Love can be swift, throwing caution to the wind

This hasn't happened for a while.  Probably not since the spring before last.  There have been mild attractions and cases of need, but not an all-encompassing, immediate desperation to try and possess and own.

I know the lure.  Its been the same since I was a child capable of choosing for myself.  Its not height or shape, or purpose, but colour.

And that colour is red.

From crimson to cherry, burgundy to berry.  Red does it for me every time.  Last time it was a handbag.  This time its boots.  I knew when I ordered them in the brown and saw that they also came in both purple and red, that I shouldn't even allow them across the threshold of my house.  I knew that if they came out of the box and found their way onto my feet, then all would be lost and they would never leave again.  I didn't need red boots.  I needed a pair of brown ones for work because at the rate I was wearing my new black boots, they wouldn't last until Christmas.  I succumbed.  Oh, weak and self-deluded flesh, I looked temptation in the eye, hesitated and buckled.

'What could be the harm?'  I asked myself, stroking the page, mesmerised, already picturing them on my feet.  'Red or purple?  I'll only try them.  I won't keep them.  I don't need red boots.  And I already have purple boots.  I could order the purple boots as well.  Just to see the shade.'

Purple is rapidly becoming a neck-and-neck runner with red.  Whatever it is, wherever it is, red and purple stop me in my tracks.  Jumpers, wall coverings, bedding, dinner plates, Christmas tree decorations.  Reds and purples offset with deep greens, or browns, or gold.  Heaven!

Of course, the red boots arrived, along with five or so other pairs in brown to try.  I opened the red boots first, carefully unwrapping them and laying them back down in the box on their paper nest.  I would look at and try the brown boots first.  These were the boots I needed.  I'm a grown woman.  I can exert some self control.  The first pair were too high - I did that last year, determined that I would teach myself to walk in them.  I'm fond of them.  I still can't walk in them.  They only go on when the furthest I'll be walking is from front door to car, car to front door, front door to seat.  No stairs.  At all.  My ankles hate me for days afterwards.  This pair was too small - whatever possessed me to order that size?  I haven't been that size since I was 12!  These were very nice, but felt odd when I walked in them.  Between trying each pair of brown boots, my hand reached out to caress the supple leather of my Achilles' heel.

Eventually and with much reverence and ceremony, the red boots were held aloft, each in turn, examined from every angle and then slipped on.  Oh, bliss!  Oh, joy!  They embraced my feet as though magical elven cobblers had placed each stitch in exactly the right place to offer me comfort.  As my heart trilled the Hallelujah Chorus, I ran upstairs to my long mirror and examined them.  I was lost.  Smitten.  The tiny voice that had perched on the farthest reaches of my shoulder alerting me to the folly of my actions was sent flying across the room with a flick of my finger, as if removing a gnat.

I returned to the mess and muddle of brown boots and boxes and wrapping paper in the middle of the living room floor.  I picked the brown twin to my new love as my purchasing necessity and packed up the others to be returned.  I then took my new red boots to meet a friend, who exclaimed, admired and advised the purchase of the purple pair as well, because, frankly they were a staggeringly good price, one could never have too many pairs of comfortable boots and, most importantly, I deserved them.

I might order them.  Just to see the shade.  After all, what could be the harm?  I am a grown woman with self control.  I can always send them back.

Boo! Writing resumes ...

Dear Blog, I have neglected you.  Looking at the date of my last entry, I feel as though I should open with 'Forgive me, Blog, for I have sinned.  It's been four weeks since my last posting.'  However, if you've read previous witterings, you'll be well aware of the existence of a piece of two-by-four used for self-flagellation.  It will, of course, be put to good use immediately ... or at least after I've finished writing.

So, what's news?  What's the goss?  Well, lots I suppose.  Mostly minutiae in the great scheme of things, but they've kept me busy.  Where to begin?

I've started my new job.  I'm working for 'normal' people, at long last.  Having said that, I'm in the NHS so normal is definitely a comparative term.  The natives are friendly and the big chiefs seem to give a monkeys about how their staff are getting on.  Hurrah!  It would be nice if they could work out where I'm meant to be, what training I need and how I get it as quickly as possible, so that I can start doing whatever it is they need me to do - which is still a little bit of a mystery.  The term 'HR' has been bandied around and I keep getting slightly sympathetic looks and small bursts of mildly hysterical laughter when I'm introduced to my new co-workers.  I'm not too concerned.  Yet.

I'm entering my fourth week and I still can't get onto the computer system.  I've pitched up at the Harpenden site twice now to shadow the PA to the Locality Manager supposedly for a week each time.  I think I've racked up about an hour and a half of training in total.  This isn't due to unwillingness to train me, just pressure of work which meant she didn't have time.  Ah, well, I've always been a seat-of-the-pants girl.  This week there was the added problem of two members of staff going off sick at the St Albans site, so for three days I was at one site in the morning and the other in the afternoon.  I kept having to pause when I answered the phone, so that I could remember where I was and who I was working for.  Once I think I just paused and settled on 'Hello'.  Still, I think I've shown my bosses admirable flexibility and actually I've learnt a lot about how both sites work, which is useful.  Yesterday afternoon, the Locality Manager walked past my desk at St Albans, having seen me in Harpenden that morning and said,

'Oh my God, you're here now.'

'Yes,' I replied.  'Actually I'm stalking you.'  She gave me a bit of an odd look.  Note to self ... censor sense of humour.

What else?  Children are well settled at their respective Universities.  Jo's even managed to find herself a part time job at a coffee shop in Cardiff.  In these difficult times I think she deserves a 'well done' for that.  She's having a much happier time with her new housemates and seems to have made a couple of really good friends.  I'm so relieved.

Tasha's taken to university life like a duck to water.  She gets on really well with all 6 of her flatmates - mind you, one seems to be a bit of a recluse, so maybe we should take that down to 5.  He only emerges from his room every three or four days, presumably to find food.  She says there are two students from somewhere in eastern Europe - Bulgaria, or Romania, or Albania or somewhere.  They share a room, even though they are different sexes and aren't in a relationship, which strikes me as a touch odd or vaguely third world.  The girl does all the cooking while the boy criticizes the salt levels in the food.  She makes a lot of chicken, apparently. Two or three whole ones a day.  When asked why, she just said she likes chicken.  And who can argue with that?

The other tenants refer to them in a parental fashion as 'our foreigners'.  I've gently questioned the PCness of this phrase and asked if it's not a touch patronising, or even a little right wing, these are, after all, people not possessions, but I've been told that I'm wrong and it's a label assigned with love.  But then this is from a child who is referred to as 'our Jew' and sees nothing wrong with that, so what do I know.  Maybe we grown-ups have an out-dated and far more frightened view of racism and perception of racial and cultural difference than our children who have grown up in a much larger and more established melting pot.  Joanna's nickname at school for a long time was Jewanna.  I nearly passed out in horror, seeing gas chambers and cattle trucks on the horizon.  She told me not to over-react.  The red-head in the class was called 'Ginge' and they used to ask one of their black classmates to smile so they could find him in the dark.  There is part of my brain that recoils from this like someone with a peanut allergy from bowl of bar snacks.  Whose to say, however, that things haven't moved on and my generation isn't the one with the problem?  Maybe they just acknowledge the difference and move on because that difference is largely unimportant.  Its just like wearing red socks or listening to '80s soft rock.  Its simply part of what makes you you.

