it is? Hint. It's big (1488 pages). And the spine is white.

This is one of my TBR ('to be read') piles. Actually it's more like a heap than a pile. I have piles everywhere but thankfully they don't require cream or a rubber ring. I blame the local library. See the ones with the little yellow stickers? They were 10p each. Then there was a bookshop closing down sale. There are more ~~heaps~~ piles and one day, (that ever elusive 'one day') when I live somewhere where the walls can take it, I will have floor to ceiling shelves something like this or even this if I was feeling modern. Not sure about climbing ladders though. That's a book related accident waiting to happen. But just imagine all those shelves. Imagine not tripping over books everywhere you (I) tread. Imagine buying books and giving them a proper home. I now have complete bookshelf lust. I also have Penguin cover lust. Babaloo set my heart a racing when she told us about her latest book order of 36 of these beauties.

Aren't they completely delicious? I would need to arrange them on my fantasy bookshelf facing outwards. I feel a little light headed after all this book talk and may just need a banana for its calming properties and a custard cream for its ... well, nice properties. Do you have bookshelf mayhem that you fantasize transforming into wondrous, well ordered lines or do you have bookshelves to lust after? Do tell.

Fly Away

2008-07-14T15:12:00.001+01:00

This little chap can hop and flutter but not fly. We keep shooing him towards the hedge where his mum is still feeding him worms and probably doing his laundry. But he's not that bright and just keeps hopping down into the garden where there are dogs and a cat. And bigger birds.

In other news, (related news ... wait for it...) the second Novel Racers Meet took place in London on Saturday. I missed the first one so this was an opportunity to meet a great group of people. The venue was the massive Waterstones in Piccadilly. It's seriously huge. The restaurant on the top floor played host to us and the hours flew by. It was a blast and I left enthused and energised. Meetings like this help me ( and I think many of us) to stop hopping and learn to fly. You see ... there's the tenuous birdy link. Shoo. Spread your wings. Learn to soar. Ok you get the gist. I'll be singing 'Wind Beneath My Wings' in a minute - and that's just sad.

Nun Sensical.

2008-07-10T10:32:00.014+01:00

Since my last nun post, I've been thinking a little more about school days, something I've tried to forget for ...well, over thirty years.
It was the 70's. Schools were becoming progressive, embracing co-education, new teaching methods and encouraging individualism.
Not the nuns. This school was firmly rooted in a by-gone era - roughly 1900. It was strict and no nonsense.
I tried to find a google photo to illustrate the habit they wore but as nuns didn't pose for many pictures in those days, the nearest I could find was this one.

They wore full length robes and close fitting wimples (the white box on the head) and veil. Sometimes the wimples made their foreheads sore or pushed down their eyebrows. No hair was ever seen and of course we obsessed about this. Did they actually have any? Did they shave their heads? Once, a nun had a tiny wisp of hair showing. It was a talking point for days. It was red.

The nuns never talked about sex. Ever. I was reminded of this when reading a post by Ernest de Cugnac the other day. (He was talking about sex by the way and his blog is great. Go see). We were studying Romeo and Juliet (a strange choice seeing as it deals with love, sex and suicide) and the nuns managed to get hold of the Zeffirelli film from somewhere. This was big for us and involved much nun-flapping in order to get the projector set up. At last they managed to load the reel properly, the curtains were drawn and Olivia Hussey and Leonard Whiting crackled into life. We all ohh and ahhed at Romeo until ... there, on the screen ... was his bottom. The nuns sped into action, black veils flying, rosary beads clacking, as the machine was hastily turned off and the film reel slowed to a dying crescendo. We were ushered out for a brisk game of Stoolball followed by a stale bun and it was never mentioned again.

I also remember being taught about Saint Maria Goretti ( I had to look up her name) who died rather than be raped by an attacker. She was eleven and stabbed fourteen times but didn't 'submit'. We didn't understand. Her attacker was eighteen. One brave classmate asked the question we were all thinking. 'Sister, how did she stop him?'
' They are ways girls' said Sister Rosaria. 'There are ways'.
For a fourteen year old, that was not a helpful answer.

In surfing the web for an image of the Sisters of Mercy's habit I came across this. Ellie Mockler sailed from Ireland on April 12th 1912, aboard the Titanic. She survived and later became a nun in a Mercy convent in Massachusetts. She died aged 95, on her birthday, after 67 years in the convent. She sounds a jolly sort of nun. She loved a good cup of strong tea and a trip on Saturday to McDonald's for an order of fries. She called herself The Tourist Attraction because of her Titanic association. She was only a little older than our nuns and from the same small country and yet unlike ours, she liked a joke. I wonder if she would have made such a fuss about Romeo's bottom and I wonder too if she would have answered young girls' questions properly. I like to think she would.

