JUST READ, JUST LOVE

The sign of a good book, for me, is one that I have to start rationing once I get halfway through; it’s going to all be over WAY too soon.  And this is what happened with ‘The Rosie Project’. Half of me couldn’t wait to pick it up again and the other half (Don Tillman – main character - would be impressed – a girl who can do sums) knew that in devouring another chapter I would be depriving my future self of more enjoyable entertainment.

Don Tillman is blessed with Asperger’s.  He knows he’s ‘wired differently’ yet also knows that everybody deserves somebody special in their life.  And with this in mind he wants to be no different. After exhausting conventional methods of dating, he creates the Wife Project; a 16-page questionnaire which he considers should produce one girl who satisfies at least 98% of his requested criteria.  And as a genetics professor, he knows a lot more than most about probable outcomes.

Enter Rosie who immediately fails on two Wife Project counts.  But she’s trying to find her biological father, not a husband.  And she’s heard Don Tillman is the man for the job. 

It’s not only a corker of a read, it also makes you think about what’s going on inside your own head and to see things the way others may see them.  It doesn’t just tilt your world; it upends it and puts it back in a clearer, more logical order than you remembered.

I laughed, I sighed, I “naaaaaw-ed”, I snorted cocoa out my nose the once and I’m already compiling a list of people I think should be allowed to read it next (comprehensive). 

The supporting cast is also brilliantly constructed and every scene was playing brightly, loudly and beautifully in my head.  I can’t wait to see the screen adaptation of this.  A fantastic, fulfilling read and one which I would highly, heartily, honestly recommend to lift anyone’s day – whether they needed it or not.

D'you think I might have liked this book? :)

From Bed .... to Verse

SNOW EXPECTATIONS

‘S no good, I can’t rest, there’s a blanket outside

on the ground that refuses to budge.

But there’re dishes in sinks and clothes on the floor

that guilt-inducingly poke, stab and nudge.

A Snow Day they call it, these people, these ‘they’,

They whoop, they holler, they scream.

‘Stay in bed’ says the radio announcer,

‘Don’t drive anywhere that isn’t snow-clean.’

If I’d the energy I could build a snowman

But that malarkey just isn’t my scene,

I’ve a snow-induced ‘head’ from all of this white

and it hurts when I think of  ice-cream.

I tried staying in bed but the cat took my place,

It was warm and inviting, and so…..

Think I'll spend the day reading in pyjamas,

Oh just snow, go on – snow. Let it SNOW!

Christmas... Shmishmass.. .Kissmass

Me and Christmas haven't always been the best of buddies.

Oh it was all very lovely at the beginning, when I was a mere speck of dust on the sideboard of  life; when the idea of a jolly red-faced bloke in a too-tight red fur-trimmed suit flying gaily through the sky with a bulging sack of goodies just for me was just the ticket to get me through those chilly winter months, but later?  As the Mars stockings and boxes of Maltesers dwindled and the Petty Peach perfume lost its allure (sadly the American Tan tights remained but then what do great Aunties really know of their great Neice's personal preferences?) I began to notice things about Christmas that I really didn't like very much at all.


Number One on my Cross List was that that it only stayed for one day.
Number Two was that my relatives were also only in one place and very (bordering on embarrassingly) happy for that same one day.
Number Three was that come Boxing Day all we got to eat were leftovers from the happy days of Yore (or the day before) which for me just rubbed salt into the gaping wound of Not-Christmas-Day-Anymore and all who'd merrilly sailed in her.

Then the rellies started dying off.  Another fact for which I wasn't properly prepared.  The happy throngs got less and less throngy and much less happy as the years passed by until, by the time I'd left home, when I went back for Christmas Dinner it seemed all I pulled crackers with were Mum, Dad, the dog and Billy Smart (who also didn't hang about for much longer after everything got all uber-pc).Even my brother only 'popped in' on his way to somewhere else  way more exciting than No.4.