What else?  Well, I could tell you about last weekend when I fell down the stairs, or last week when I lost my underwear whilst walking home, but I thing I'll leave that for another time.  I've got a hedge to trim, leaves to sweep and washing to hang out.  Oh, and writing to do ... Level 3 A363 Advanced Creative Writing started last weekend and I also need to get on with my proofreading and copy-editing course, of which I've done precisely four pages.  Since June!  Must get on.

Mrs Darcy visits Scrivener's Progress

I feel as though there should be a drum-roll followed by a crash of cymbals on Scrivener’s Progress today.  We have our first guest.  Please be upstanding and welcome Mr Jonathan Pinnock, author of the decidedly odd, unequivocally funny and strangely clever Mrs Darcy Versus the Aliens.

This is the sequel to Pride and Prejudice that Jane Austen would never in her wildest dreams have imagined would be written.  It sees Elizabeth Bennet, now Mrs Darcy, of course, a few years into her marriage to her dear Fitzy, heirless and missing a sister.  Wicked Wickham has reappeared, poor Jane and Mr Bingley have hit a snag or two and as for Lady Catherine over at Rosings, well …

Good morning, Jon.  I can't imagine how it must feel to see your book nestled on the shelves and looking quite at home in the books charts at WH Smith.  Can you describe the emotions that have accompanied this wonderous event?

It's a weird emotional roller-coaster, having a book published. Once you're over the fantastic elation that you've finally achieved your earliest ambition (and it really was my earliest ambition to be a writer), you almost immediately switch to panicking about your Amazon ranking, wondering why no magazines have reviewed it yet and why isn't the whole world knocking on your door. It's the old story. However much you get, you always want more. But it is still massively cool to be able to walk into a bookshop, point to your own book and say "Yep, I wrote that".

How has your life changed since your book launch?

Too early to say yet. I suppose I feel a bit more confident about calling myself a writer. But if someone asks me what I do for a living, I'll still probably say I write software rather than write books.

What's been the response from your family and friends and, indeed, from your work colleagues and have you noticed anyone treating you differently?

The response from my family has been along the lines of "When will you stop going on about that sodding book?" Which is fair enough. The response from non-writing friends occupies the entire spectrum from being seriously impressed through to the kind of embarrassed silence that one would adopt with someone who's been caught having intimate relations with a farm animal.

As Mrs Darcy began on-line, did you have thoughts about bringing her out as an e-book?

Oddly, that never crossed my mind. It might have done had I reached the end without a publisher in sight, but fortunately one appeared at the last minute.

Writing as an on-line serial instead of being able to present a novel in an edited and polished state must have brought its problems.  Would you do it again?

Good question. I think the positives far outweighed the negatives. On the plus side, I had an audience to write for and deadlines to meet, and those were the key things that kept me writing. On the negative side, I could never go back and re-write an earlier section in order to prepare the ground for something that happened later on, but that never seemed to be a problem in this case, possibly because the plot is a bit mad anyway. Besides, there's a school of thought that says that all the emphasis on re-writing is not necessarily a good thing and that your first instinct is right - most of the time. As it happens, I did re-write a few scenes at the (entirely correct) request of my editor, but fortunately they were all self-contained and had no effect on the rest of the book. Would I do it again? I don't know. It would be slightly different coming at it from the position of being a published author.

I know there have been mutterings regarding a sequel to Mrs Darcy and wondered if you had intended to take other well loved classics down roads hitherto untravelled?

I've no great desire to wreak havoc on any other well-loved classics, but I would like to do more with this one because there are some unresolved issues at the end. Then again, who's to say that other classics won't get dragged in?

Thank you, Jon. 

Mrs Darcy Versus the Aliens, published by Proxima, is on sale in WH Smiths and on-line bookshops NOW!  

A Visit From a Bona Fide Published Author

Don't forget tomorrow's visit by Jonathan Pinnock, author of the new regency classic/alien mash up, Mrs Darcy  Versus the Aliens.

Post from the black hole

There's a funny thing about black holes, I've just discovered - they're far more frightening from the outside looking in.

Those of you who read this blog, know that an event of momentous proportions was due to occur this weekend.  I was unable to fathom how my life would proceed from Saturday night onwards.  I was, in fact, having a small identity crisis (this following on from my mid-life crisis in August).  I would hate you to get the wrong impression.  I'm not normally a crisis-ridden person.  I'm far too lazy.  Crises are hard work.  All that angst, soul searching, navel gazing and teeth gnashing.  A brief synopsis of walls being hit were: the 10-year gap between mentally accepted age and actual chronological age, the ending of a two and a half-year stint in the part-time job from, well not hell, exactly, but certainly hell's ante-room and my last little fledgeling flying the nest and to Sunderland of all places - even further away than Cardiff, where her sister has been resident for a year now.

The age thing currently resembles a cooled rice pudding - looks smooth and solid on the surface, but don't press too hard or you'll crack the skin.

The job thing - my God, what a relief to be away from the dark place.  They were still playing with my head even on my last day.  I just need my CRB check to come through so that I can start the new job.  Squeaking just a little as it means I'm currently income-less.  And seeing as I've just had to pay for Joanna's car to be serviced, fixed and MOTd on top of kitting out Natasha for her new life oop north, that's not a comfortable place to be.  Please, nice Mr Policeman, PULL YOUR FINGER OUT!!!!

Which brings me on  to the biggest thing.  The untying of the last apron string.  It was fine.  Well, okay it wasn't fine, but it's going to be fine.  Jo left on Thursday and I was anxious when she left, but she arrived in Cardiff in a time that meant I refrained from asking what speed she had been doing on the motorway.  There are some things you just don't want to know.  I miss her, but I'm used to her not being here.  I know how her not being here works.

Natasha and I left for Sunderland on Saturday morning.  All her things rammed into the car.  Spotting all the other parents on the motorways also taking children to Uni - kitchens and bedrooms fighting for space in the backseats and boots.  The odd stuffed toy with its face squashed up against a window.  Lots of things to talk about and concentrate on.  The windscreen wipers shredding in the middle of a downpour just outside Rugby, entailing a slight detour to Halfords to get new ones fitted.  Wanting to stop for lunch, but discovering that all the diners and restaurants were on the southbound side of the motorway and northbound were only dodgy-looking truckstops.  Which actually worked out okay in the end because at about 3 o'clock we found a Toby carvery en-route to Sainsbury's and had a gut-busting roast, so I knew that at least she'd had one decent meal before the onslaught of freshers' week and the rivers of alcohol that are likely to be flowing down her gullet in place of food.  We collected her key and carried her bedroom stuff all the way up to the fourth floor helped by the lovely older brother of one of Tasha's new flatmates, Emma.  We bagged her cupboard in the kitchen and unpacked the boxes and bags that had been decorating the dining room table at home for about three weeks.  Did the Sainsbury's shop and unloaded that into Tasha's shelf in the fridge and drawer in the freezer and the inch and a half of space left in the cupboard.  By which time it was 5.30 and I needed to go, as I had a two and three-quarter hour drive over to Whitehaven in Cumbria, where I was staying overnight with my bff, Emms and Tasha needed me to go because her other flatmates were starting to congregate in Emma's room on the middle floor and we both wanted her to get to meet everyone before the bin-bag party at the Students' Union bar that evening.  My eyes were dry when we said goodbye at the door.  My heart broke on the way out of Gateshead when I drove past the Angel of the North and I asked it to look after my baby.  I was in stasis one second and howling the next.  I barely remember the trek across country.  My view was partially obscured most of the way.  I soaked Emms's shoulder and then her husband, Paul's.  I was given tea and then fed a thai curry in front of a roaring log fire.  By the time Emms and I went to bed just before 1, the searing pain was down to a dull ache and I was only occasionally being side-swiped by a rush of tears.  Jo kept texting me to make sure I was okay.