Cor that was a long post. If you made it to the end, you may now need a cuppa.

Photo courtesy of srshistoryproject.org. The only image I could find with the right shaped wimple .

It's a Sign

2008-07-08T09:07:00.004+01:00

1.
Here is a very odd sign. This is in my local town and it causes me to gape in geeky wonder. Apparently busses is an accepted spelling but it looks mighty weird to me.

2)
And here is a very good sign. Actually it's an award and it's from Billy and from Cait. Thank you both very much.

It's called the Arte Y Pico and I have to pass it onto to five bloggers (those are the 'rules') who are, and I quote .... deserving of this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and who contribute to the blogging community, no matter what language they are in’.
So, Aims, Pacha, Bobo, Debs and Bart - it's over to you.

3)
Like busses - signs come in threes. Or is that bad things? I hope it's signs. I will look out for a third. There was an ant in my coffee this morning. Does that count? And if so, what does it mean?

Tudor Bratz

2008-07-03T08:33:00.010+01:00

The Younger One is a Tudor and off to a special place to be a Tudor all day. They will speak in Tudor, dress in Tudor and spend money in Tudor (groats). I was tempted to put Tudor food in her lunchbox but didn't think roast tongue and pottage would be as well received as a cheese roll and flapjack. You will note the lunchbox is not Tudor. Bratz weren't around then. Allegedly. I like to think that there were Tudor children dressing up their Tudor dolls and saying I prithee Sasha, knowest thou this - thy bodices art so verily cool. Not.
Good morrow.

New Balls Please

2008-06-30T07:31:00.004+01:00

And now another meme. Straight after the last meme, it could almost be construed as a glut. Don't you love that word 'glut'? I would like a glut of twenty pound notes or a glut of Shiraz. Would not be so keen of a glut of spiders. Or eels.

Ok. After moaning that I hadn't been tagged for this, Pacha and Karen kindly lobbed it my way. Can you tell it's the second week of Wimbledon? Tennis words are seeping into the prose? I will now give a volley of nonsensical answers, interesting only to myself and Teabag. Mind you, she finds flies interesting.

What were you doing 10 years ago?
I had a six month old baby and a six year old. That would be children not dogs although I had one of those as well. She was a Battersea dog and the sweetest thing on four legs. The children were nice too. It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. That's all I have to say about that, to quote both Dickens and Forrest Gump in one paragraph.

Five things on your to-do list for today:
1) Bath Peg. She is crusty.
2) Go to bank
3) Find lost paperwork
4) Think of something, maybe even write something for Cloud Line
5) Buy The Younger One a pen. It must be a stripy pen and write in blue. It must be exactly the same as the stripy pen that wrote in blue which has just run out. Apparently it was perfect. I hope WH Smith haven't changed their range.

What are three of your bad habits?
1) Sulking (so grown up)
2) Losing interest in things too quickly
3) Dunking
4) Losing paperwork (I snuck in a fourth because it really is a bad habit)

What would you do if you were a billionaire?
I don't know about billionaire. A millionaire would be nice. Or even thousandaire. OK, I'd settle on being a hundredaire this week, what with petrol being £1.18 a litre and Munchies being 58p.

But, if a billion quids came my way I would .... up-sticks immediately to rambling lovely place, somewhere near the sea where it's warm. I would collect rescued animals, mainly dogs, horses and donkeys but other species welcome too (except spiders). I would write/paint/write/paint/write/paint/ and mess about with the menagerie like mad old woman who is too rich to give a monkey's. (Might even have one of those too)

I would also throw massive Lane'swrite Blog party and helicopter you all in (blow the carbon footprint. I've been good till now) and I would have Mr Bob Dylan and possibly the Stones play for us because they would be good mates with mad old rich woman. You'd like that wouldn't you?

What are some snacks you enjoy?

1) Feta
2) The cheese with apricots in
3) Peanut butter (smooth)
4) Marmite (on toast of course, not sandwich)
5) Giant Chocolate Buttons (I dunk them too)
I have already eaten three of the above this morning.

What were the last five books you read?

1) Tangled Roots by Sue Guiney (reading now)
2) Floor Sample by Julia Cameron
3) Moral Disorder by Margaret Atwood
4) The Best of Katherine Mansfield's Short Stories.
5) No One Belongs Here More Than You - Miranda July

What are five jobs you have had?