When I got married I thought I'd at least have a bit more of an extended family to share some festive warmth with but it turned out (and turned out rather too late for me to change them for different ones) that they actually didn't like Christmas very much and after everyone had finished swapping receipts for presents that nobody liked or wanted very much, the rest of the Day I spent back at home pulling crackers with the dog until I needed to be someplace else with a vat of sherry and the TV remote at my (own) disposal.

Having a baby would change it all, though.  Christmas is for children, isn't it?  It was going to get all red and green and snowy and twinkly, throngy and merry again and if I wasn't very much mistaken, all the warmth and cheer was going to return to my erstwhile grey, dank festive seasons.

And it did, for the first three years we spent as a Happy Family, when we left out carrots for Rudolph and mince pies for Santa and wrote letters asking for presents and sent them to the North Pole.  When we visited grandparents and toddler friends and had Christingle services at Nursery School and made proper puddings and cakes and decorated the tree in the most haphazard of ways imagineable.  But it didn't last.

Christmas as a single parent is  probaly the most depressing time of the year imagineable.  It's Up There with Birthdays, Mothers/FathersDays, High days and Holidays, but Christmas with all its warmth and magic, for the recently divorced, is like wearing beautiful soft socks but having pine needles stuck to the insides. And even though it's probably not their intention; nobody but NOBODY understands how lonely and depressing it really is.  The mere mention of 'what are you doing for the holidays' would make me freeze.  Should I gloss over it and say 'oh you know, the usual' or should I say 'actually I don't have my little girl this year, so I'll probably just have a sandwich and watch the telly'?  Latterly I discovered the Art of Turning Conversations such as these as asking the Asker what They were doing instead  (which everyone wants to talk about anyway - nobody's interested in  anyone else's sadness at Christmas).
And nobody asks you round.  It's such a closed time, a family time, and if you're on your own then that's your lookout. (That's how it felt to me, anyway).

The last such Christmas I spent on my own (after 8 of them) was the one I'd begun to accept my 'fate' and decided to enjoy my own-ness. After all I could watch what I damned well wanted, NOT have to dress up for The Day,  I ate beans from the tin, mince pies with lashings of brandy butter and drank Baileys straight from the bottle - all from the comfort of the same sofa.  Bridget Jones eat your heart out!

And then I met this guy.   At Christmas too.  And I was such a bah-humbug cynic by then that even though we first kissed on Christmas Eve and okay, it WAS like being kissed by an Angel, I still didn't believe it was anything magical.  It was just one of those things. Nothing was ever very magical for very long after all.  Boxing Day would still turn up, invited or not.

But it did turn out different.  And something so unexpected and so unprepared for and so not on any kind of wish list I'd ever written; it started to last, beyond Boxing Day and beyond New Year and then 12 months later it was happening all over again - and the following year the same thing happened - until this year we'll have been together 7 years.  And I can still feel that Christmas Eve tingle when I think about it, or look at his cheeky smiling eyes, and I don't even wonder what I've done to deserve him.  We simply deserve each other, and you can make of that what you will and tie a jolly festive ribbon round its neck while you're at it!

Back Home

I make no secret that Marian Keyes is the wonderfully funny Irish voice of female contemporary fiction (more commonly termed 'Chicklit' which has since become a kind of 'Eff word' amongst female writers) who made me suddenly sit up straight - no mean feat as I was pregnant at the time - and realise that THIS was how I wanted to write and it was very OKAY to do so.
Before Marian came along I'd always thought that to write anything that would be taken seriously by readers (and publishers and agents although I didn't really take them into account at the time - I was still a 'dabbler') I'd have to have a working knowledge of bridles, saddles, uper echelons and general animal husbandry with a particular expertise in the breeding department; for until there was la Keyes, my particular Bible of reference had been the very jolly Jilly Cooper.