Sunday morning I was fed bacon and eggs and home-made bread and had my cards read (its all good news, I was thankful to hear).  I was also forced to purchase goods in 4-year old Rhianna's beauty shop.  Most of which I was told were inappropriate for an occasion that only Rhianna was aware of and advised that I had actually bought something else instead which was far better for Rhianna's purposes and did I want to wear all of Rhianna's perfumes, yes I did, no I definitely did, all of them at the same time.

I left at lunchtime, sent off with many hugs and kisses, regiments of angels and copious sprinklings of fairy dust and accompanied by Radio 4, which successfully kept away a couple of wellings-up, arriving home just after six.

Today I woke up and ... I'm okay.  Just don't hug me quite yet.

It's Finally Arrived

This week, that is.  I'm alternatively filled with joy and despair.  I finish my old job this week.  My daughters leave for University at the weekend.  I didn't know one body could contain so many conflicting emotions all at the same time and not spontaneously combust.  When I picture Monday next week, all I can see is a black hole - I have no idea how my life will be from now on.  I've had dreams in the past fortnight where I'm in dark water, trying to get out.  I think you can safely say I've got a steep learning curve about to hit me square between the eyeballs.

If I go a little off-kilter in the next couple of weeks, please forgive me.  I've no idea who I am supposed to be.

My WIP

This should be titled 'My WNIP' if I'm being truthful.

The on-line Writers' Colony to which I belong, Litopia, is a wonderful thing to be a part of (ooh, I've left a preposition dangling.  Never mind, it's my blog and I'll dangle if I want to).  I find talking and listening to other writers, some of whom have been published more than once, others in the same anticipatory state as me, is a helpful, stimulating and thought-provoking pastime (as well as a fantastic excuse not to be doing other things, such as the list mentioned further down the page - still beating myself with stick, BTW).

My aim, in the Colony, is to get to Full Member, Pitch Room status.  Essentially, the Pitch Room is where you can submit your work in the hope that it will be considered for publication (I haven't really looked too deeply into the ins and outs of this, as it is waaay too far down the line for me to worry about).  However, I am starting to feel a bit of a fraud.  This is because most (if not all) of the other members of Litopia have WIPs - works in progress.  That is to say, they are actually writing something.  I don't.  I have vague scratchings that could or might be suitable to be turned into a full-length novel.  I have lots of them.  But I don't have an actual WIP.

I was told, yesterday, by one lovely lady writer, Rosy Thornton,

'Write your book, get it published and I'll want to read it.'

'Yaay!  I thought.  Quickly followed by, 'Ah.'  For here was the stumbling block.  I have no WIP.

I have half-formed excuses and genuine reasons wafting around inside my head regarding this lack.  Firstly, I am about to start, within the next two weeks, a full-time job and my Level 3 OU course and I've only just got off my lazy behind to begin the proofreading and copy-editing course that I should have started back in June, when I had weeks of nothingness ahead of me, but, oh no, I thought kicking back and chilling was far more beneficial, what a twit!  Secondly, the girls will be leaving for Cardiff and Sunderland, so I will have an empty house and yawning acres of void to fill - also peace and quiet, not punctuated by re-runs of Friends, or MTV, or X-Box games where assassins jump from roof to roof in medieval Jerusalem slaughtering everything in sight.  I'm also wondering if, subconsciously, I'm storing up all this work, in order to be so busy I won't have time to miss the Friends re-runs, MTV, mess, needing to cook and care for someone else, etc.

Whatever the reasons are - for I'm sure they are multiple - I'm going to have to make do, for the time being, with research for the prospective novel (the first in a family saga, beginning with a fictionalised version of my Nana's life, I think.  All I'll say is that we continue to discover things about her some 10 years after she died, the most poignant fact for me being that she is buried a non-Jew in a Jewish cemetery under a false name) because I suspect that I'm going to be a bit busy.

Hopefully, by the time I get into the Pitch Room, I might actually have something to pitch.

A date for your diaries, by the way:  20 September - we will have a guest on Scrivener's Progress; as part of his world blog tour, the rather lovely Jonathan Pinnock will be answering some brilliant and erudite questions about his brand new book, Mrs Darcy vs the Aliens which was published by Proxima Books yesterday.  WH Smiths had Mrs Darcy at No 54 in their book chart on her first day out.  Congratulations to Mr Pinnock.  All I need now is to find some brilliant and erudite questions to ask!

Wish me luck!

And the Answer is ...

So, did I do anything on that old list?

Ha, ha, ha!

No.

Where's that stick ...?

A Week Off - How Lovely

This Sunday morning sees me relaxed and enjoying the blissful vista of a week away from work.  I can't remember the last time I took time off and spent it at home.  I usually take the opportunity to head M6-wards and absorb the Cumbrian balm of fells and water and my bff Emms.  This time I decided that I'd have one of these staycations I've heard so much about.  I have, naturally enough, made myself a to do list - possibly so that I can get to the end of the week and realise that I haven't done any of them, thereby giving me a stick to beat myself with.  I'm hoping that, once I've done the things I need to do, I'll have acres of time in which to write.  That is the plan.  I'll let you know whether or not anything gets accomplished.

There are some things this week that are written in stone.  The first one is dinner with my family tomorrow.  Its my birthday.  I tried quite hard to sweep that fact under the carpet and pretend it wasn't happening, but it seems that isn't allowed.  So I'm being taken out for tea in the afternoon and then dinner in the evening.  It sounds ungrateful, I know, not to be happy that those I cherish want to show me that I too am loved.  I am far from ungrateful.  Its not that simple.

I understand that most people think of themselves as being a particular age even when that age is a faint dot on the horizon of their existence.  I have accepted that in my head I'm 37.  The fact that the calendar tells me a different story is the distressing part.  I had no qualms about passing 40.  That was okay. The discrepancy wasn't so great that I couldn't square it with myself.  Right up to 45, things were fine.  The rebellion and denial seemed to take on a life of its own when I got to 45+1.  I suspect my daughters' remarks along the lines of  'you're closer to 50 than 40' didn't help.  Bless them.  I now find that 45+2 looms and I've started screaming in earnest 'STOP!  Whoa!  Wait a minute.  No, no, no, just give me a little time to re-adjust.  I WANNA GET OFF!'  It's all happening a bit too fast.  Life rips by and I don't know where it all goes.  How did it get to August, for example?  How did that happen?  Maybe that's why I keep getting the urge to keep still.  I suspect that some part of my brain thinks that if I keep still, it'll all slow down.  It doesn't.  I just find another day has gone and I've not done anything.  This then leaves me with the frustrated feeling that I've accomplished nothing of any import.  Which is true.

