Neurotic mothers

I doubt I am alone in being a neurotic mother, but I felt I had to confess, because my babies are now grown-ups, so it's not like I can do something simple like going to check they're still breathing in the dead of night, or ensure they're strapped in their car seat or not going to choke on a rogue piece of carrot. These days I really have no control over them so potential disaster is waiting round every corner, on every car/plane/train/bus/bicycle journey. I have imagined every worst case scenario from being kidnapped by bandits in Guatamala to being eaten by sharks while diving, to being murdered whilst driving round the countryside lost. You name it, I've had it. If only I could keep them safe at home, wrapped in cotton wool and dictate what they can and can't do. Like today, for instance, I'd suggest staying inside because of the danger of falling trees (it's very very windy). I KNOW it's not right for a mother to lead their child's life for them, but I can't help it. Wendy Mogul in her very sensible book (though slightly too religious) book 'The Blessing of a Skinned Knee', says: 'The current trend in parenting is to shield children from emotional or physical discomfort. I can't blame parents for reacting with horror to nightly news reports about our violent, dangerous society, but many of them overprotect their sons and daughters. They don't give them the chance to manoeuver on their own outside of home or school.' Well, I do actually give them the chance, and, on the whole, they do it successfully, but it's ME that suffers. I wake at 3am thinking I've had a premonition, that my dream of a giant wave is actually a sign that my son, who is due to take a ferry to Ireland in a few days, will be swept overboard, or the whole thing will roll over and he will drown. And this isn't unusual, every day something happens which convinces me my children are lying there, dying slowly and painfully and I'm not there to help them. I got a phone call from one of my sons the other day. In the background was a curious intermitent beeping. 'Oh my God, are you in hospital,' was my immediate (slightly over dramatic) reaction, sadly spoken aloud. 'No Mother,' came the slightly disdainful reply, 'I'm in the supermarket.' Oops. That was a bit of a give away.

The importance of names

Just realising that the names in my books are pretty randomly chosen and I need to think more carefully about them. A name can tell so much about a person, their age, their social status, their country of origin...

I often think about the whole thing of double barreled names. It used to denote upper classness, but ironically, these days when parents don't marry but give their children both parents' names, the whole class distinction thing is being undermined. No longer can one guarantee the 'breeding' implied by double barrelness - whatever 'breeding' actually means? I love the levelling aspect of it, that you might, in fact, not be in DeBretts, but actually be (in very old fashioned speak) a 'bastard'. Hmmmm.

Anyway, I got to thinking about names because we've been looking for a builder in London recently and went on some website which allows you to find one (hopefully someone reliable and not about to rip you off - is that possible???) And I contacted a very nice gentleman called 'Rimantas Sukackas'. Wow. Try saying that a few times after a night out. It sounds like the heroine in a Mills and Boon novel. My favourite names are both men I actually know. Andrei Constantine Vaselescu - swarthy daggered foreigner comes to mind. And Tobias Alexander Wuttke. That one just makes me want to jump up and salute. Names like Horatio and Tarquin are just mad.

Anyone got any names which are evocative? Let me know. I'm looking for an older man's name, the whole package, I need first, middle (or two) and last.

Struggling with research

My book, 'Sanctuary House' (subtle plug eh???) is about a girl's childhood in a cult house.

My research has taken me in all directions, but most recently I've spent many happy hours looking at grim documentaries on youtube about Jim Jones (of Jonestown 'fame') and various other barking mad cult leaders, such as the Heaven's Gate one, whose madness shows in his manic eyes. If you want to become a cult leader, it's easy to get a step by step instruction manual cataloguing qualities which are most effective. I'm a bit worried I'm going to be reported by whoever it is that monitors computers and finds paedophiles etc. I know quite a lot about cyanide now, including how much you need to kill someone. Haven't yet found how to get hold of it, so if anyone knows, please tell me. I promise this is for the sake of my art only.

I recently realised how important thorough research is whilst reading a book about a cult (that's all I read at the moment, this one is fictional, like mine). I was enjoying it, the balance of tension and humour was good, the characters believable - it had all the hallmarks of a good read. Until the end, when one finally met the cult leader, who'd been deliberately kept in the background the whole way through, and he was this old man with lung cancer, alternately sucking on a Gaulloise (if that's the way you spell it) and his oxygen tank. Having lived through my stepfather's lung disease, I know that if you smoke when an oxygen tank is around you will cause an explosion. It's a complete no no. This mistake made me regard the whole book with less respect, and I began to question whether there might not be other obvious flaws. A pity, and just goes to show how one must be extremely diligent about facts. There's always someone who will know more than you and revel in pointing out that you got it wrong! So, thank God for google and youtube and the whole web bit. I may yet become a computer geek.

writing - the agony and the ecstasy and the selling oneself

I am restarting my blog though not creating a new one, as this is still 'the start of the rest of my life', but a different start, as soon I will be (in my head, anyway) a 'writer'. A daunting title and what does it mean?