And so began my love affair with Marian's writing and in particular the fictitious and wholly down-to-earth  Walsh family.  Claire Walsh, the heroine in 'Watermelon' had been deserted by her husband whilst in the throes of childbirth and her story had me gripped by the funny bone and stirrups of an entirely different kind from the 'off'.   I still remember the line (although I'm not going to quote it here as the book's in a box somewhere and I don't want to mis-quote it) that hurled me headlong into the Keyes' mosh-pit  and it was the one that told  us, the dear reader that Claire's other half had left her for an older, overweight woman called Denise who lived in the flat upstairs.
Not a Henrietta (Hooray or otherwise) in sight.  Much less a stable boy with a six pack and other fine accoutrements.

The toes that I'd always had dipped tentatively into the pool of writing had finally found the rest of their feet and I was away.  Still in the toddler end, of course, but I felt more like a proper swim than I'd ever done.I'm not sure I even had my armbands still on.  *end of analogy lest it becomes overly damp*.

There followed (and I'm no good with orders so these are NOT IN one) Margaret ('Angels'), Rachel ('Rachel's Holiday') Anna ('Anybody Out There' - I sobbed like a baby at the end of this and couldn't breathe for the weeping - in a good way). So when I noticed that Helen Walsh (the youngest of the clan) was getting her story out there, well, I had to see how she was getting on.

Which I was very unsure about.  Considering the last Marian Keyes' book I read (not a Walsh family thing but 'The Brightest Star in the Sky')  I hadn't liked.  And I make no bones about it. I just didn't.  I really, really didn't.  But I know people who LOVED it.  Positively raved about it.  Not me.  I did what my Nan used to tell me and said nothing.  Because it's  nicer than saying something not nice.

'The Mystery of Mercy Close' is a brick of a thing.  It properly hurt my hand keeping it propped up in bed reading it, but I don't care.  It was worth all the pain and the pain persisted for longer than usual because I kept slowing down and savouring the words - a definite sign I'm LOVING something.  Anything in fact.   Don't we all chew slower if something's tasty?  I didn't want this swallowed in one go and so it took me a lovely, glorious, gentle, happy-filled week to read this truly wonderful book.

Helen Walsh is the youngest of the Walsh family.  She's had a chequered past and her emotional instability was ironically the lynchpin that kept the whole story so firmly grounded. I loved that she couldn't be arsed most of the time; that being nice to people irritated the hell out of her and she couldn't stand being in anyones company for too long.  I didn't find her 'shovel list' (a list of all the people and things she hates so much she wants to hit them in the face with a shovel) too annoying because it helped to understand her nature that much more - I did though, find the repetition of her 'surprises/category:'slightly grating but this didn't in any way diminish the enjoyment of what was a thoroughly ripping yarn (did I really just say that?).

We all know Marian has been plagued with the black dog of depression and it's common knowledge that through baking muffins and fancy fondants she's eased herself out of the quicksand and back onto the royale icing , so it's understandable that dark days and suicidal angst should feature so strongly in this book.  Although it did nothing to undermine the supremely enjoyable character of Helen Walsh and in fact made me love her even more.  A positive, rounded, more human fictional character I have yet to meet. 

Marian, I salute you.  You are one hell of a woman if you don't mind me saying so.

Well hello....and goodbye

I may post here a little more frequently than of late (famous optimistic words, don't take them too seriously will you) because I've freed up some time.  Some 'Me' time.  Some 'head time', some space.  If you've popped over to the Strictly Writing  blog today you'll already have read my Farewell to the 560 followers that we are incredibly proud to have amassed over the years; I am moving on.

Not 'on' to anywhere specifically but just 'away' from some ties that are doing me no mental/physical/emotional good whatsoever apart from keeping the Paracetamol industry in business.
I think... I hope that this move is a Good Move.

You see, I never set out to become the woman who sits before you today (actually it's a good job you CAN'T see me right now in jogger bottoms, tea-stained vest,  fluffy slippers and Bags For Life under the Tired For Ever eyes since returning from the physically shattering paid job.) I never expected that by the time I reached 'this' age I'd still be working, much less still wondering what I was going to be when I grew up.  I am stuck at Fifteen and I'm still convinced Donny Osmond will eventually notice me lurking in the field he's singing Puppy Love to me in.  What?