I've started to think that maybe I'm having a mid-life crisis.  Mind you, if this is mid-way, I'm obviously expecting to live to see 94.  I suppose that's good and entirely possible, just so long as all my faculties are in tact and I haven't got to the point where someone is having to wipe my bottom for me.  I don't want to see my dignity exit stage left and leave me centre stage, thank you very much.  I want the curtain to come down while my dignity and I are still hand-in-hand.  I don't think that's too much to ask.

And my age isn't the only thing that's frightening the pants off me this week.  Looming like a playground bully intent on stealing my dinner money, is the second week in September.  What, you may ask, is so scary about the second week in September?  Well, that's the week that both my girls go off to Uni - Jo back to Wales and Tasha to Sunderland.  I've got used to Jo's absence.  She started her degree last year and since then has completed her month in South Africa learning how to use firearms and tracking animals which could kill her in a variety of ways.  She's also spent a year in Cardiff, so I've inured myself to her antics.  If she can survive the African bush with a bunch of Uni students and Saturday nights in South Wales, then she'll be okay.  I remember bawling my eyes out on the drive back up the M4 when I first dropped her off, seeing myself as someone akin to the nasty owner in the Fox and the Hound who abandons their puppy in the woods.  I remember getting home and the ache of walking past her empty bedroom and bawling all over again.  However, last year I had the solace of Tasha doing her Foundation course, staying at home and re-decorating and moving into Jo's room.  This time Tasha's going as well.  And Sunderland feels a long way away.  I've not been separated from both my babies for longer than 10 days since they were born.  It all feels very final.  When they come home now, it'll only ever be temporary.  My little terraced house suddenly feels cavernous.

So it seems I have more than one reason for wishing that today would go on forever.  I know what I want for my birthday ... a time machine.

For What It's Worth ...

I’ve started this post a couple of times in the last day or so and deleted it to go away and think some more.  It seemed shallow and callous to simply talk about writing fiction when around us such bellows of outrage were being heard.  On the other hand, what do I know of the reasons behind this civil unrest?  My life is relatively privileged and comfortable.  I’ve had a decent education, always lived in a more than decent home and been part of a family and a community, even if, on a personal level, I may not have felt I entirely belonged there.  The point was that they were only too willing to include me in it. 

Don’t mistake any of those things for having had a smooth ride.  I’ve had my ups and downs and, believe me, the downs were pretty low.  Once you’ve stared into the abyss of possible oblivion and made the conscious choice not to jump, but to turn and fight your way back to the light and re-engage with life, you find you’ve developed a slightly different perspective on the human condition.  I’ve had one member of my family tell me that I was the unluckiest person they knew.  I assured them that, to the contrary, I was one of the luckiest because I’ve had the opportunity to re-build myself from the foundations upwards and craft the person I choose to be.  I’ve learned more than even I realise.  I can dance as if no-one is watching.

It makes me sad to see young people with such bleak, blinkered and inward-focused gazes that the purpose of their existence at the moment is to take and rend and destroy and think that it will somehow bring them happiness.  I have an understanding of the yawning hole they are trying to fill, the need to feel not only visible, but that they matter. 

Drink and drugs and stuff – other people’s stuff – won’t make them feel better.  Depriving others won’t make them feel better.  Bellowing this loud, so everyone can hear won’t make them feel better, at least not in a way that is meaningful and lasting.  It’s all a temporary fix.  The shine will wear off.  Then where will the next thrill come from to try and fill that hole?

How do you get a generation to learn to respect themselves and by respecting themselves, respect others?  How do you get them to feel connected?  How do you get them to believe that they are good enough?  How do you get them to understand that they matter simply because they are here?  That every breath they take impacts on someone else for good or ill.  Their presence creates ripples and it is their choice what ripples they choose to make, what impact they choose to have.

I’m not a religious person, however, I have a strong, personal, spiritual faith which is sorely tested on a regular basis.  I’m not a happy-clappy hippy either - I work in the NHS in an area with a large immigrant community and where there is high unemployment and ill health (real or perceived) within family units. 

I do believe that most people, at the most basic level, simply want these things:  to feel secure; to feel loved; to be happy.

I don’t know what the answers are.  I wouldn’t even know where to start looking.  The thing I do know, is that we can’t carry on this way and expect everything to turn out alright. 

A phrase I learned from a wise man called Steve is ‘if you always do what you’ve always done, you’ll always get what you’ve always got’.  I think maybe now’s the time to do something different.

The Marks Are In

With all the ballyhoo behind us, for A215 anyway, the last part of our OU course was our marks for our exam and our overall mark for the module.  I think we were all remarkably patient, bearing in mind we submitted our work in early June.  For me, it felt more like an afterthought.  I'd moved on in my head and left it behind.  That still didn't stop me getting twitchy when I received an email last night to say that our marks were due within 24 hours.  All of a sudden our Writers' Workshop started to resemble a 4-year old's party when the attendees had partaken of one too many bags of Haribo.  I've no idea if anyone slept.

The morning sun brought with it whoops of delight from all and sundry.  In our Workshop, we all got high 2:1s or Distinctions - quite an achievement, I think.  When we came to our last posting for feedback on our work that was going to be submitted for our exam, we all said that the critiques and support we had received from our fellow Workshoppers during the previous 9 months was a vital part of our learning process.  I think our marks go to prove that has been the case.

Ron Woods - a tiny piece of his work is displayed in a post further down - was published on Sunday - the first one of us.  We are all very proud of him.  He's a brilliant writer.  The hope is that he is the first of many.

All eyes turn, now, to A363.  Let's hope we can make it Distinctions across the board this time next year.  To use a cliche - which would have our tutors gasping in dismay - watch this space!

Hooray!

With a little bit of scrabbling, Bear got onto my bed this morning and he managed to scramble up a fence.  He also asked for his breakfast, bopped Gus on the nose and ambushed Gizzy when she came out of the cat flap.  By jingo I think he's getting better!  Hoorah!  Still need to find out what caused it all, but I think I can stow the dilemma in a box, padlock it and bury it in the back of a dark cupboard somewhere!

I know a certain cat who gets a whole fish for supper tonight!

Blog can now return to normal writing-related ramblings ... I'm sure you'll all be mightily relieved!  Especially those of you who are feline-averse.

An Ethical Dilemma

I’ve been in the throws of an ethical dilemma this week.  I outlined in an earlier post Edward Bear’s latest medical conundrum.  This puzzle continues, darker hued with each passing day.  My little feline free-runner, aka Squirrel Ninja because of his extremely fluffy tail and wall-bouncing abilities, remains on the ‘concerned’ list.  X-rays and blood tests are all OK, but wobbling has been evident in the back legs while walking, he’s off his food, sleeping in dark corners all the time and a couple of days ago when he tried to run, he fell flat on his face.  Second and third opinions have now been sought by the vet, Romeo (yes, that really is his name).

There are three possibilities being bandied around.  The first is that it’s a virus.  Not a likely scenario, but straws are being clutched now and it is the one I’m clinging to.  The other options are something neurological, or evidence of a deterioration of his heart problem.  Neither of these latter theories can possibly be good as long-term prognoses.  The heart specialist who diagnosed Bear’s faulty valves is being consulted and a possibility of further scans looms large.  In the meantime, it has been advised that Bear should be kept quiet and indoors.

