Christmas

I always do get stupidly excited about Christmas and this year is no exception, though I am a bit disappointed that it has gone all mild and silly. I was, literally, dreaming of a white Christmas. I have forced everyone in my family to listen to endless renditions of all the old traditional carols and they moan a bit, but tolerate it because they know it won't last long. The one bad thing about giving up teaching is that I have to work up until Christmas Eve. How unreasonable is that? Still, it should be fairly relaxed and I'll be feeling no pain once Justin has force fed me the amazing cocktails he produces. Normally I am remarkably strong about refusing them, but I think I'll let my guard down tomorrow. The tapas may be a bit wonky though.

My writing...?

I keep forgetting that this started its life as a 'writer's blog'. I seem to have gone off onto all sorts of tangents and really these are just my random thoughts. 'Random' being the operative word.



Well, perhaps that's because my writing is going, but only very very slowly. I flit from editing my original book (new title, now called 'God's Away on Business') to my 'memoirs', which are very nearly finished, at least ready to edit. Then there is my really (terrifyingly) serious book, but I need to get to Brighton to do some research, something I find rather daunting (research, not Brighton!).


I actually seem to spend more time on this website called 'authonomy', which is run by Harper and Collins, and is a forum for writers. It is unbelievably difficult for someone like me, but you basically have to persuade people to read and comment on your book, and hopefully put it on their 'bookshelf' (ie support it) so that the publishers will start to take notice of it. Since I tend to tell everyone how bad and rubbish my books are, I haven't made any huge steps forward yet! I have tried to be pushy, and contacted a few people whose books I really like, hoping they will like mine too. It's a sort of 'you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' type scenario. The complication comes in the form of being the most successful talent spotter - I don't understand this bit, but think it's rather like supporting someone in Strictly Come Dancing and almost 'betting' on their novel being really popular. I have read some dross, which is encouraging as it makes my book look so much better, but then I got some quite negative comments, which hurt, even though I know they shouldn't.


I am feeling disheartened. It feels like nothing will ever happen at the moment. No matter how many times I tell myself that my book is good enough to be published, the nagging little monster of self doubt rears its ugly head and says, spitefully, 'No it isn't'. This voice tends to win.



So, I am desperately trying to be 'positive', to tell myself that all this agony will give birth to even more creativity. Meanwhile, I continue to wash up at the pub - my hands look even more ancient than Madonna's, which is depressing. Although some kind soul from the 'authonomy' website told me you can get gel nails, so I may look into that. Also, my bank account is worryingly empty.

One piece of good news. I entered a 'Christmas Chillers' competition and was on the short list! Hooray. Sadly, they put my name down as 'Robert Stopford'. Typical.

Strictly Addicted

Okay, look, I'm sorry, but I have to do this. John Sargeant. You all know who I mean (dad, I'll phone you about it). In our unbelievably high brow, intellectual household, it's been all we've talked about for weeks. I even turn down all Saturday shifts (when the tips can double your wages) because of my shameful addiction.

I started off loving John Sargeant (JS from now on). For his cheeky face (strangely attractive), his hilarious take on ballroom and latin dancing and, most importantly, for his self deprecating humour. A quality sadly diminishing in our 'big yourself up' world.

More than JS, I loved Christina, whose care and reverance for her partner was touching. Whilst knowing he was basically hopeless, she choreographed dances to suit his bumbling, 'teddy bear marching' style to accentuate the humour. She even protected him by covering his ears from the judges vitriolic criticisms. So sweet!

But it was time for him to go. True, it is entertainment, but it is also about dance and when Cherie Lunghi, who could have won - holding a torch for the 'older woman' - was voted off for JS to stay, it had gone a bit too far.

I found myself arguing with my 17 year old nephew, virtually imploring him to stop supporting JS so that more deserving dancers could win. How pathetic is that? And why should I care?

I think because, ultimately, the entertainment is about the improvement of the dancers. This gives the show its edge. To watch people like Jodie Kidd, transform from 'ugly' duckling to graceful swan (she by the way, is also very funny and self deprecating, which is why I love her). If everyone simply minced around like JS, it would be a great comedy show, but not a dance show. Perhaps the BBC should run a 'worst of' series, with the Julian Clary's and John Sargeant's competing against each other. I would definitely watch that.