1. Chicken Blood Tester (If you're a recent reader - it's here)
2. Book Shop Assistant (sacked)
3. Stall Holder - Covent Garden
4. Off Licence Shop Assistant
5. Teacher - sorry F.E College Lecturer

Five places you’ve lived
1) Hampshire - Born and bred
3) London - 20's and 30's
4) Suffolk - 40+

How sad is that?
Right, I'm going to smash this one over to Rural Villager and Babaloo.

Game, Set and Match.

Doing It and Don'ting It

2008-06-27T09:17:00.009+01:00

Some days our hair does not behave. Peggy will vouch for that.
Since attempting to dye mine brown, it has now faded to a sludge and sits like a fresh cow pat on my head. A greasy ochre shade of cow pat. The answer is to go back to grey/white gracefully or worse still, visit a hairdresser but I don't do hairdressers. Never have.

Anyway, since no-one has tagged me for the 10 years ago meme, no-one,(which is rather a relief as 10 years ago is a bit blurry) I have snitched this one from the spectacular Sarah Salway. If you haven't read her books, you're missing out.

Some personal Dos and Don'ts of writing....

I do write when I have a nice notebook.
I don't write when they've run out but then they never do when you have a notebook habit.

I do write when I'm in the car (stationary or as passenger)
I don't write in cafes, waiting rooms, or any public place except trains. I can do those but that's only about twice a year. Or planes but that's even less. Boats - never.

I do write when it's very quiet. Well, I say quiet. Today there is a mad blackbird right outside my window. I know he's protecting his young but I suspect this particular one is Regional Blackbird Health and Safety Inspector. He's manically hopping around, controlling all bird activity and he has a clipboard. Honestly. I swear I saw him make our cat sign a form last night. In triplicate.
I don't write when the TV is on - except Wimbledon.

I do write when I have tea/coffee nearby.
I don't write when I need a wee.

I do write when I've finished a painting
I don't write when I'm actually painting but ....

I do write when I'm not physically writing. It's all in the head you see.
I don't write when I have a headache. Heads don't work properly then. Or eyes.

I do write when the dogs are contented (notice dogs not children)
I don't write when they give me 'the look'. See photo. Actually that photo doesn't really capture 'the look'. 'The look' is more plaintive. I will delay their dinner by ten minutes. That'll give me 'the look' to photograph.

I do write when I'm toasty warm
I don't write when my hands/feet are cold. That's all the time barring heatwaves.

I do write when I'm desolate but it's always scrapped later.
I don't write when I'm just marginally sad.

I do write after a someone has said something encouraging about my writing
I don't write (for a few whole hours) after a really bad crit (as happened this week). It makes me want to lie down and whimper. In fact that may have happened.

I do write when I'm in bed.
I don't write when I'm really, really knacked out. Who could?

Ok. I'm getting 'the look' and it can't be ignored. Walkies.
Have a good weekend chaps.

Discomdogulation

2008-06-24T14:10:00.006+01:00

No I didn't dissect the dogs in an attempt to construct a SuperDog. And I'm not being arty.

This is what happens when you go on a picnic. This is what happens when the camera ends up in the picnic basket. And things leak.

Luckily I have a spare. Somewhere.

Back to Cack

2008-06-18T15:07:00.009+01:00

Firstly, thank you for your exceedingly nice comments on the previous whinge-fest post. They really .. really cheered me up. You're a very astute lot you know.

The cold is almost gone which is a shame really as I quite like a late night Lemsip. The back is still irksome.

Now, the trouble with a stiff back is that everything suddenly seems ridiculously low. The washing machine, the oven, the floor. But the lowest of the lowest are the dogs. When I went to the rescue home on that fateful day, I should have been sensible and brought home leggy dogs. Dogs you can harness up without bending. But I could bend and swoop then without thinking about it. Always could until last week. Instead of sensible dogs, I bought doglets, who require their owners to bend double in order to cater to their every whim.

Teabag is not too much of a problem because she's very springy. She can leap up onto virtually anything and I can hook up her lead - no problem. However, Stout Peggy is lacking in the spring department. She can just about manage to get up onto the sofa or bed, so I have to cunningly hide her lead (under cushion) to save going through the rigmarole of trying to hoist her out of her hiding places. (I think she may have a touch of the agrophobias)

So far so good. But, and there's always a butt when it comes to dogs. There's the problem of picking up their butt stuff when out. The least painful way is to crouch down or actually get on my knees but I'm aware that can look a bit odd in public. It could seem like I'm not so much Pooper Scooping as Pooper Perving. I'm considering borrowing my mother's Handy Grabber (although I don't think 'borrow' is strictly the correct term). Or maybe growing longer arms. Or shorter legs. Or even a new back.