Edward Bear is a 2-year old cat with a curious nature.  He sniffs and digs and tunnels and investigates.  He rarely walks, he bounds, dashes and bounces.  He is mischievous – he lays in wait for Gus and Gizzy when he knows they are coming and jumps out at them on his back legs, as if he’s doing star jumps.  He sits next to Gus and bops him on the nose to get him to play.  He sits on Gizzy’s face when she’s asleep and then bounces around in front of her when she wakes up hissing – she is 19-years old, deaf, riddled with arthritis, has lungs like bellows so snores even when she’s awake and is missing a back leg.  In short, he lives life to the full. 

My dilemma is this:  as it is unsafe for him to be outside – he can’t escape from cars, other cats, dogs, foxes, or anything else that might harm him because he can neither run nor jump – he could be facing the rest of his life indoors, looking out at the world from behind panes of glass.  Would it be kinder to put him to sleep even if he isn’t in pain?  His life would come down to sitting and sleeping all within four walls with occasional forays into the garden if I’m at home and outside.  Would I be keeping him alive for his sake or mine?  Is life at any cost the aim?  It’s not as if he can take up other hobbies to keep him occupied for however long his heart keeps going.  A parallel can’t be drawn between people whose mobility is reduced and a cat.  My Dad with reduced mobility because of Parkinson’s and my Mum with a dodgy knee have other things they can do – things that occupy their minds – and aids to allow them to get around and live as normal a life as possible. 

Cats may have been domesticated, but they are still creatures that, I believe, need the freedom to roam in order to have a happy life.  I may not know what goes on in Bear’s head, but I can see when he’s happy.  He is a sentient creature.  He isn’t a possession.  I don’t own him.  We co-exist within the same space in a symbiotic relationship.  And I love him.  Putting him to sleep would rip my guts out.  But would I be demonstrating that love by keeping him alive at all costs, or simply being selfish?

La Ronde

We've been playing story tag in the on-line writing workshop I joined through the OU.  Thought you might like to see the first two stories in the sequence.  The idea is one person writes a piece, then next person takes a character from that piece and writes their own story.  The third person takes a character from story two and writes a new story, etc.  You get the picture.  The last story is supposed to bring the whole back to the beginning.

Sisters   - Ron Woods

Sandra opened the door to the visitors’ day room and was surprised to see her younger sister already there. Tina was standing with her back to the door leaning on the sill of the open window but Sandra immediately recognised her faded multicoloured jacket and unmistakable shaggy blonde hair. She also noticed her flick something out the window and flap her hands before turning around with a guilty expression to face her.

     ‘Oh it’s just you,’ said Tina when she saw who had come in to the room. ‘I thought it was that bloody nurse again.’

     Sandra wasn’t sure if the look of disappointment was meant for her or the unsmoked portion whatever it was her sister had just flicked away.

     ‘The nurse told me to wait in here,’ said Sandra. ‘They’ve taken mummy down for a scan.’

     ‘I know,’ said Tina rooting in the pocket of her grubby jeans, ‘I’ve been on my own here all afternoon. I was with her when they took her down.’

     ‘I came as quickly as I could.’ Sandra’s cheeks were flushed. ‘I had to get Gerry to come home from work to mind the girls, and then I had to go to mummy’s to collect her things.’

     The day room was quite small with too many chairs but against one wall was a small comfortable looking sofa. Sandra put her large handbag and the two carrier-bags with nightdresses and cardigans for her mother at one end and dropped herself onto the other end. She immediately regretted it as she sank into the cushion and the waistband of her skirt dug into the folds of her stomach. She wriggled in the seat to make herself as comfortable as possible. Tina leaning back with her elbows on the windowsill watched her discomfort.

     ‘Does Margaret know yet?’ she asked.

     ‘I’m not sure,’ said Sandra. ‘I’ve tried her mobile but it keeps going to voicemail and I didn’t want to leave a message like that on her phone. She’s probably in one of her meetings.’

     Tina wasn’t looking at her and didn’t seem to care about her answer. She was looking instead at the toe of her sandal as she rubbed it in circles on the pink floor tiles. Sandra thought she was too thin and her clothes looked worn out.

     ‘Are you still living with those people on the farm?’ she asked her.

     ‘Yeah, but we might move on at the end of the summer, I’m not sure, maybe.’

      ‘Have you no washing machine out there?’ she asked and immediately regretted how her question must have sounded. ‘I only meant...I worry about you...you know?’

     Tina lifted her head to look at her. ‘Your blouse is buttoned up wrong,’ she said, then turned to look out of the window again.

     ‘Oh Christ! Not again,’ said Sandra shuffling forward to sit upright on the edge of the sofa to redo her buttons. Her blouse was almost completely undone exposing the white rolled flesh of her stomach and a bra that used to be white when the door swung open wide and Margaret entered the room with her phone pressed to her ear. She was wearing a tailored grey trouser suit and her shoulder length hair was pulled back behind her ears and held in place by a pair of sunglasses perched on her head. As she turned to shut the door behind her the sunlight from the window flashed off the DG logo on the side of her glasses and the room filled with the scent of Chanel something-or-other. It was always Chanel.

     She was still talking on the phone. ‘I see...yes...but can’t you hurry it up?’ As she spoke she looked at her sisters, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Sandra’s naked belly. Her half-smile to Tina wasn’t quick enough to hide her initial look of disapproval.

     ‘I understand,’ she was saying into the phone, ‘but I’ll need to know as soon as possible. I have to make a decision. Ring me as soon you know.’ She flipped her phone shut and slipped it into her pocket.

     ‘That was mummy’s consultant,’ she said. ‘We may have to sell her house.’

Tina - Danielle Posner Sykes

‘I want you out by the end of the week.’

            Tina was dragged into the hazy light of the morning by this demand, spat into her ear by Jonathan.  It was laced with a venom that took her breath away.  How had things got so bad so fast?  She turned over and looked at her boyfriend of six years.  He was sitting up in bed, his spine rigid, arms barricaded across his chest, face cold and resolute.  She sighed and rubbed her eyes, wishing she could at least have had a cup of tea before being thrust back into the argument that had begun the previous evening over whose turn it was to do the washing up.  It was pathetic.  Not only that Jonathan should have felt it necessary to turn a simple task, easily accomplished in minutes, into a major diplomatic incident, but that he should have insisted it was played out in front of the rest of the farmhouse residents and used it as a means to end their relationship.  Her sisters had always said he was a bully and a coward.  She had defended him until the phrase “the lady doth protest too much, methinks” began to echo in her head.  Actually, it had been Sandra who had called him a bully and a coward.  Margaret had dismissed him as a sponging waste of space.  They were both right. 

            ‘Good morning to you, too, Jonathan,’ Tina muttered.

            ‘I can’t be doing with this any more.  You’re lazy and self-centred and how dare you show me up in front of my friends.  My friends, not yours.  I’ve carried you long enough.  You can sleep on the couch until you’ve found somewhere else to go.  No-one wants you here a minute longer than necessary.’