USA

I just got back from the US, visiting my ancient step grandmother, who is quite mad but amusing. She is the kind of person who says to people what you want to say, but haven't got the nerve. She can get away with it, because she is so loaded that everyone is out for her money, so they will take her rudeness. I find her funny, though would not like to be the butt of her unkind, if sometimes truthful, remarks.

Though not a political animal, I couldn't help getting swept up in the excitement of the election. Everyone was talking about it, from the black taxi driver: 'That Sarah Palin, problem with her is she's plain ignorant. Just got her passport last month, don't even know where anywhere in the world is'; to a party at a posh Italian restaurant after the result, who were doing a post election dissection. It got very heated. None of your British apathy here.

The prospect of anyone other than Obama winning was so depressing, it was almost unthinkable. But given the vagaries of the US system, which I have had explained to me so many times yet never understand, it was a worry up until the last minute. My mum and I skulked around, unable to actually watch the results coming in until we were almost certain what would happen.

I have to admit that McCain was extremely gracious in defeat; I guess he had accepted the inevitable some days earlier, despite the dirty tricks some Republicans seemed to be playing, such as advertising on the internet that Republicans were to vote on the Tuesday and Democrats on the Wednesday. It's sad to think some people might believe this. What is true, is that in three states, you have to have a driving license to be eligible to vote! I wonder who that excludes? Not your average Republican supporter. Funny that. The land of the free??

The amazing thing is that a black man is now the US president, in a country where race is still, undoubtedly, a thorny issue.

Ironically, I just happened to be reading a book called 'Mudbound' by Hillary Jordan. A truly grim book, but gripping in its horrendousness, and very convincingly written. It is set in the deep, rural south at the end of World War 2. Two soldiers, one black, one white, are returning to their farms (the black is the son of a sharecropper, so not the actual owner of his land). Both soldiers have seen a life beyond the bigotry and racism of their native land, which they find unchanged upon their return. The levelling effect of war had obviously not permeated to their home towns.

The US has come a long way since then. Let's hope Obama can live up to the extremely high, some might say unrealistic, expectations of the people he will serve, as well as the entire world, which seems to be pinning their hopes on him too.

For the first time in my life, I felt proud to be an American. I am not quite ready to wave a flag or sing 'God Bless America', but I can concede, though it pains me to express it in this way - 'Good job Obama'. I might even throw in a high five.

Tolerance?

I listened to a programme on the radio about the history of 'political correctness' this morning. Well, I wasn't actually listening, as I was busy trying to work on my 'memoirs', which sounds a very pretentious thing to do, since why on earth would anyone want to read them? But, to be honest, I am writing them because it is easy. I don't need to invent any characters or think of a plot. And I hope they are better written than some of the ones you find on the shelves. At least it was really me who wrote them! And at least I am not still a teenager, so I might just have something interesting to remember.

Anyway, I thank political correctness for giving us all something to kick against.

I am puzzled. Can someone explain why the word 'Eskimos' was deemed incorrect? Who made this decision? When I say the word 'Eskimo', it is not to insult anyone. It is just a description of a person who lives in a very cold place near the North Pole. As far as I know, the replacement was Innuits? Or has that, too, gone out of favour? I am genuinely baffled. And it's hard to keep up.

Sure, there are names that give offence, were designed to give offence, or at least evolved to give offence. The word 'nigger' springs to mind. That is very definitely a 'no no' word.

When I was first married, Rob's father worked for the 'Spastics Society'. Now, the mention of the word 'spastic' causes a dramatic intake of horrified breath.

When is a name just that? A name. A description of a state of being. Something with a definition. Why should anyone who is deaf, oh sorry, 'aurally challenged', or blind 'visually impaired' or short 'vertically challenged', object to these words. To call them something else is to try to disguise what they actually are. Who decides they are insults?

I actually heard a, so called 'partially sighted' person, object to this label with something along the lines of: , "Look" (pardon my pun, totally unintended), "I am blind, so don't go patronising me by calling me 'partially sighted'". Bravo.

Sadly, some of the terms do stick and become part of our vocabulary and you start to forget what you would have said in the days before political correctness. Cousin to political correctness is the bastardisation of our language. I know all the arguments about language being an 'evolving' thing, but do we honestly have to use 'initialised' and 'I'm good' and things which clearly are grammatically wrong? But I digress. Back to pc.