For me, it means I've had some affirmation that my writing is at least okay because I'll have the piece of paper that says 'MA Creative Writing' on it. I know that doesn't mean I'll be successful, or even that I'm a great writer, but it does mean I've had some pretty in-depth writing experiences, shared my writing with some exceptionally talented people and had to try different genres of writing which have (hopefully) helped me to identify where my strengths lie.

We had a chat from an agent yesterday, who, astonishingly, came down from London for two hours. This is the first agent I've spoken to face to face, and what she said about the business was daunting - but then I knew that anyway. Particularly daunting for luddites like me, for whom the word 'networking' sends shivers down my spine. For no one can define exactly how one actually 'networks'. If it means twittering, then what does one say in the amount of words/letters you have to say it in? 'Read me I'm a good writer'? Give a link to my blog? Put one sentence at a time of my book, so over ten years they can read the whole thing? I don't think so.

When I look at twitter, I read what a dog might read looking at my book: 'dgjalgjna;g nea;haeoenavlna[tral'. Something like that. It just makes no sense to me and I never know where the original 'conversation' has begun, so it's like eavesdropping on someone in the middle of their conversation but never actually being able to determine what has gone on. I'm just not that twenty first century.

Still, I know I have to learn, as agents will look at a blog and assess ME on the quality of it, they'll look at twitter and how many followers you've got (in my case, under ten, because I never go on it and my name is something like 'Fivefour twothree' because every name I tried was used up. Not exactly awe inspiring, is it?

Any veteran twitters who stumble across this, please give me some tips. It could mean the difference between publication and starvation - well, that might be a bit of an exaggeration, but between publication and pub (which is where I currently work). I'd like the 'lication' bit as well, please.

Embarrassing bodies

I'm having a problem with something,and it is, why would people put themselves on a programme called 'Embarrassing Bodies'. I'm not saying the people who go on this aren't brave, and they are undoubtedly desperate, but what I want to know is, what are they desperate for? Is it for their two minutes on the telly? Or is it because of the problems they have? Because if it's the latter, surely it's less humiliating to go to their own doctor and get it dealt with confidentially?

I suppose the third consideration is that they're doing this for purely altruistic reasons, to liberate those with a similar problem and let them know they are not alone. And if this is the case, I can only applaud them.

I suspect it's a combination of the above, but if it were me, I would absolutely not want the entire nation to see me and all my bits. And I would not want to be permanently labelled 'Disappearing vagina lady', or 'Drooping face man'.

And you could be justified in asking why I watch it if I feel like this? I could blame it on my daughter, who finds it riveting, but in truth, I guess I'm as voyeuristic as everyone else who does.

Three drunken men

Friday night at the pub.

I didn't finish till 11.45pm as at end of shift, had to find space in the freezer for a barrel load of the hugest oysters I've ever seen, they were, quite literally the size of a large man's hand. These were part of an order for a private party - a shellfish fest. FOr a famous playwright whose play has just won many awards. So I didn't begrudge it.

Meanwhile, chaos was ensuing around me. Jason was banging on the piano, joined by Rob brushing his drums (remarkably well, considering his condition). Jane swayed and managed to stay upright, Fiona put on her busty washboard and with a rolling pin and a large metal spoon, pumped out some vaguely rythmical sounds. Stewart had previously been wearing it and managed to dislodge one of the bell nipples from a boob. If Johny and Els had been there, the kitchen would have been denuded of several tupperware dishes of baking beans and coriander seeds, plus cheese grater and wooden spoons. Instruments used on a regular basis.

I was, quite possibly, the only one who was stone cold sober; listening to Richard practicing a passage from the COrinthians which he's reading at his mother's funeral. Meanwhile, right in front of me, three large men were wrestling. Inevitably, one fell over, just missing crushing me to death.

A typical night really.

Keeping up appearances

A friend at work, Barbara, remarked yesterday that 'these things always seem to happen to you'. I'm not sure if that's true, but Saturday night, one of 'these things' certainly happened.