            Tina fought back the tears that started to well up and controlled the downward twitch at the corners of her mouth.  In complete silence, she got out of bed and picked her away over Jonathan’s dirty clothes, which were scattered liberally over the bedroom’s threadbare carpet, to the rickety chest of drawers.  Rays from a chilly winter sun broke in through the gap in the paper-thin curtains tacked to a chunk of wood over the window.  Tina pulled on a pair of jeans that were due for a wash and a sweatshirt before starting to remove her neatly folded and hung clothing from the drawers and wardrobe, packing them into the suitcase and sportsbag she had brought with her eighteen months before.

            ‘And you can leave my grey sweater,’ came the instruction from the bed. 

            Tina turned to look at Jonathan’s impassive face.  His unblinking, steely grey eyes stared back at her.

            ‘You gave me that jumper.’

            ‘No I didn’t.  You borrowed it and never gave it back.’

            ‘Oh, whatever, Jonathan.  Why would I want a reminder of you?’  She took the sweater out of her bag and then stopped.  A look passed over her face.  She straightened her shoulders and turned back to look at him.  ‘Do you know what, I’m tired of this.  I’m tired of you and your sniping.  I’m tired of dirty carpets, non-existent plumbing, freezing cold rooms, lentils for dinner every night, listening to Greg and Mandy swinging from the lightshade –‘

            ‘Well fuck off then, you miserable, middle-class bitch!’  Tina’s eyes widened and her head jerked backwards as if hit from a physical blow.  ‘Go on!  Fuck off back to your Mummy and those tight-arsed, toffee-nosed bitch sisters of yours with their designer clothes and convertible cars and jobs in the City.’

            For a moment Tina was too stunned to speak.  Then, unable to bear the sound of thudding in her ears, she asked,

‘Did the last six years mean nothing to you?  Did I ever mean anything?’

            Jonathan’s eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a sham of a smile. 

            ‘Yeah, you meant an adequate fuck when I was horny and someone to roll a spliff when I was too stoned to do it myself.’

            Tina blinked, too shocked even to cry. 

            ‘You bastard,’ she thought.  ‘I wasted six years of my life on you.  Well, I won’t give you the satisfaction of seeing me cry.  I won’t.’

            She turned back to her bags, finished packing her things and, without a backward glance, walked out, quietly closing the door behind her.  She went into the bathroom to wash her face in freezing cold water, brush her teeth and pack her toiletries and then left the house by the back door.

            It wasn’t until she was in her battered old Renault and sitting at the end of the driveway that she pulled on the handbrake and started to shake.  She retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her bag and eventually managed to light one, dragging the smoke deep into her lungs.  She told herself it was smoke in her eyes causing the tears to cascade down her face, nothing to do with the pain in her chest, the lump in her throat or the concrete in her stomach.  She refused to shed one tear over Jonathan.  Absolutely refused.

            ‘Shit.  Margaret,’ she muttered, a picture of her judgemental eldest sister’s gloating face coming to mind.  As she was contemplating how to tell her family that she was now homeless, her phone rang. 

            ‘Tina?  It’s me.’  Her sister, Sandra, sounded more flustered than normal. 

            ‘Hi, Sandra.  What’s up?’

            ‘It’s Mummy.  She’s had some sort of fall or something.  I couldn’t get much sense out of her.  I called an ambulance.  Where are you?  I’ll meet you at the hospital.’

            ‘Yeah, okay.  Is she alright?  I mean … is it a heart attack, or –‘

            ‘I don’t know.  I don’t know what happened.  Just can you go –‘

            ‘Yes, yes, of course.  I’ll see you there.’

            The drive to the hospital and the hours waiting whilst staff came and went with no answers to her questions, only quick flickers of their eyes up and down, as they took in her somewhat crumpled look, blurred together. 

At some point in the afternoon Sandra arrived, all awry and puffing and asking inane questions and Tina could barely keep focused on her mother’s plight as the events of that morning swirled round and round in her head.  How to tell; whom to tell; when to tell; if she should tell.  Maybe she could live at her mother’s while she sorted herself out.

            Then Margaret burst in and announced,

            ‘That was Mummy’s consultant.  We may have to sell her house,’ and all Tina could think was,

            ‘Shit!’

Oh My Goodness!

I'm so chuffed I'm fit to burst ...

My humble little blog has just had a mention on West Herts Drivetime with Danny Smith on Verulam Radio.  One of the VWC writers - a seriously lovely chap called Mark Clementson - has a regular spot.  He mentioned that Scrivener's Progress was 'worth a read'.  Yaay!

The strange light hovering in the sky somewhere over west Hemel Hempstead is my grin.

I Have Pondered

It was pointed out to me last night at our meeting of the VWC, that my last post was a touch flimsy in content and unresolved in conclusion.  'Tis true, but then I was feeling flimsy and unresolved.  I did, indeed, need a ponder.

I believe my reticence over the new job, especially after my plea last week, was down to shock and disorientation.  Let me explain.  I found a message on my mobile last Thursday evening wanting to know why I hadn't responded to an email asking me for interview on the 19th.  I was requested to call back the lady concerned and let her know 'really quite urgently' if I was still interested in being considered for the post.  I was baffled.  To my knowledge I had received no such email.  I duly checked my email account and the NHS job website, but could find neither an email nor even a job at the particular hospital mentioned in the phone call.  Curiouser and curiouser.  I eventually tracked down one particular job description bearing the name of the woman who had left the message on my mobile, but the job was located in St Albans, not Harpenden.  At a loss, I resolved to call this lady in the morning to find out what the devil was going on.

On Friday morning I called and left a message explaining that I had received no email and therefore didn't really know which job she was referring to, but that if I had applied, then I was still interested in the position.  I waited for her to call me back.  I waited all day (except during Harry Potter, which I saw with Natasha as a birthday treat and was not being disturbed for any reason at all!).  No response.

I started to wonder if I hadn't received an email because I hadn't actually been shortlisted for the position and the phonecall had been a mistake.  She was avoiding ringing me back.

Saturday and Sunday, obviously I wasn't going to hear from anyone.

Monday morning arrived and I tried the lady's number again to see if I could get to the bottom of this mystery.  Once again, the phone rang out and went through to voicemail.  I left another message, pretty much on the same lines as the one I left on Friday and decided that this interview obviously wasn't supposed to be and this job, whatever it was, was not meant to be mine.  As I was coming to the end of my message, resignation in my heart, rather than in a letter to the boss, which would have been preferable, I could hear a beeping on my phone.  I looked and saw that the lady was calling me back.

'Aha!' I thought. 'Finally, I will get some answers.'

After a cursory apology for the errant email, the lady, let's finally call her Teresa, for that was her name, asked if I wanted to come for interview the following day.  9 o'clock was finally settled on.  It transpired that the interview was being held in Harpenden, but the job was in St Albans.  Things were starting to make sense.

I finished my shift, went home to discover that one of my cats, Edward Bear, he of the medically anomalous faulty heart valves, had lost all power in his back legs and was now unable to jump up onto the couch, or even climb the stairs properly, but could still walk normally, stretch up on his hind legs, wasn't in any pain and was eating as usual.  I despaired of anything in my life ever being straightforward and run-of-the-mill.  I reasoned that he had fallen down the stairs on Sunday evening, so maybe he was simply bruised and I'd keep an eye on him for 24 hrs.  I ironed interview clothes for the following day, made and ate a quick dinner, then went back to work to do an evening shift, returning home just before 9 o'clock.