One time when Josh was about a year and a half, I caught him swearing to himself in the garden. He was saying 'fuck, shit, fuck, shit' loudly enough for our neighbours to hear! I admonished him with a 'Those are rude words, you musn't say them' , realising immediately, of course, who he had picked them up from. Nevermind.

He looked at me, little face all innocent, and said, quite simply 'But they're only words mummy'. What could I say to the wisdom of a toddler?

So, whilst political correctness is apparently going out of fashion, I wish to thank those who started it for giving me so much to ridicule.

I know, we should, of course, 'embrace' and 'respect' people who carry the banner of political correctness for the good of humanity. I am a great believer in the virtue of tolerance. I just hate people who are intolerant.

Hmmmm. What does this make me?

Dreams

The other night I dreamt that, when I woke up, I had thick black hairs all over my shoulders and chest. Not very nice. For me, or, for that matter, for Rob. He doesn't mind some body hair, but that might be taking it to extremes.

They say your dreams represent an aspect of yourself, but I can't figure that one out at all. Unless...... no, I can't even begin to contemplate that!

A few days previous to that, I had dreamt that there was a nice new box of chalk at work.

They have chosen me to write the menu on the chalk board, as I am supposed to have the most legible writing, but it is very hard to do, because the chalk they supply is only about 2 mms long. So I had made my case for new chalk. I know they are on a tight budget, but I felt this a small, and necessary purchase.

The sad thing was, when I came into work the next day, I looked for the new box of chalk and it wasn't there. It was then I realised that this had been merely a dream. I was more disappointed than you can imagine, though, since then, I think they have discovered someone with more legible handwriting as I seem to have been demoted from that duty.

So what is going on with my psyche? Does this signify a secret desire to return to teaching? Or a dangerous obsession with my work which even extends into my dream life; or is it perhaps that I have resisted all urges for some retail therapy, and even a new box of chalk has become exciting to me.

Does any of it matter anyway? I don't think so.

Age and tings

Forgive me if I seem obsessed by age, but when you get to be as old as me, it starts to happen!



I was writing a birthday card to a very old friend, who happens to be almost exactly the same age as me (well, I am just a tiny bit younger, but we won't quibble over a month). The picture was of three elderly women from about the 1930's. It said 'We may be older, but we're still pretty hot'. This is what I like to think, anyway. Call me deluded. I don't care.



If you are still quite young, you may be surprised, but, I actually enjoy middle age. There are some disadvantages, to be sure. Saggy and wrinkly bits and the odd dribbling disaster are not to everyone's taste. However, the confidence that comes with age is a bonus, and in some part, compensation for the less attractive attributes.



Mind you, when I say confidence, in my case, it has gone from 0% in my teens (when I was actually quite attractive), up about 10% in my twenties (still attractive but a little bit tubby due to years of child bearing), perhaps a little more in my thirties (getting tubbier, too much alcohol taking its toll), and now nearing the end of my forties (oh dear, refer to sags & wrinkles as above); it must be about 50%. So I still have a long way to go, and possibly not that many decades. What a pity if I reached 90 and still could not claim to have achieved at least 98% confidence.



My lack of confidence is particularly in contrast to the youngsters I happen to be surrounded by in my new job. I would say that they show a slightly alarming over confidence for ones so tender in years. In discussion with some of the 'oldies' at work, we decided that the morals we grew up with ie. 'children should be seen and not heard', and occasionally beaten, just for good measure, means we do not easily take part in work type confrontations; involving unfair pay, poor working conditions or any of the gripes we all have. We just accept this as the way it is.



Our strident youngsters, however, protest loudly at anything which they regard as 'unfair' and defend themselves and each other in a sometimes indiscriminate way. This does not always have the positive effect they think it should. People sometimes get pissed off, and feel like saying, 'For God sakes, just live with it and stop moaning'. Especially employers, who, let's face it, have the power to get rid of people who piss them off! Sometimes, a little more discretion, a little more deference, gets you what you want in the long term. Sure, your 'rights' might have been disregarded in some small way, but, there you go, that's life.



I have no doubt they think we are all a load of wimps, but, on the other hand, we may stay in our jobs longer, with our good old fashioned manners which dictate that we keep our mouths shut, put our heads down, and get on with it.



Jesus, I do sound old!

Gremlins

Does anyone else have a nasty little laughing Gremlin living in their computer? I will be happily typing away, lost in some pleasant reverie, when this manic laughter suddenly erupts. What the hell is so funny?

