What a Sloppy Blogger

What a sloppy little blogger I am. Summer’s come and gone – again – and I’ve not posted a word on here since the start of August. No excuses, except life tends to take over when daylight hours are long. Next week the clocks change and, despite this morning’s warm sun, the frost of a few days ago has done for the birch leaves, and they’ve yellowed and scattered all over the lawn. If the wind keeps up, no doubt the beech leaves will be next. The few flowers left in my garden, the cosmos and a straggling dahlia or two, have taken on that cold pinched look that tells me it won’t be long now before they blacken and wilt.  

The chill in the air comes as a bit of a shock. A little over a week ago I was travelling up the Douro valley on a cruise ship, sun hat and sunglasses at the ready, a glass of port wine close at hand. No way am I a hot house flower. I like my weather cool, my mood melancholy. My usual holidays are taken in Scotland, but a friend and I got tempted and I’ve just spent a week with her in what is really a very luxurious holiday camp.

Trips out to view ancient churches stuffed with gold, three gourmet meals a day and all with on board entertainment as part of the package. At times rather surreal, but I enjoyed the experience just the same. Sometimes it’s good to do something completely different. I realise I spend so much time being earnest and trying too hard, that I often forget to have fun. So thank you little boat on the Douro river, thank you kind friend who came with me. I am grateful you reminded me how to laugh.

What is the strangest thing you've ever had stolen?

What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever had stolen? While not being exactly a ‘leave your back door open’ sort of place, where I live is hardly a hot bed of crime. The occasional upset does happen though, like the other week, when my next door neighbour’s bike was pinched from his back garden. Not a top of the range, mountain bike you understand, but a scratched yellow workhorse, he uses to tow a kids’ trailer to and from school. A doubly cruel blow as the bike and trailer, complete with his 5yr old twins, is the high-visibility part of the local bike bus. A scheme to encourage the local kids to be healthy and ride their bikes to school.

The theft of the bike was quite enough to make us all rather twitchy - and then soon after - there was the case of my missing sandals. Full of sand, I’d thrown them out by the back door, intending to give them a good scrub when I came back from a morning walk.  An hour later they were gone. Some pots, previously piled neatly by the shed door, lay scattered around. It was so obvious. The intruder had returned and moved the pots, hoping to find a hidden key and, as unlikely as it might seem, had also ‘borrowed’ my sandals. Our little row of houses was on the alert.

My man, a practical type, was spurred to action. We now have a new high security back garden fence, complete with gate and bolt, painted a tasteful light green. I’ve even bought a pair of replacement sandals. (The previous pair, though 10 years old, were tough ‘walking’ sandals, their replacement a truly eye watering price.)

Imagine my annoyance to discover another person who lives nearby, had found a Labrador puppy from the big house just down the road, chewing an old pair of sandals in his garden. Both puppy, and presumably sandals, were chased home.  

A prompt visit to the puppy’s owner. Yes, they said, a real puzzle, an anonymous pair of sandals had turned up in their hall, and yes, the same puppy loved to carry flower pots around. Wasn’t that funny?  I was not terribly amused. Their puppy had caused us considerable expense, not to mention the work and the worry of having a supposed intruder in the garden. I left with my sandals in hand, determined to be cross and unforgiving. Until this evening. An apologetic card pushed through the door, a bunch of flowers on the doorstep and all is forgiven.

Damnation to Faint Praise

I went to see Bridesmaids the other night and it’s ages since I laughed so much.  No need to tell you it’s this summer’s must see film – and well worth the ticket money - if you’re not too squeamish or easily offended. My man, one of only two males in the entire cinema, thought it hysterical too, so it’s definitely no chick-flick, more a film about female relationships, and despite a whole host of over the top, nigh on gross scenarios, the group of friends portrayed are a bunch of recognisable, if motley, real women. 

On a vaguely related subject. If a friend you’re meeting for lunch greets you with, “You look very modern in that get up,” what do you think it means? Is it a complement - praising an up-to-the- minute/wow that looks nice sort of dress sense - or a thinly veiled criticism? Behind the bright smile, could there lurk an unspoken agenda?

 Well, aren’t you the bold/daft/ridiculous one, to wear slinky leggings at that age/point in your weight loss programme or with that particular tunic top sporting horizontal stripes.  

Do women ever tell each other the truth about clothes?

Does all this matter?

Perhaps not, except I’ve recently got my manuscript back from the Romantic Novelists’ New Writers Scheme, and it didn’t get a second reading. The feedback is very thorough and not all bad news, but I’m feeling a bit over sensitive about faint praise. To crown it all, I've had a short story 'shortlisted' in one writing competition and another ‘highly recommended’ in another. So you see, I've had enough of faint praise.

Midsummer Dribble

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m no fashion icon, to be truthful my idea of style is any pair of trousers that pull on easily, and a top that requires little ironing, particularly if I’m heading out for my allotment. Except earlier in the year, urged on by sunny April afternoons and what amounted to tropical weather in May, I went a little mad.

Languishing in my cupboard, still unworn is what can only be described as a tomato coloured string vest, for pulling over a swimsuit I’ll probably never wear, a khaki smock top, complete with tab detail - ideal if I ever go on manoeuvres in the jungle - and the silkiest, pretty cream blouse, all frills and ruffles, that modesty requires only to be worn with a very thick vest.

