Attended the Get Writing 2012 conference in Hatfield last Saturday. Came away really quite desperate to get down to work, but was still struggling with finding a way in to the book I've been wanting to write. I spoke to so many people with works in progress or books they wanted to pitch to agents and I felt like an absolute fraud having nothing to show for my months of tinkering.
Spent Thursday - a day I had put aside for writing - looking at a blank screen and getting more and more depressed. The only things I have produced since I packed in the OU course because I just wanted to 'get on with it' are two very short stories. Well received by my Writers' Workshop colleagues, but still ...
I did a bit of writing around the subject yesterday during my very short lunch break. I thought if I could identify who my main character was, what she wanted, what she needed and who was in conflict with those wants and needs, then I might be able to move a bit. Until this point, I knew the elements of the story, but couldn't decide the best point of view or, whose story to tell, how to tell it, when to set it and what genre it would be. It had been everything from historical fiction to thriller!
I'm pleased to report that the sideways approach seems to have worked. I've now got 600 words down, which may not sound like much, but believe me, after the tumbleweed that's been blowing through my brain recently, they feel like the most miraculous 600 words in the English language!
There's still part of me that's convinced I'm not up to the challenge and won't have the staying power, imagination or talent to conjure up another 80,000 - 100,000 words that will be able to hold a reader's attention and therefore worthy of publishing, but if I don't give it a go, then I'll never know. And I know I'll regret that.
And if I'm not writing, then I'm not a writer.
Saturday, 18 February 2012
Sunday, 12 February 2012
I'm Starting a New Religion
For this post to have its full impact and, quite frankly, make any sense, I suggest you read Localised Armageddon first.
Hallelujah! I've had a visit from Vic the plumber. How does one go about getting someone canonized? Vic swept in, stemmed the flood in the garden, got water to flow round the boiler, tightened the screws on the front door as he was passing because he happened to have a cross-head screw-driver in his hands and then rode off into the ... err, fog in his white van, uttering into his mobile phone the most reassuring words in the world ...
'Get the ladder out, I'll be round in ten minutes.'
All hail St Vic, saviour of the cold and clueless!!
Hallelujah! I've had a visit from Vic the plumber. How does one go about getting someone canonized? Vic swept in, stemmed the flood in the garden, got water to flow round the boiler, tightened the screws on the front door as he was passing because he happened to have a cross-head screw-driver in his hands and then rode off into the ... err, fog in his white van, uttering into his mobile phone the most reassuring words in the world ...
'Get the ladder out, I'll be round in ten minutes.'
All hail St Vic, saviour of the cold and clueless!!
Localised Armageddon
Usually I love Sundays. Lazy mornings in bed reading, drinking tea and eating big, fat bacon sarnies. I don't love this Sunday. In fact I'm feeling a decided antipathy towards it.
I was woken by the Edward Bear monster (for those of you not in the know, that's one of my cats) at 6.45. He decided it was time for cuddles and I really needed to be awake for said process. I was not best pleased. I then became aware of a strange, intermittent vibrating noise emanating from Natasha's bedroom. STOP! That's where the boiler is located, and you're thinking about my daughter, so please mind where you allow your thoughts to wander.
On investigation (which involved creeping into Natasha's bedroom, a hazardous venture as the floor was littered with all sorts of detritus - a visiting uni student doesn't unpack, she disgorges - turning on the light inside the airing cupboard so I could look at the offending article,whilst trying not to wake the slumbering teen in the bed) there was a blue flashing light on the front of the boiler and a worrying sound of a bubbling cauldron coming from within.
'This can't be good,' I thought. 'I'm sure it's not meant to make that noise.'
What's even more annoying is that the blooming thing's less than a year old.
After various re-settings of the boiler, running of hot water taps (now only gushing water that has come straight from a glacier) and frantic pattings of radiators (are they cooling down, they are, they're cooling down ... bugger, bugger, bugger ...) I rang British Gas, who installed the bloody thing in March of last year.
'Do you have any other forms of heating, Madam?'
'No.'
'I'll put you down as a priority then. An engineer will be out to you on Tuesday. Would you like morning or afternoon?'
'Tuesday!'
'Sorry, Madam, but we're a bit busy what with the weather an all. You are a priority. Would you like us to give you a call if we have a cancellation?'