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Postscript. Since drafting this post, the back has miraculously improved. I think it may have something to do with last night's wine. In fact I'm pretty sure of it! My mother's Handy Grabber is safe for the moment.

Snuffle Bustle

2008-06-16T20:19:00.008+01:00

I've been a bit of a rubbish blogger lately. So much so, that I've considered exiting until things are a little less frenetic this side of the screen. (Sorry for the cryptic cryptosities). Several long time bloggers have packed up shop recently and they will be missed. It's always sad to lose someone's insights and observations but I admire the considered way these bloggers bowed out - explaining and thanking their readers. I like that. My fear is that I will just fizzle out - poof - into a Blog of Nothing. I'll try not to let that happen. Anyway I can't stop completely but it may be a bit sporadic for a while. Besides, I'm too much of a sticky beak to stop reading yours.

I just thought I'd let you know that.

Apart from that, I've hurt my back. Ouchy ow and am walking like an Edwardian lady in that odd S shape. All I need now is a bustle. Oh and I've an achy cold too. Stiff and sniffy is not a good combination. Have I got your sympathy yet? No? Good. Save it for those with proper woes.

And .... as a blog post without a picture is like, well, chips without vinegar, here's a lovely 'beautiful heart' award from the very busy Carol. I'm passing it onto Babaloo and Tomfoolery - bloggers with big hearts.

Wannabes In London

2008-06-11T10:20:00.006+01:00

We last met in January. How things have changed since then. The Teenager didn't worry at all this time. In fact she was quite blasé, having heard me talk about these blog friends a lot. On the morning she looked me up and down and advised me to ditch the scarf. I ignored her. She checked the train situation and seeing there were delays and cancellations, threw me out the door earlier than scheduled because It's better to get there early, than be late and have to rush. Luckily I didn't ignore that bit of wisdom and me and my scarf made it bang on time.

What else has changed? Well, we all know each so much better thanks to our weekly chats and writing group. One member of our group, the lovely Annie, is on her way to publication, having been taken on by a top agent. I can't tell you how much Annie deserves this and it won't be long before we're all plugging her book. We sat outside in a courtyard on a pleasant, sunny London day and indulged in a chilled glass or three. And chatted. A lot. A couple of our group were missing due to unavoidable circumstances. They were sorely missed but this is going to be a regular event for a long time to come and it's all thanks to our Right Honourable Leader, the veritable Jane Wenham-Jones for bringing us all together. There were also a few new faces and I was thrilled to meet the lovely Helen at last. I think I can say, a good day was had by all.

I'd told The Teenager to cook some pasta for dinner as I was going to be late. Just as we were leaving, she phoned. We've got spaghetti but we haven't got any pasta. Sometimes I wonder.

A Recipe

2008-06-06T08:07:00.002+01:00

Take one small dog.
Add new squeaky toy in shape of beer can.
Put both on trampoline.
Leave to play for ten minutes.
Enjoy.
(Wipe trampoline of drool)

Now you see why I have to hide the Squeakies at night.

Have a good weekend chaps.

Joon

2008-06-04T14:02:00.005+01:00

Sporadic posting at the moment. It's seems our old friend Real Life is getting his claws in good and proper. I wish I was one of those people who need only two hours sleep a night but I'm not. I spent two nights last week writing into the early hours and the rest of the week recovering.

So ...

It's June. How did that happen? I always look forward to June. It always rains but the greenery is so green at the moment it's almost luminous. I love the build up of light to the longest day. It feels like we're still on the right side of the year. I love the promise that we may get some long hot days. We can hope. I love the fact that Wimbledon starts and I'll hoik the little portable TV into the kitchen so I can watch as much as possible whilst tapping/cooking/napping. I find the sound of Wimbledon soothing. I used to go there every year when I was young, in the days of McEnroe/Wilander/Navratilova and it was magical. I always liked wandering around the outside courts in the last low rays of the day.
What else in June? Well, for the next few weeks I have courses to attend for the job that's not yet a job.
Then there's an exhibition of Bob Dylan's paintings at the Halcyon gallery in London which is a must of course.
And next week it's off London to meet some friends from our writing chatroom again. We're all at various stages in our wips and as usual I'm lagging so we've set deadlines. Mine is September 1st. Eek. Trouble is, I'm very dry of brain at the moment. Do you think there's a cream for that?