I would like to get rid of it, but think it's the kind of thing that will come back to haunt me, slowly sending me into a dribbling, paranoid wreck.

Still, it's good to know that my life is actually so devoid of worries, that this is the only thing I have to be stressed about at the moment. I expect I can learn to live in harmony with it.


Though, come to think of it, what it reminds me of is this creepy man on the latest Dawn Porter 'Free Love' series, who went to Odessa to 'find a wife' (having paid a tidy sum of £5000 for the pleasure).

I know I said I would never be nasty again, but I am making an exception in this case because I honestly believe this guy has the potential to do harm. He was so self deluded it was scary. Everything Dawn said to him, engendered a burst of demented, high pitched giggling. The kind that sets alarm bells ringing: 'Do Not Touch! DANGER!'. I'm sure it was not just the fact he apparently stank, had halitosis and dressed as if he was going to a football match, that put them off. Who could live with that laugh?

Then there was the business man. He talked about slapping and pushing around as if these were perfectly normal everyday occurances in a relationship. He had some conviction for trying to run over his ex wife or her lover or someone. He explained this away somehow, but Ukranian women are smart. They detected the simmering aggression. Money alone was not going to attract them to him.

Finally, there was the Christian policeman. Of the three, he was the one who most interested these women. They were particularly attracted by his job. They had obviously watched too many romanticised US cop shows. He came armed with a large box of jelly beans. To these, he attached a tiny Christian comic book. Who could possibly resist?



In the end, none of these men managed to bag a wife. But the women had a great time. They ate as much free food as they could cram into their mouths and drank as much champagne as they could knock back in one session. I expect they went home, alone, laughing.

Teaching English

I recently had the pleasure of meeting a very entertaining lecturer who was a great relayer of anecdotes, some of which were about her days as a primary teacher. She had various pet hates in pupil's literacy.

One was poor knowledge of punctuation. She talked about semi colons quite a lot. I was ashamed to admit that I haven't got a clue when or how to use a semi colon. I hope to learn this when I do my degree.

The other thing was when to use 'that or which'; a good question. When I was writing my book, the computer always underlined my 'which's' and seemed much more contented when I changed them to 'that's', but I just assumed this was an American vs British thing. Nine times out of ten, I stuck to my guns and ignored the green line glaring at me accusingly.

Too many adjectives was another no no. I agree with her there, though if you read enough Year 1 stories, you tend to rejoice at an adjective. 'I went on a spaceship with my friend Tom and Lucy and William and Rosa and we went to the moon and we saw some aliens and we made friends and we went home'. You get the idea. There's only so many of those you can take.

She despaired of teachers' attempts to try to get children away from using the word 'said' ad infinitum, and introduce them to more interesting words. I blushed again, remembering the big poster I put up in one of my Year 6 classes, which encouraged such things as: chortled, cackled, grunted, pleaded..... I think as a group we totted up about thirty.

She had been marking a child's story and came upon his attempt to do what his teacher had obviously taught him. Good lad.

It went something like this: 'Whatever you do, don't go into that cave' he ejaculated.

You have to admire him for trying.

I have my own supply teacher story of a gaffe which gave us hours of pleasure.

The brief was to write a letter to a favourite character, be it film or book. This was a very polite Year 3 child. Predictably, given the Star Wars obsession of the time, he wrote to 'Darf Vada'.

He extolled everything about Darf Vada. Whilst the spelling was clearly original, it was decipherable, until I came upon this bit of sentence: 'I likd your cok....' Now, I am sure he did not mean this literally, but I simply could not translate it. I realised he was trying to spell 'liked' rather than 'licked', which was my first guess and the cause of an uncontrollable onrush of giggling. Whichever he meant, the result was equally funny.

My children were all grown up and not being a Trekky, I was stumped. Jenny, my trusty teaching assistant, who had three young boys, had no such problems.

'Of course', she enthused, 'he meant to say': "I like your cloak".

Honestly, silly me.

By the way, I hope you noted my brave use of a semi colon.

Free Love

Tuesday night I skipped samba to nurse my cold and had an orgy of telly watching. Two out of the four programmes I watched, happened to be about sex, but I hadn't intended that pun!