So, after a perfunctory wash and brush up, boiling 3 kettles of water to wash the dishes, greeting Jo back from the boyfriend's, who tells us that she has a crack in her engine so can't drive her car back to Wales tonight, but it's okay because the boyfriend's Dad's a mechanic and is going to fix the car while Jo's back at uni and she's going onto her friend's car insurance so she can drive them both back tomorrow morning (the friend only has a provisional licence), restraining myself when Natasha finally crawls out of bed and grumbles,
'You could have made me a cup of tea too!'
clearing up cat vomit from my bedroom carpet - thanks Gus, just add to the beauty of my day, why don't you - I bundle Natasha into the car to take her to the station in Stevenage so she can get her train back to Sunderland.
She makes the train by seconds. Thank the Lord for that!
On the way home I go via B&Q and buy a plug-in radiator. At least that's £9 off in the sale. I phone Jo to let her know where I am and that I'll be back in a few minutes and she's all sympathy and offers to make me a cup of tea.
I go into the kitchen at home to unload the washing machine and I can hear another noise. It sounds like a freight train under the house. What the ....?
In the garden a water pipe has burst and I have Niagra Falls gushing down the wall. I didn't sit down and cry. I wanted to, but Joanna was standing watching me and I could tell her fight or flight reflex was fully armed. Which way would I go?
After phoning the plumber (great a Sunday emergency call out, I haven't spent enough money today!) and getting him to come down to isolate the pipe and just switch the damn thing off I have retired to my room. I'd crawl back into bed, but I've got to wait for the plumber and then go round to my brother's for a shower.
And it's only one o'clock.
I don't want to be a grown up any more.
I was woken by the Edward Bear monster (for those of you not in the know, that's one of my cats) at 6.45. He decided it was time for cuddles and I really needed to be awake for said process. I was not best pleased. I then became aware of a strange, intermittent vibrating noise emanating from Natasha's bedroom. STOP! That's where the boiler is located, and you're thinking about my daughter, so please mind where you allow your thoughts to wander.
On investigation (which involved creeping into Natasha's bedroom, a hazardous venture as the floor was littered with all sorts of detritus - a visiting uni student doesn't unpack, she disgorges - turning on the light inside the airing cupboard so I could look at the offending article,whilst trying not to wake the slumbering teen in the bed) there was a blue flashing light on the front of the boiler and a worrying sound of a bubbling cauldron coming from within.
'This can't be good,' I thought. 'I'm sure it's not meant to make that noise.'
What's even more annoying is that the blooming thing's less than a year old.
After various re-settings of the boiler, running of hot water taps (now only gushing water that has come straight from a glacier) and frantic pattings of radiators (are they cooling down, they are, they're cooling down ... bugger, bugger, bugger ...) I rang British Gas, who installed the bloody thing in March of last year.
'Do you have any other forms of heating, Madam?'
'No.'
'I'll put you down as a priority then. An engineer will be out to you on Tuesday. Would you like morning or afternoon?'
'Tuesday!'
'Sorry, Madam, but we're a bit busy what with the weather an all. You are a priority. Would you like us to give you a call if we have a cancellation?'
So, after a perfunctory wash and brush up, boiling 3 kettles of water to wash the dishes, greeting Jo back from the boyfriend's, who tells us that she has a crack in her engine so can't drive her car back to Wales tonight, but it's okay because the boyfriend's Dad's a mechanic and is going to fix the car while Jo's back at uni and she's going onto her friend's car insurance so she can drive them both back tomorrow morning (the friend only has a provisional licence), restraining myself when Natasha finally crawls out of bed and grumbles,
'You could have made me a cup of tea too!'
clearing up cat vomit from my bedroom carpet - thanks Gus, just add to the beauty of my day, why don't you - I bundle Natasha into the car to take her to the station in Stevenage so she can get her train back to Sunderland.
She makes the train by seconds. Thank the Lord for that!
On the way home I go via B&Q and buy a plug-in radiator. At least that's £9 off in the sale. I phone Jo to let her know where I am and that I'll be back in a few minutes and she's all sympathy and offers to make me a cup of tea.
I go into the kitchen at home to unload the washing machine and I can hear another noise. It sounds like a freight train under the house. What the ....?
In the garden a water pipe has burst and I have Niagra Falls gushing down the wall. I didn't sit down and cry. I wanted to, but Joanna was standing watching me and I could tell her fight or flight reflex was fully armed. Which way would I go?
