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!