The most interesting was presented by Dawn Porter, rather gorgeous with her big brown 'come to bed' eyes. Apparently, she is quite famous. She is doing a series, travelling the world, investigating how 'free love' works. The first place she went, inevitably, was California. Where else? She met a group of 'swingers' and attended a 'love-in' session, where basically two men appeared to be stroking her to get her relaxed. One of them kept determinedly to her face and hair, telling her he loved her, which caused her to giggle and say 'But you've never met me', which I thought was a good point. The other man, more intense, seemed to be pinching her arm, somewhat brutally. I felt he was as embarrassed as she was.

She ended up in a hot tub (knickers on) with a woman and her three lovers, all of whom looked as if they had been cloned from some test tube with 'chiselled, thin, long haired, hippy' on it. They discussed the joys, as well as the complications, of free love. Dawn was obviously trying to understand where that old sin 'jealousy' fitted in . I felt the answers to her questions skirted round the point, rather than tackling it in any way effectively.

Then onto Germany, where she joined a commune for a week. There was possibly a teeny weeny bit more humour with the Germans, but what struck me about both these groups were that there was very little laughter going on. I mean, sex is supposed to be fun, isn't it? Not some intense religious ceremony.

There was a 'talking' session, which are apparently very healthy, where you can let it all out in a controlled environment. That's as maybe, but it did not seem to help the poor woman who had been 'dumped' by her lover, who had now got himself a couple of others. He tried to reassure her that he still loved her too, but she did not look convinced.

The culmination of all this was a session in an 'oiling' room, where there were lots of candles and atmosphere, and you basically lay on the floor naked, had warm oil poured all over you, and then writhed around touching people while they touched you. OOOh dear. I couldn't help thinking about the snakes in that pit in one of the Indiana Jones films. Dawn, who was initially extremely nervous, actually relaxed, saying she had quite enjoyed it. Good for her. Even I could start to imagine that it might be quite nice, though I don't think I would be brave enough to find out. Am I just a frigid old woman? Or do I believe that monogamy is both possible and desirable? I'm not really sure.

Oh dear

I am clearly on a steep learning curve. Yesterday, I discovered two things about blogs.

The first is that ANYONE can read them, not just your 13 Facebook friends to whom you have given the 'address'! Oops. Major booboo. I shall have to keep my nasty little thoughts to myself from now on.

However, this might help me achieve the second thing I found out, which is that a blog should be no more than 300 words.

Job satisfaction

My university career may have been a disaster, but my work goes from strength to strength. Yesterday was the climax. Talk about job satisfaction!

First I met the new lady, Emma. Well, when I say 'new', she has actually worked in the pub for years, but had a break travelling and getting married, so she was just brushing up on her skills. We were both down the 'bottom' end of the kitchen ie washing up and making sandwiches, ploughmans and tapas when orders come in.

We hit it off, but discovered that both of us are passionate about washing up and peeling potatoes, as we can do these whilst contemplating life, the universe and everything. Basically, neither of us want any responsibility or any duty that has the potential to be stressful. So, things like making puddings we try to avoid.

There was potential for conflict as we hovered over the sink, waiting for the dirty dishes to arrive on the shelf, where we would grab them, rinse them, put them in the big industrial dishwasher, dry them and put them away. I know it might not be everyone's cup of tea, but we love it. However, being exceptionally mature adults, we did not fall out over who would do the washing up. We 'shared' it. (Emma also loves sweeping and mopping, which is good, because they make my back ache).

I think there was a tiny bit of jealousy on her part when I suddenly remembered that the dish towels, aprons and teeny little bar towel things needed to be dried after washing. Normally that just means chucking them in the dryer, which is not very interesting, but, because it was actually sunny, I could hang them on the line. Another of the things I love the most.

I spent quite a long time on this activity, marvelling at the neatness and precision with which I hung them, slightly worried about my analness (or is it anality?) but not enough to stop me. The wind was flapping them about in a way which could give a fanatical laundress an orgasm. I'm not quite that bad.

Lunch time arrived and no orders came, so our neat little row of tapas selection, sliced cheese and meats was left untouched. There was no washing up either. So, I asked the chef for a job. He pointed me in the direction of a rusty metal shelf, piled randomly with anything from Walnut Oil to herbs and spices and bags of suspect things from China. My task was to tear off the already ripped tin foil from each shelf and wipe them down, having first emptied them. Okay, not that inspiring, but I had asked. But what sent my heart fluttering was the next bit! Those three joyous words which every watcher of Blue Peter will know - Sticky backed plastic! I was to cover these shelves in it; all five of them! Now, that is worth an orgasm.