Writing has always made me happy.  I loved and still do love, the way I can paint a scene, create a life, a story with these funny little plastic keys at the tips of my fingers and since there's been a backspace/ delete/undo button, my life's pretty much complete.  But lately writing has been making me far from happy.  Not miserable as such.  Okay then miserable.  Not through any fault of the letters or the words; but through the extraneous constraints that I have allowed to become attached to my creative world.

Writing a whole book wasn't ever something I thought I'd do, much less follow up with 4 others and then plunge myself into the writing-to-be-published pond.  It's not a place (this metaphorical 'publishing pond') I ever felt comfortable being in and lately I've felt  immersed in a bad, soaking-to-my-soul kind of way about the whole thing.

This Blogging malarkay is also not something I thought I'd ever be doing.  I'm not a great social butterfly and so social media wasn't ever intended for somebody like me; I'm too easily bruised by offhand remarks and comments that don't intend to hurt but still find a way of getting under my very delicate skin.  I don't want to say that I was coerced into doing it but there were so many bright young things out 'there' that WERE blogging and making it look so easy and such fun, that I didn't want to be left out.  And I thought it  might increase my writing profile.  Whatever that's supposed to mean.

I  was thrilled when I was asked if I'd like to join the panel of Writers on Strictly Writing.  I felt like I'd been 'spotted', 'discovered', 'found'.  But 2 years on I'm still struggling to find something uplifting and enthusiastic to say about writing in general and MY writing more specifically and I realise it wasn't quite the Grail I thought it was. Hence my farewell post today.

Facebook and Twitter are other things that can thoroughly depress me, and I don't think it'll be  long before I back away from those completely too.  Twitter I've never enjoyed to be honest as it gives me the 'playground' heebie-jeebies and I never feel I have anything productive to contribute; I worry I'll be ignored if I just turn up and let loose a random 40 word comment.

On Facebook I have surrounded myself with people ('friends' if you like) who are writers.  This also depresses me.  By watching their successes, my own non-success becomes way more noticeable and it actually properly hurts like a stab in the heart every time I read of one. This is not good for me.

The writing group that I joined at the beginning of the year is also not really for me, I've come to realise.  And I've given it a proper, decent go, I really have.  It's not merely because one of my fellow members (of which we are 3) has already been signed by a huge Agent and is having her amazing (no, it really IS) book touted round all the major publishers as we speak, nor that the other member is so clever with his words and has such a beautiful story-telling mind that it makes me feel like an amoeba in comparison, but..... okay then this IS why it's not for me.  I feel like Big Bird in the company of Peacocks and Swans; lumpy, cumbersome and a little bit laughable.

I wonder if I'll ever find my niche.  I remember my Tutor from the London School of Writing (yes, I started that aged 18 and didn't get beyond Lesson 9 I think - I even borrowed £300 for it which  was a MASSIVE committment at that age) telling me that I'd have to tailor my writing to fit a suitable market.  But I didn't want to.  I suppose even then I knew that I didn't want to write for anybody else, didn't want to be governed by constraints and I suppose if I'd remembered that a little earlier, then I wouldn't have spent the past 10 years beating  myself up about nobody wanting to publish my books.  They're unmarketable.  Years ago I'd have taken that as an insult.  Now I'm not so sure.

Here, have a Jazz-Hands Kitten.

Don't you LOVE 'Before and After' Pictures?

Turning a House into a Home

It's been fraught, it's been fun, and through it all I'm SO glad we made the decision to downsize.

We've made a dent in the decor (and some doorframes :)) and as this is our House for Life, know we have all the time in the world to properly make it 'Ours'.

I've been a bit absent lately and it's all because of this, but now I'm Back and I'll be *shabby chic-ing all over the place - but not so's it turns into a vomit-fest of Location, Restoration, Decoration proportions.  Hopefully.