After phoning the plumber (great a Sunday emergency call out, I haven't spent enough money today!) and getting him to come down to isolate the pipe and just switch the damn thing off I have retired to my room. I'd crawl back into bed, but I've got to wait for the plumber and then go round to my brother's for a shower.
And it's only one o'clock.
I don't want to be a grown up any more.
Saturday, 14 January 2012
Answered Prayers and Penitence
It's funny how one can make a decision and suddenly find blockages disappearing. Having decided that I was going to take the learning and run, my work/life balance seems to be offering change that I could not have foreseen. In my last post, I had been outlining the difficulty I found fitting in writing - my own writing, that is - during a hectic week, resulting in my plan to drop out of the OU course once I'd received my mark for my play assignment.
Yesterday, whilst discussing the new Single Point of Contact (commonly known as SPoC - I've always loved Star Trek!) coming into force at work on Monday, requiring new shift hours being put in place, my boss offered me a 4-day working week. Instead of 8.30 - 5.00 with an hour for lunch Monday to Friday, I could work 8.00 - 6.00 with 35 minutes for lunch Monday to Thursday or Tuesday to Friday. Just when I was lamenting my lack of time, I'm handed an extra day in my week - and a non-working day at that. Maybe Father Christmas does exist after all!
During this meeting, I was also made to face one of my failings - stubborn pride. I've had a difficult relationship with one of my work colleagues - not entirely unjustified, I might add. One tends not to take to a person who, on their first day back in the office after being off sick for 10 months, finds new colleagues in place (in place for only two weeks, so still a touch nervous and unsure of themselves) and ignores them. After two hours of this non-communicative stranger sitting at the desk behind me, I turned and introduced myself. I found out that she was my team lead counterpart. This behaviour was not confined to me. She treated the other new members of staff in similar vein. I was astonished. I'd never come across such a passive-aggression before. When also liberally littered with bouts of crying, unexplained disappearances from her desk, an apparent inability to answer a telephone because she 'couldn't manage it today', or type 'my hands hurt/eyes are blurred', further frequent sick days and a complete lack of team spirit or consideration for work colleagues, I mounted my high horse, determined never to acknowledge her fey, woebegone languishing and spoke to her only when necessary. And even then, my words were laced with so much ice, I'm surprised she didn't go off sick with frostbite. Her performances caused eye-rolling, laughter and resentment in equal measure amongst other members of staff. One of the women would throw her hand to her forehead and utter an wan 'Ooh!', like a 1930s black-and-white film damsel-in-distress when one of these 'I'm not well!' acts began.
I should have risen above it and tried to maintain some sort of communication. I'm a grown woman. I should not have started to find petty ways to distance myself and freeze her out. An atmosphere pervaded the office when she did (occasionally) turn up for work. Mea culpa.
It has made me reflect on other places where I have galloped my pride down a dead-end street - the only way out being a volte-face and return journey with my dignity crushed underfoot. Its never pretty and the only person who ends up with sleepless nights and indigestion while they dither at the nub-end of the cul-de-sac contemplating the inglorious retracing of steps is me.
I'm not aiming for sainthood, but I would like to be a better person. I wonder if I'll learn from my mistakes.
Yesterday, whilst discussing the new Single Point of Contact (commonly known as SPoC - I've always loved Star Trek!) coming into force at work on Monday, requiring new shift hours being put in place, my boss offered me a 4-day working week. Instead of 8.30 - 5.00 with an hour for lunch Monday to Friday, I could work 8.00 - 6.00 with 35 minutes for lunch Monday to Thursday or Tuesday to Friday. Just when I was lamenting my lack of time, I'm handed an extra day in my week - and a non-working day at that. Maybe Father Christmas does exist after all!