I set to work with the kind of enthusiasm every employer dreams his employee will exhibit. Emma was happy because she was getting orders, and washing up was beginning to appear.

Balancing on a wobbly stool, I set to work and did not stop until I had finished. My 'learning objective' (once a teacher, always a teacher) was to have improved so much in my sticking down tactics that by the end there would be positively no bumps at all (I set this after finishing the top shelf, which was slightly buckled in various places, but not bad for a novice).

About half way down I decided that I needed to have bits going up the back and along the sides of the shelf, to prevent leakages. I was a bit disappointed that I hadn't thought of this at the beginning, but tried not to beat myself up about it too much. This was more complicated than you might think. I was sweating and swearing as I wrestled with the sticky backed plastic - 'Bloody stuff, how the hell are you supposed to get it laid down evenly?' Such thoughts ran through my head. I was no longer quite so in love with it. I was worried that if you kept pressing it down and pulling it up, it would lose its stickiness. It did, a bit.

It took a lot more time than I had anticipated, but having put everything back on the shelves; wiped clean, labelled and 'classified', I stood back, admiring my handiwork. Then I dragged everyone who works in the pub in to admire it as well. There were many 'ooh's' and 'ahs' and I felt suitably praised and ashamedly proud of myself, like a child who has just finished a rather sloppy painting, but not wishing to damage its fragile self esteem, everyone emphatically praises it.

So, my recommendation if you require job satisfaction is: Sticky backed plastic.

My University career

Yesterday, I went to the first induction day of my 'creative writing' BA at University. I was looking forward to it, though feeling some anxiety, mainly about the fact that I am virtually geriatric.

I arrived early, despite the fact I ended up driving about half a mile down this farm track before realising, it was, in fact, just a farm track. Since there was nowhere to turn around, I was forced to back the entire way, which cricked my neck into an uncomfortable position and started the pounding headache which had been developing since I got up (at 5am!).

Having found where I should be, I lurked outside with a group of anxious looking youngsters, well, practically babies in fact, and resisted the urge to clutch them to my breast, with a kindly 'there, there, you'll be fine'. I knew exactly how they felt; even though I have been through several degrees, everytime I go for another one, I feel the same. A bit like childbirth really. I guess we all feel that in new situations. Unless you're a complete arrogant, pompous bastard.

But wait - they weren't showing any visible signs of stress at all, just chatting to each other, looking relaxed, laughing even! They were full of optimism, setting out on their first real journey as adults.

It was actually me, the sad loner old person, who was feeling the stress. In ten minutes they had made friends, while I hovered round the edge, not knowing a way in.

It quickly became obvious that a part time course involved much more work than my full time BA had involved several centuries ago. Back in the old days you could swan in for the odd lecture and your seminar. I even had a day time job when I was at Uni back then.

The chat from the student union representatives, made my temple positively pound with stress. They were extolling the virtues of the publishing and broadcasting suites. As a luddite, I try to avoid anything which involves computers, especially complicated things like photoshop. They professed it was all fantastically easy to learn, but I am sure they had never been challenged to teach a chimpanzee like me. This kind of thing is best left to the young. When my interactive whiteboard arrived at school, I nearly had a nervous breakdown and had to get some four year old to show me how to work it.

The lecturers, who rather self consciously introduced themselves, seemed rather nice, with a sense of humour and not, thank God, too dauntingly young (ie young enough to be my son) although there were a couple for whom this might have been possible.

Alarm bells began ringing even at the thought of the induction week. It alone required me to come in every day, for something vitally important. Back in the old days, induction week had meant getting drunk every night and going to parties. It didn't mean actually finding out about your course, getting 'taster' sessions, and learning how to use the library and computer suite as well.

I had already arranged several shifts at the pub, plus there was a funeral I didn't want to miss. The seed of doubt having been sown, I began to work myself into a sort of quiet hysteria, with tears bubbling just below the surface, waiting for someone to unleash with a kind word or gesture. What I wanted was to get the hell out of there.

As I drove home, between my bouts of weeping and self flagellation (I would never get anything published now. I am actually crap at writing and, worse still, a failure who gives up easily. Lash, lash) I began to realise that the commute alone would stress me out, just when I had arranged my life to be as stress free as possible.

I put aside the dramatic histrionics and decided to defer until the next year. I immediately felt better and rewarded my decision making skills with a glass of wine.