I was woken up at 6 o'clock by Edward Bear trying to jump up onto my bed, but only managing to grab on to the covers and look confused.  This wasn't looking good.  Once on the bed, he pranced around as if nothing was wrong, turned a couple of circles and then settled himself and went to sleep.

The interview went well.  I was neither nervous nor prepared - even forgetting to take the paperwork necessary for almost any job these days - 6 documents to prove you are who you say you are.  They'll be taking fingerprints, DNA swabs and a retinal ID before long just to stack shelves in Asda.  I was only vaguely concerned by one thing:  Teresa's first comment about the job was,

'I won't lie to you, parking is a serious problem.  There aren't enough parking spaces and we don't know if the  hospital management are going to do anything about it.  They've been kicking around an idea of parking space sharing, but nothing's come of it as yet.  And all the streets in St Albans are permit holder only.  So, as I said, it's a problem.'

'Oh, goody,' I thought.  'Well, I might not get the job, in which case it may be a problem, but it won't be my problem.  Maybe I won't apply for any more jobs based in St Albans Hospital.'

I went from interview to work, where I had differing reactions from those in the know about my whereabouts that morning.  There was a sufficient amount of regret expressed at the possibility of my leaving for me to feel gratified.  I returned home to await the phonecall that had been promised with the outcome of the eight interviews that had been conducted.  I'm never sure if going first is a good or a bad thing.  You either set the bar high enough that everyone else has to match up, or you've been lost in the crowd by the time they get to the eighth candidate.  I'd also partly dismissed the job as a non-starter because of the parking problem, which was obviously so severe it warranted a mention before anything else was even discussed.

The phone rang as I dropped my handbag on the table.  It was Liz, the other interviewer.

'I'm just ringing to let you know the good news ...'

I was genuinely shocked.  I'd hardly had a moment to even consider this job, its implications, or its impacts.  The only thing that I could think was,

'But where am I going to park?  How am I supposed to get to work?'

Most problems are surmountable.  Now I've had 36 hours to let it all sink in and start doing something constructive, I've found an advert for a parking space two streets away from the hospital.  Someone is renting out their driveway for £14.50 a week.  I'm going to contact them and find out if I can block book their driveway for the foreseeable future.  And I also get a 20 minute or so walk every day, thereby dealing with my lack of exercise.  Two birds felled with one stone.

Edward Bear continues to be a medical aberration.  After a trip to the vet last night, they can find no reason for his leg problem, so I had to take him back in this morning for a day of x-rays and blood tests.  Thank the Lord for Pet Plan.  The bill is close to £600.  My excess is £85.  If he carries on this way, I'll need a second job just to pay his vet's bills.

And let's not even talk about his yearly jabs, his gingivitis, Gus's jabs, the car tax, my car service and MOT ...
oh and Joanna's back from South Africa on Monday (where did that month go?), so the food bill will rocket from next week.

Head down.  Soldier on ...

Hmm ... interesting

I've got a new job.  I should be jumping for joy, but I'm not.  Interesting.  I asked for a new job.  I received a new job.  How ungrateful not to be thrilled and thankful.  What's this all about?

I think I need a ponder.

What a Gift

I have a sudden and unexpected day off.  The possibilities yawn away in front of me.  All the things I could do.  All the things I should do.  The question is, will I do any of them?

The day has come courtesy of my parents and Thomson.  They flew back from their holiday in Cyprus last night.  They were originally meant to land at 6pm.  This was delayed to 10 o'clock, which was then put back to 11.35, then 2.06.  My brother was supposed to be collecting them from the airport, but as the delay started to approach the early hours and he had a meeting he needed to attend at 9 o'clock this morning, I offered to take the day off and do the airport run.  It doesn't take much excuse these days for me to take a day off from work.  So there I was at 1.30 this morning, setting off for Luton, having had a few hours sleep on top of a lovely chicken curry made by my daughter and consumed at about 8 o'clock, which gave me chronic heartburn.

I actually find trips to the airport in the wee small hours exciting.  Being awake and heading out while the world around you sleeps.  Arriving at a building blazing with lights and bustling with people.  Sitting in Costa Coffee watching travellers spew out of the sliding doors.  Wondering where they've come from and where they're going.  Its a mixture of subversiveness and being cocooned - a secret life going on underneath the radar.  The feeling it evokes for me is akin to two things:  the first is sitting at my desk at school writing behind a barricade of books so no-one could see what I was doing;  the second sitting in a tent on a campsite, with the tent entrance zipped up.

I'm sure a psychologist would have a field day with that one!

The question that still remains, though, is will I do something constructive today, or will the endless possibilities  so confound me that I end up doing nothing at all?

Ups, Downs and Seeing the Signs

I've been pondering what to write in this post.  Work-wise this week has surpassed itself in its gobsmacking unreality.  Someone I work with is a badly-drawn caricature.  I try to find the good in all people and situations, but this person is just beyond redemption.  And that they can get away with the sort of behaviour on display in the past few days and not be brought up before more tribunals than the Courts in the UK and Europe could shake a stick at just leaves me speechless.  There is more spite and venom contained in that small body than the most poisonous snake.  Nasty, nasty, nasty.  I felt sullied just breathing the same air.  I had been wondering about my decision to look for pastures new.  This week has confirmed for me in no uncertain terms that the escape tunnel is not being decommissioned.  For the love of God, let me find a new job.  The sign has been made neon.  I get it.  I'm going.

However, on a writing note, what a fab week!  I read one of my stories at this week's meeting of the VWC.  A short story entitled 'The Appointment'.  It takes place in a doctors' surgery, the main protagonists being a receptionist and someone who comes in for, appropriately and unsurprisingly enough, an appointment.  I can't think where I get my ideas.  I liked it, secretly thought it wasn't too shoddy and hoped it would pass muster.  Despite a somewhat constricted delivery (the terror of reading aloud to a bunch of very good writers leaves me with a complete inability to draw any air at all into my lungs), I'm thrilled to report that people laughed in the right places and I got some lovely comments.  To misquote Sally Field, 'They liked it!  They really liked it!'.  I can't tell you the pride and joy that filled my not inconsiderable breastal area.

My self belief was further boosted the following evening at the launch party for VWC's anthology 'The Archangel and the White Hart' (currently in stock at Waterstone's in St Albans and a jolly good read).  One of the Circle members happened to mention that he'd been reading my blog and thought it was really good!  I was thrilled on many levels - one being that I now have proof I'm not just nattering to myself (which was what I suspected, but didn't like to peer at too closely) and there are indeed people out there reading this, but also that they liked it!  Dave, bless your cotton socks, you made my evening!

My name is Danielle and I am a writer.  And I'm not bad!  Hurrah!

Where Does All The Time Go?

It's been a while - crikey, didn't think it had been that long.  Since I wrote on here, that is.

I've come to an odd hiatus.  I've had this urge to be still.  I've got jobs and things-I-need-to-be-doing piling up for a couple of weeks now, but can't quite bring myself to start doing them.  I kept saying 'I'll wait till I'm back from Cumbria'.  I've been back for just over a week.  The pile of things only started getting sorted this morning.  That includes having my landline fixed.  It's not been working since Tuesday.  I didn't phone the telephone company to report the fault until about 4pm yesterday (Friday) afternoon.  The fact that their systems were down and they couldn't log my repair request, so asked me to call them back, leads me to think that I'm not meant to be in touch with the world at large for the time being.  And that's to do with my urge to be still and quiet.