*Pick up a battered awl piece of rubbish from a second-hand shop and paint it a seemly shade of duck-egg. don't even bother rubbing it down, the rougher it looks the more Shabby it becomes.  Seriously. These are strange times we live in.

 

Chic-ing All Over!

There's nothing better than learning new things.  And it's not true about the Old Dog and his/her new tricks. I reckon the older you get the more inclined you are to WANT to learn new stuff, even if it's just to scoff in the face of that old hag, Dementia.

Last week at my Writing Group I learned that the Collective Noun for Archaeologists is an Argument.  When the meaning was queried, I was informed it was because once more than one Archaeologist has an idea (generally a differing one from the first) then... well the whole thing becomes an Argument. And I love this.  I love the the newly discovered fact, I love its geneology and I rather love the idea of a bunch of Archaeologists having a right royal row in the middle of a dig somewhere.  Anywhere. (I'm not so keen on those dreary afternoon programmes featuring Baldrick and his hairy cohorts in wellies in ditches but I'm sure I'm not their target democratic anyway).

So, what have I learnt lately?

Well, as you know we moved recently - exactly a forntight ago today actually - and I love the meaning of the word 'Fortnight' too - fourteen nights -  which you probably already knew but I think a lovely word can bear endless repetition.  Rather like a Ginger cake which is baking beneath me as I type. (I'm upstairs, I'm not writing atop the oven).

Right, back to the learning.  I learnt that moving isn't such a big fuss as everyone makes it out to be.  Okay so I'm sure some people get stressy and over-ambitiously anxious about the finer details of the event, but at the end of the day (which is a horrible turn of phrase) it's just picking up some sticks and putting them somewhere else.  Of course having a skip helps.  As does an endless supply of cardboard boxes, wrapping tape and black marker pens.  And a strong, resilient, thoughtful, organised husband but I won't dwell on that.... he's just too damned good at everything and he blimmin' well knows it :)

And although we still haven't opened every carboard box we filled (mainly because the remaining ones say really helpful things on them like "stuff" and "more stuff".  One even says "crap from the kitchen" on it which I daredn't even contemplate opening) we have also had to purchase a few things.

Like a kitchen table and chairs.  I know.  And I know we sold our dining table and chairs at the old house (eBay, how do I love thee?) but really they weren't 'kitcheny.  A cottage, into the likes of which we have moved, requires kitcheny furniture and not a solid beech block dining table and chairs combo that MFI knocked up some 7 years ago.So with the help of my old friend E.Bay, I searched.  And during my week of searching I discovered something I had hitherto not known.

I am the epitome of Shabby.  I hadn't ever realised it but I have been chic all these years without ever really realising. I give you these traits:

1. I LOVE Charity shops.  I love them so much I'm keeping Barnardos in business with the amount of books/clothes/shoes/linen we have recently given them.  And they even write back to say how much we've earned them too which is SO lovely I could weep.
2. I LOVE things that LOOK LOVED.  I don't know why I'm using shouty letters, it's probably something to do with my overall Chic-ness or something.  Anyway, I HATE new shiny, crispy, clean, smooth things.
3. That's why I love my husband.  he has the weathered appeal of Sid James with a touch of Patrick Swayze about him and his jokes are positively historical.
4. DISTRESS is an art form, not a negative emotion.  Something that has endured the ravages of time (or has been made to appear that way) to me, is as appealing as the most appealing thing anybody can think of that appeals to them (yes, you know what I mean.  I was going to say 'chocolate' but we all know there are some of us out there who are allergic to the stuff).
5. Put these all together and you get what is commonly known as Shabby Chic.  And now that's the only think I put in my search engines these days.  In fact when I came to log into my e-mails this morning, Google asked me "did you mean to say Shabby Chic?".

Here's a photo of our wonderful new (and yet so old there's a split across the table that even Olga Korbut would have a hard time emulating) kitchen table and chairs.
I think I'm in love.

Wood'n'<3