So, my university career began at 9.30am. It ended at 12.30am.

Can't remember what day it is!

Things started to get pretty dire in the old financial department so I decided to get a stop gap job, whilst waiting to find out if I will get one mentoring students. They are still swanning around on their holidays. Do I sound bitter and twisted?

So, phoned the local pub and was signed up to work in the kitchens. I have now completed my third shift and find I actually quite enjoy it. The work consists largely of washing up and wrapping knives and forks in napkins, something I find embarrassingly difficult to do. I am slowly being taught the ropes, bizarrely, many of the young employees are people I taught at primary school, and they are now teaching me!

The chefs don't scream at you or tell you to fuck off every second word, in fact, they seem quite calm. This might change in more frenetic times. Martin, the Egyptcian chef, is always trying to feed me. It's hard to resist the plethora of delicious smells. Am looking forward to having the chance to do stints as a waitress/bartender and chat to customers - always on the lookout for new and interesting characters, bound to be plenty of those, not least, the owner!

Considering the lack of ethnicity in this region of the country, our kitchen is a veritable United Nations. Aside from Martin, there is Paul (Bulgarian) and Alexe (French). The Hungarians have all left. Alexe is definitely certifiable and spends the whole time grinning and bursting into song. She can't wait to return to France and escape the enslavement of her au pair job.

Writing is going..... sort of. I managed to change 120 odd pages from the present tense to the past (my latest attempt to get 'How's it Going to End?' more attractive to agents) and then lost it all somewhere in cyber space. I was almost suicidal, but luckily I had printed out the new version (where has it gone????) so am now ploughing my way through it once again. Oh well, we artistes have to suffer for our art, clearly. My 'memoirs' are getting trickier as I cannot actually remember great chunks of my adult life, so shall have to either skim over them or invent them. Oh yes, and at least the world hasn't ended in a massive black hole.

Day 8

I phoned Josh yesterday because I am getting increasingly freaked out by the advent of this experiment to recreate the ‘Big Bang’, which is happening in some tunnel deep under the Alps, on the Swiss/French border. On Wednesday. This Wednesday. I suddenly thought how ironic it would be if, in their pursuit to find out how the universe began, they were to actually cause its end. I thought he might know something about it and be able to explain it to me, and this knowledge would set my mind at rest.

But he only laughed at me and said I was scared because I didn’t understand the way the Universe works. This is true, I neither understand, nor am I particularly interested, which is perhaps why I find it hard to convince myself these experiments are remotely useful. Why can’t we just accept there are some things we don’t know and might never know? Human beings are just too curious.

Obviously, I don’t want any of us to be blown up at any time, but I do feel, just as my writing career is getting going, that this is a very bad time for me personally to be blown into oblivion (well, and everyone else, I suppose). All that heart ache and soul searching about giving up teaching and following my dream. For nothing!

Day 7

As I took my aerobic enhancing dog walk, my heart pounding and my breath coming in rather alarming gasps, wondering , if I had a heart attack, how long it would take to find me and whether the dogs would sit guarding my dead body as it went cold, or trot off to eat some horse shit or find a stick to fight over, I forced myself to ponder on cheerier subjects. Walking always generates these kind of random thoughts.

Well, the weather was obviously not going to be one of them, but our samba drumming experience of the day before, was. Potentially, it was not a cheery venue, being a home for brain damaged young and older adults. These people, on the surface, really haven't got much going for them. They are locked in their sometimes twisted and gnarled, sometimes completely normal bodies. Their faces change expression constantly or remain totally impassive, vacant almost. It's hard to gauge how they feel and I had to stifle the tendency to talk to them as if they were morons. Take Cyril, who liked to shout and definitely had an eye for the ladies. As we played he shouted 'Shut the fuck up, shut the fucking noise up' and when we ended he would shout 'Play some more fucking music, fucking hell'. 'Just ignore Cyril, he's always like that', his carers assured us with a fond smile in his direction.

And Sammy who couldn't stop grinning as soon as she heard the music and kept shouting for 'more' everytime we stopped. A plea we found difficult to ignore. And the man who, apparently, rarely responds to anything, but ended up jiggling around in his wheelchair. By the end of the day, I felt supremely humbled, grateful for all I had and full of incredible admiration for the people that dedicate their lives, for very little money, to giving those members of our society whom most of us wish to ignore, lives full of love and humour.