I seem to remember the same sort of catastrophe last year. Then it was the sexiest roman sandals, on my feet once before the constant rain set in. What a pity I chucked them in the back of the cupboard and forgot they were there, until I bought another pair last week – blue not brown this time, but remarkably similar.

Looking out at today’s drizzle and contemplating wellington boots before I go and fetch a lettuce, I remember it’s the longest day, midsummer, the summer solstice. Only weeks ago I was longing for rain – well now I’ve got it – in buckets. Be careful what you wish for... etc. Was it Oscar Wilde who said, “When the gods wish to punish us they answer our prayers”? 

Having moaned on a bit, I do have some good news. One of my stories is to be published in July, as part of an anthology called Voices of Angels. No doubt you’ll hear more about it in a later blog.  For now I’m just hoping the launch party will be indoors.

A Few Days Away

Just got back from the very north of Scotland, visiting an aging uncle and sick brother-in-law, checking up on stressed out sister, so not quite as much fun as it might have been. Although Caithness is as ever, the most beautiful place on earth. A county not to everyone’s taste to be sure, but if you have a hankering for wide open spaces, that can change in a moment from hushed sunny stillness to blustery winds, a place of pounding surf on terrifying rocks, where grey/green horizons stop only when they reach mountains shaped like a maiden’s breast, it’s the place to visit.

Problem is, takes two days hard driving to get there in a car. Actually we were lucky to get out. The winds and rain came on so bad on Monday, that making it back down the A9 was a real adventure. Though leaving by plane must have been even more of a trial, with Inverness airport shut down for a while due to volcanic action in Iceland. Don’t let anyone tell you the ash cloud doesn’t exist. I phoned my sister to let her know I’m home safely and her car’s covered in a fine grey powder and her husband’s stuck in doors - advised to stay home with the windows closed - in case he breathes in the stuff.

It puts my moaning about a drought in the south into its true perspective.

(The pictures are of Lybster harbour)

Village Literary Life

I spent an entertaining few hours in a village bookshop last Thursday evening,
listening to Julia Crouch talk about her highly acclaimed debut novel, Cuckoo. The venue is so tiny, it was a bit of a squeeze to fit us all in, and such was the enthusiasm, and the crush, the owner had to run next door to borrow a couple of chairs. Well, it’s that sort of village.

To get her audience into the mood, Julia started off with a short reading from her book, an unsettling psychological thriller. Then, with our appetites duly roused, she went on to chat informally about what it feels like to have your first novel published, as part of a three book deal. (Pretty brilliant, I would say.)

Julia and I were once, very briefly, members of the same Brighton based writing group, so I was really pleased to hear of her good fortune. I came to that particular writing group as a complete newbie, my dabbles previously having been largely confined to writing blogs. I certainly had never been part of any sort of writing group before. She had already started what was later to become, Cuckoo. I’m glad to report, even on that early encounter, Julia’s novel seemed pretty damn good to me.

Not many weeks after my first session, that particular writing group folded - I swear neither of us were in the least bit implicated - it’s the nature of writing groups apparently. The keen remnants reformed, to make up the select few I now meet with once a month.

Julia appears to have given up the idea of writing groups after only one session, and went on to dizzy heights soon after, but from the four of us that formed the new group, one was quickly published, one is about to be published, one will be published as soon as her agent gets his finger out – and then there’s me – tapping away, getting impatient for my turn.

After the many casualties among bookshops in Southeast England, it’s a pleasure to see The Mint House in Hurstpierpoint flourishing under new and innovative ownership. Where else would you find a bookshop that, along with selling books in a real cross section of genres, houses regular book readings, signings and associated literary events, and is so far sighted as to organise not only a book group, but also a knitting group. A real community gem, long may it remain so.

(The Mint House, Hurstpierpoint, Nr Hassocks, BN6 9PX)
http://home2.btconnect.com/theminthouse/about.html

Come on Rain

Lately I find myself longing for rain. Not the discrete little sprinkles that have been
taking place so conveniently over the last few nights, but huge great downpours, enough to keep me trapped indoors during the day and make the house so gloomy I don’t even want to look out of the window. And round here we’ve had nothing but sunshine for what seems like weeks now. Days flash by and they are all fine, usually warm, often breezy, but sadly with very little rain.

My husband hates the stuff. It makes him grumpy and bad tempered, stops him from going out
on his bike or doing all the little jobs outside I’m just longing, and hinting, he should be getting on with. So why am I moaning about such perfect spring weather? Isn’t it great to loll around in the sunshine under trees bowed down with blossom?

Why on earth should I want the rain? Is it because I have an allotment and a garden that’s starting to dry out so badly I swear the cat’s likely to disappear down a canyon sized crack, unlikely ever to return? (If you read my recent post about what the little beast gets up to, you
might say that would be a good result, for the birds at least.)

Yes of course it would be nice for the flowers to last for more than a few days, and my seedlings are so parched, even if they bother to germinate at all, and many of them don’t, they hardly have the strength to grow unless I water, water, water.

But my need for rain runs deeper and it comes from guilt, sheer and utter guilt. When you are
trying to be a writer, with only a modicum of success so far, it’s very hard to justify all the time spent tap, tapping at a keyboard when all around there are jobs to be done. And it’s only when the rains bucketing away outside do I have a good reason for staying indoors.

What’s the latest weather forecast? Dry, sunny and with a brisk wind, the very best weather for being outdoors, and I can see through the window the hedge needs clipping. Bother!