During this meeting, I was also made to face one of my failings - stubborn pride. I've had a difficult relationship with one of my work colleagues - not entirely unjustified, I might add. One tends not to take to a person who, on their first day back in the office after being off sick for 10 months, finds new colleagues in place (in place for only two weeks, so still a touch nervous and unsure of themselves) and ignores them. After two hours of this non-communicative stranger sitting at the desk behind me, I turned and introduced myself. I found out that she was my team lead counterpart. This behaviour was not confined to me. She treated the other new members of staff in similar vein. I was astonished. I'd never come across such a passive-aggression before. When also liberally littered with bouts of crying, unexplained disappearances from her desk, an apparent inability to answer a telephone because she 'couldn't manage it today', or type 'my hands hurt/eyes are blurred', further frequent sick days and a complete lack of team spirit or consideration for work colleagues, I mounted my high horse, determined never to acknowledge her fey, woebegone languishing and spoke to her only when necessary. And even then, my words were laced with so much ice, I'm surprised she didn't go off sick with frostbite. Her performances caused eye-rolling, laughter and resentment in equal measure amongst other members of staff. One of the women would throw her hand to her forehead and utter an wan 'Ooh!', like a 1930s black-and-white film damsel-in-distress when one of these 'I'm not well!' acts began.
I should have risen above it and tried to maintain some sort of communication. I'm a grown woman. I should not have started to find petty ways to distance myself and freeze her out. An atmosphere pervaded the office when she did (occasionally) turn up for work. Mea culpa.
It has made me reflect on other places where I have galloped my pride down a dead-end street - the only way out being a volte-face and return journey with my dignity crushed underfoot. Its never pretty and the only person who ends up with sleepless nights and indigestion while they dither at the nub-end of the cul-de-sac contemplating the inglorious retracing of steps is me.
I'm not aiming for sainthood, but I would like to be a better person. I wonder if I'll learn from my mistakes.
Friday, 6 January 2012
It's Been So Long!
I am shamed and saddened. I logged on and read the date of my last post. 30th October! Good heavens! However, this realisation has only added to the nagging voice that has been whispering in my ear for a few weeks now. Let me explain.
The new job is great (really, I love it - much to the surprise of my new boss, who raised her eyebrows and said 'Really? Oh, good.' - strange reaction. Still ...), but time consuming. I'm now up at 6.00 in order to leave the house at 7.45 (I know, but it takes me a while and a bucket of tea before I could contemplate even showering safely, let alone driving), not returning until some time between 5.45 and 6.00 in the evening. After getting changed, having a quick shufty at my emails and maybe a FB flick to see if anyone has posted anything I should know about (this also includes my writing group, so it's not all froth), it's probably about 6.30/6.45 and if I'm to have any chance of eating without subsequently going to bed with indigestion, then I need to start making dinner. Meal cooked, eaten and washed up, it's probably now between 8.00 and 8.30 and quite frankly I'm only fit for gawping mindlessly at the TV whilst attempting to keep my eyelids open until 10.00 when I can go to bed without feeling like a very sad person indeed. (And the first person to shout 'You're getting old!' will be taken off the Christmas card list forthwith!) This last often fails, I must add and the fine dramas screened at 9.00 are often watched in five to ten minute chunks with breaks in consciousness littered throughout. Very annoying and thank heavens for Sky+.
In my lunch break at work (when I get one) I try to find a quiet, secluded spot to write or read around my OU work - up until yesterday, when my assignment was sent in, this was plays and playwrighting. Other than sitting in the toilet (the smell is distracting and people still insist on coming in!) or the closed down cafeteria (just plain creepy) quiet, secluded spots are difficult to find in a city hospital.
The above has been written neither to elicit sympathy, nor as an excuse, but simply as a statement of fact.
It means that my writing and studying time is, realistically, reduced to weekends (the two days in which I also need to squeeze in household chores - limited, admittedly - and having some sort of social life). Which, in turn, means that time to write anything for pleasure alone is ... non existent!!
Q.E.D.
I haven't even mentioned the fact that the Proofreading and Copy Editing course that I signed up for in the summer has got as far as me sending in my first (mock) assessment - which received a creditable (apparently) B-, but has not been looked at since.
Seeing as Santa didn't deliver the extra two days in the week I requested (non-working days, obviously), I have had to re-evaluate my time management strategy. My thinking has gone as follows:
Parts of the OU course left to complete: Assignment 3 - write a tract on the benefits of critique and how it can change the way you view your work; Assignment 4 - write a proposal on something on want to write (!); Assignment 5 - write a 2500 word short story or a play (can't remember the running time); Assignment 6 - write a first attempt at the thing you proposed in Assignment 4; EMA - write the thing you proposed in TMA4 and stabbed at in TMA6 ie 4000 word short story, start of novel or 30 minute play. (Poetry is also included, but ... never again.)