Day 5

I am trying to be more 'pushy' and advertise myself a bit, which I do not find that easy, because my tendency is to tell everyone in the world how crap I am at things.

So, I sent an email to almost everyone in my email address book who might actually remember me, figuring the 'ripple' effect might go to work. Josh, my guru on how to get myself known (he's had plenty of practice with his band) assures me this is what I need to do.

I encouraged criticism, both positive and negative, on the premise that 'I have become so thick skinned that I can take any rejection' (on account of having been rejected so many times by agents).

Well, I got my first negative comment. I now need to change the email to say 'Please send only positive comments, my ego simply can't take negative ones at the moment'. What I'm asking you to do, is lie. Okay? Thanks.

Day 3

3rd September

Okay, so it's not going terribly well. The writing and the low carb diet. As my bank balance diminishes, my stomach expands. And the routine has already fallen apart.

This is what I actually did yesterday:

Got up at 8am & actually did climb steep hill with dogs (Well Done!)

Spent 2 hours on Facebook, then another hour on emails. Mainly deleting the 120 relating to financial matters ie. 'Are you completely broke?'; 'Need a loan?'; 'Want to know your credit report?'; 'Need help with saving?' etc etc. How do they know?

Then, to make matters worse, all the rest were along the lines: 'Get your diet back on track'. This is getting really spooky.

Now midday so had to eat, though not necessarily vast quantities of carbohydrates.

Sun out so tried to top up fading holiday tan, but Force 10 gale drove me inside.

Cooked risotto for supper knowing I couldn't eat it because I had used up my carb quota for the next 25 years.

3pm: Ate a few spoonfuls of risotto. Delicious.

4pm - 4.15pm: Looked at writing and changed one word in Chapter 5.

4.15pm: Ate few more spoonfuls of risotto.

5pm: Wrote list of things to do tomorrow:

1. Start low carb diet
2. Write
3. Get job

Not too much to achieve then.

5.30pm: Chastise myself once again for making decision to give up secure, well paid job just as worst recession in last two centuries sweeps the country.

5.40pm: Phoned pub and GOT A JOB!!! I can tick my list already! (WELL DONE AGAIN)

6pm: Had a celebratory drink.

Total writing time: 15 minutes (oops)

Day 2

2nd September





I decided I must make a routine, a strict routine, from which I never deviate.

Something like this:

7am: Get up and do exercises on large ball which makes me feel slightly seasick. Breakfast of pineapple.

8am: Write at least 2 hours without a break. DO NOT BE DISTRACTED BY E MAILS OR FACE BOOK.

9am: Seeds to boost my brain power.

10am: Walk dogs up very steep hill to get legs toned & aerobic workout without spending money on stupid gym fees.

11am: Do something practical/useful ie. housework or gardening. I will need a break by now. Maybe write 'to do' list.

12am: Back to hard graft.

1pm: Carbohydrate free lunch (seeds don't count cos they are super healthy). Phone someone & moan about difficulties of being struggling artist, sacrificing oneself for one's art.

2pm: More writing, with perhaps quick peek at e mails. Reply to urgent ones only. (What urgent ones? You idiot!)

4pm: Tea time, thank God. I'm exhausted.

5pm: More phone calls & tick things off list I've done. If nothing, add things I have done and tick them off. Stops me feeling a failure. Achievements then visible.

6pm: End of hard day. Relax. Cook (yippee, I can have some carbohydrates) & wash up. Celebratory drink as reward.

7pm - 10pm: Continue drinking & have stimulating conversation with Rob, thus feeding creative font ready for tomorrow. Watch Big Brother, X Factor or Wife Swap to understand how other people live and keep in touch with reality.

10pm: Take good book to bed. Don't get depressed because I'll never be able to write one as good.

Total writing time: 5 hours

Day 1

1st September

Oh no. The reality has hit me. Today is the day I would be going back to my old job, the job I have done for 8 years. The job I probably could have done for another 15 years and then retire. Comfortably. With a pension and everything.

But, instead, what have I done? Packed it all in, more or less on a whim, to persue my career as a 'writer'. And what qualifications do I have? None. Diddly squat. Zero. I don't even know what a preposition is, and the term adverbial clause makes me sweat with anxiety. I have even had my first book rejected so many times I can't count that high, but I expect it's a world record.

What a fool.

A purposeless, jobless, irrelevant, labelless (my new made up word) fool.