I used to have a really strong and active faith.  Not the labelled, congregationed, minister-led type - no-one's telling me what to think, how to behave, or what to believe - but the soul-searching, truth-finding, universe-connecting sort with the congregation of one - me.  I would remember to be mindful and aware and watchful. I would strive to find the silver lining in all situations and thank the universe, my angels and spirit guides for the lessons they were sending me to help me to grow and find my highest potential.  I adhered to the belief in the inter-connectedness of all things.

Somewhere along the line, I've become jaded.  Not a disbeliever.  Not that.  Just warier.  If I close my eyes and picture myself in this context, I see a still figure in the shadows, watching with cautious eyes.  Waiting.

I've felt like this before.  Being still goes against the grain.  It goes against what is socially acceptable.  One needs to be seen to be doing.  We, as a species, have lost the art and forgotten the value of simply being.  To validate my place on this planet, I feel I need to be judged as being a useful contributor.  I learned meditation to counteract this.  I learned to be still.  I learned to listen - to myself, to others and to the universe.  How else does one hear the messages being sent by our unconscious minds?  Or our angels (if one believes in such things).  Or the universe.  I've not meditated for quite a while.  I've not meditated with conviction for a long time before that.  It's one of the reasons I stopped running my meditation group.  I felt like a fraud.  I didn't practice what I preached.

Since the end of my OU year, I've felt this need for stillness.  I feel as though I'm spreading myself too thin and short-changing everyone with whom I come into contact.  I have my writing groups - one on-line, one on a Wednesday night, a new one being set up by a friend - I resigned from my Monday night group because I just wasn't showing up.  I'm looking for a new job and have had a couple of interviews.  The general consensus when I haven't got the jobs being 'You're lovely.  You interview really well.  We really liked you, but we've gone in-house/taken someone whose got more direct experience.'  I have my proof-reading course which is waiting to be started.  I have this pile of stuff to tackle; friends I haven't contacted, but should; a zumba class I started but have stopped.  I want to write - I have the little flame that is burning away, but ... not yet.  Not now.  Now I just want to sit.  Somewhere quiet.  Somewhere uninterrupted.  Somewhere unpeopled.

If the things I'm doing are not producing the required results, then maybe I should just surrender to the flow and accept that for today, or this week, or this month, or however long this takes, I just need to be still - do the minimum, the necessary, but stop and be.  I've asked for so many things recently.  I need to listen for some answers.  I won't find them rushing around making noise.

Let Sleeping Cats ...

Two little black heads nestled on the bed.  Bodies curled into mine seeking comfort and security.  One old and deaf now and reaching the end.  She sleeps so long and so deeply these days that we frequently find ourselves giving her a prod when we pass her by, just to make sure that she's still breathing.  Ever fearful of the time when she's not.

The other little head is still a baby.  Still finds life interesting, exciting and terrifying in equal measure.  He starts and bounds and races.  Not for him the staid dignity of the measured walk.  He's all dash and vigour, flicking ears and twitching tail.  And Mummy's comforting smell and touch.  He comes to me and snuggles and snuffles and pads in my hair and curls up on my shoulder to sleep deep and long.  Then suddenly awakens and shoots off in pursuit of who-knows-what.  He sleeps with abandon.  Body out-stretched.  Belly exposed.  His four legs minute and hour hands telling the time at 6 o'clock.  He must feel so safe, so secure here, to sleep so soundly in such an exposed attitude.  What dreams does he dream as his little heart beats?  The rare, deformed valve known only to those who love him or wish to study him.  Unknown by him as he goes about his little life well fed, well loved, well cared for.  Unaware that in all his perfection, this one tiny piece, this collection of little cells that, by some unhappy happenstance, failed to find perfection, whilst in the safest place of all, his mother's womb, could cut that thread and end his bouncing and prancing in the blink of an eye.  How fragile it all is.  And him so unaware as he sleeps so soundly, curled up where he feels so safe.

Ah ha! The Penny Drops

I've just had quick lessons in the advisability of thinking through decisions to their logical conclusions and understanding how something works before using it.

Whilst trying to 'get my profile out there', as advised by many of the successful writers at one of the groups I attend, I have, amongst other things, logged onto LinkedIn.  The ability and willingness of new writers to self-promote is, apparently, favourably regarded by the publishing world - it can bring along with a writer a ready-made audience, thereby reducing the company's risk on a completely unknown voice.

I think I have mentioned previously my techno-twit tendencies when it comes to all things www and computer-based.

Yesterday I received a phonecall from someone, who shall remain anonymous, making assumptions about what went on in my life.  I was, until this morning, confused as to how they came by the information.

These three sets of facts are LinkedIn.  

The caller knew someone who had viewed, in a third party capacity, my profile on aforementioned website (I had noted that a particular person had paid me a visit, but didn't mentally follow through the consequences at their end).  Now, I'm not saying that anything on my profile was an untruth - absolutely not.  However, like any CV, you need to, let's say, skew a profile in order to aim it at your intended target.  If I'm applying for a secretarial job, I'll highlight my secretarial skills;  if I'm heading down the receptionist route, I'll bring those experiences to the fore.  None of these ploys, if honestly engaged, cause inaccuracies, untruths, or for the reader to be misled. They simply change the direction of the beam from my angle-poise lamp.  We are all our own PR agents these days.  In this particular case, I am trying to highlight my writing credentials.  I want my writing to be the bit that people see, not for them to focus on the other stuff that I do in order to shore up my life to enable me to write.

Now, this information could be seen, if read in a particular way (ie, without the entirety of the brain engaged, or by someone looking for justification of an erroneous belief), to imply that I do a limited amount of salaried work and spend the rest of my time in my garret creating.  Ah, if only that were possible.  Proof, I suppose, that 2 + 2 doesn't always = 4.  It can = 6 if you look carefully enough for the extra 2 standing in the shadows.  Unfortunately, one cannot impose conditions on how people read the information in front of them.  You have to have a certain amount of faith that the people who read internet profiles are aware of how these things work.

So my attempt at self-promotion was sent slightly off-course by one mistake, thereby causing the scenario described above.  I hit a return key when I should have hit the 'skip' button and sent an invitation to everyone I have ever emailed in the entire history of my internet life to become one of my connections instead of the chosen few, which was what I had originally intended.  This included Argos, Sainsbury's, a couple of job websites, the OU, some guy who came to fix my daughter's laptop about 18 months ago and people from my past who I probably wouldn't have included (for various reasons, some of which may have something to do with the wrong people being able to get hold of pieces of information that could be taken out of context).  I thought it might cause problems as soon as I'd realised what I'd done, but wasn't au fait enough with the website to understand how to correct the mistake until far too late and invitations had been accepted.  Certain connections have now been severed, not necessarily because of the connectee (not a word, but what the hell, it's been an irritating 24 hours), but because of the third party connection.  I didn't think through the consequences of my actions.

Now the question is, do I put the fourth party straight, thereby possibly giving away even more information that really isn't any of their business, or do I refuse to engage any further and let them get on with believing whatever they want, erroneous or otherwise?  Answers on a postcard, please.