Assignment 3 - if I don't know that by now, then what have I been doing on my 3 on-line forums and at my writing group for the past 18 months? Do I really need to explain it to you and be marked on it? Assignment 4 - yeah, I have proposals running through my head all the time, I just need time to sit and write some of them. Not having OU work to do would assist greatly in achieving this. Assignment 5 - nuff said, read previous. Assignment 6 - yup called a first draft, read previous. EMA - can I just get on with writing what I want to write, PLEASE!!
Proofreading course - possible source of lucre to either prop up writing career or subsidise part time work so that I can write. Also may give valuable connections in publishing world. Currently languishing untouched.
What would it be more important for me to finish? Add to that the fact that I want to stop fannying about and get on with writing now.
Where do we think the axe is going to fall?
The new job is great (really, I love it - much to the surprise of my new boss, who raised her eyebrows and said 'Really? Oh, good.' - strange reaction. Still ...), but time consuming. I'm now up at 6.00 in order to leave the house at 7.45 (I know, but it takes me a while and a bucket of tea before I could contemplate even showering safely, let alone driving), not returning until some time between 5.45 and 6.00 in the evening. After getting changed, having a quick shufty at my emails and maybe a FB flick to see if anyone has posted anything I should know about (this also includes my writing group, so it's not all froth), it's probably about 6.30/6.45 and if I'm to have any chance of eating without subsequently going to bed with indigestion, then I need to start making dinner. Meal cooked, eaten and washed up, it's probably now between 8.00 and 8.30 and quite frankly I'm only fit for gawping mindlessly at the TV whilst attempting to keep my eyelids open until 10.00 when I can go to bed without feeling like a very sad person indeed. (And the first person to shout 'You're getting old!' will be taken off the Christmas card list forthwith!) This last often fails, I must add and the fine dramas screened at 9.00 are often watched in five to ten minute chunks with breaks in consciousness littered throughout. Very annoying and thank heavens for Sky+.
In my lunch break at work (when I get one) I try to find a quiet, secluded spot to write or read around my OU work - up until yesterday, when my assignment was sent in, this was plays and playwrighting. Other than sitting in the toilet (the smell is distracting and people still insist on coming in!) or the closed down cafeteria (just plain creepy) quiet, secluded spots are difficult to find in a city hospital.
The above has been written neither to elicit sympathy, nor as an excuse, but simply as a statement of fact.
It means that my writing and studying time is, realistically, reduced to weekends (the two days in which I also need to squeeze in household chores - limited, admittedly - and having some sort of social life). Which, in turn, means that time to write anything for pleasure alone is ... non existent!!
Q.E.D.
I haven't even mentioned the fact that the Proofreading and Copy Editing course that I signed up for in the summer has got as far as me sending in my first (mock) assessment - which received a creditable (apparently) B-, but has not been looked at since.
Seeing as Santa didn't deliver the extra two days in the week I requested (non-working days, obviously), I have had to re-evaluate my time management strategy. My thinking has gone as follows:
Parts of the OU course left to complete: Assignment 3 - write a tract on the benefits of critique and how it can change the way you view your work; Assignment 4 - write a proposal on something on want to write (!); Assignment 5 - write a 2500 word short story or a play (can't remember the running time); Assignment 6 - write a first attempt at the thing you proposed in Assignment 4; EMA - write the thing you proposed in TMA4 and stabbed at in TMA6 ie 4000 word short story, start of novel or 30 minute play. (Poetry is also included, but ... never again.)
Assignment 3 - if I don't know that by now, then what have I been doing on my 3 on-line forums and at my writing group for the past 18 months? Do I really need to explain it to you and be marked on it? Assignment 4 - yeah, I have proposals running through my head all the time, I just need time to sit and write some of them. Not having OU work to do would assist greatly in achieving this. Assignment 5 - nuff said, read previous. Assignment 6 - yup called a first draft, read previous. EMA - can I just get on with writing what I want to write, PLEASE!!
Proofreading course - possible source of lucre to either prop up writing career or subsidise part time work so that I can write. Also may give valuable connections in publishing world. Currently languishing untouched.
What would it be more important for me to finish? Add to that the fact that I want to stop fannying about and get on with writing now.
Where do we think the axe is going to fall?
Sunday, 30 October 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)