We had invited six people to dinner. Six people who hadn't previously been round to our house. For some reason I wanted to give the impression (to people who probably already know) that we are not slobs. No way! We live in military order, everything in its proper place, the carpets aren't encrusted in dog and cat hairs, there are not colonies of spiders inhabiting every room, I clean my windows on a regular basis, my fridge doesn't have unidentifiable objects moulding quietly in tupperware pots. So, what I can only describe as a frenzied cleaning session went on for days beforehand.

The first three duly arrived (five minutes previously we'd suddenly looked at the cooker and started brillo padding large wodges of grease off the sides)and we greeted them warmly. There inevitably followed the slightly awkward pauses, in between remarks about the weather, as we shuffled round, doing our hostessy things. Once drinks were poured, (and in my case, gulped down) we started to relax.

Then, into the room wobbles Flake, our fourteen year old cross collie dog. Flake is a darling, but she has some problems. She's deaf, dementia ridden, smells like a cess-pit and eats shit on a regular basis.

Dave was the first to notice. 'Oh look, she's got a piece of loo roll attached to her foot'. I went over and lifted the paw, and it suddenly dawned on me what it was. With the greatest subtlety, I pulled it off, but that tell-tale ripping sound echoed round the room.

Dave started to laugh. 'That's not loo roll. What's she doing with a sanitary pad on her foot?'

'Oh,' I said hesitantly, 'she gets them out the bin and chews them.'

Something which we take for granted as happening on a regular basis suddenly didn't sound very normal. And it was at this point I realised that the remainder, such as there was, would be on the doormat, in full view of the last couple, who hadn't arrived yet.

'Urghh, that's disgusting.'

What could I say? For us, it was a fact of life.

By then we were all rolling around laughing and Flake was looking embarrassed, but not sure why she should be.

'Thank God Colin and Barry weren't here to see it,' I shrieked, still curled up in hysteria. Dave pointed out they probably wouldn't have known what it was, but they were the ones I most wanted to impress and I would have been devastated.

By 2am I didn't care whether they thought we were slobs or not. My meal had been a success, though my mother-in-laws trusty 'shrimp mould' hadn't slipped out of the tin quite as beautifully as it should have done and resembled something akin to pink cat sick.

But still, everyone ate it heartily. And the 'incident' has been the source of huge amusement the length and breadth of the village.

April 30

Today I was waitressing. My heart sank. On a nice day, the waitress is required to ferry food up and down a slope, which is akin to walking a marathon (carrying heavy plates and often making 3-4 trips to fetch things like mayonnaise).

A couple of rather enchanting elderly ladies came into the bar to order drinks. One of them wore a turban, which both dated and 'classed' her (if one can use that word). I'm not talking about Muslim headgear, I'm talking about those hat/scarf things which remind me of my grandmother's bathing cap, resplendant with a bouquet of flowers. They quickly established they wished to sit outside, as they had their dogs with them (a meaty looking bulldog creature and a small terrier). The landlord, of course, perked up at this news, enquiring with genuine interst about their dogs, and inviting them to be brought inside to mix with the menagerie who actually live in the pub. However, they insisted on an outside table, and settled themselves on the bank, their dogs leads fastened under their chairs.

They were admiring a rather beautiful horse (I hate horses, but even I could see it as beautiful) which the landlord was leading around the car park in a horse whisperish way.

"Is that man the owner?" the terrier lady enquired, pointing not at Richard, but at another man who had led the horse into the carpark.
"Only, I heard him say 'we only got it today', and if he was, he would have said 'I only got it today'."

I admired her deduction skills and also her ability to eavesdrop - a skill I have honed over the years. Working in a pub is a useful place if one is interested in other people's conversations. I promised her I'd find out, and reported back on my next trip (delivering bread and olives and two mussels - this took me three goes).

I left them to it, keeping an eye on them from the kitchen door. It's easy to forget about people who are eating on the bank, although, as it happens, they were the only ones.

On my next trip up, I noticed them both looking down at something with rather agitated mannerisms. There is a steep drop down to the river on the other side of the bank, where a lady had recently fallen (I don't think she noticed much) and had to be rescued in an SAS style affair. As I got closer, it became obvious something was wrong. A dog was barking frantically and it turned out the little terrier had escaped from his lead and run down the slope, and was unable to get back up, because a 'shelf' of sheer earth which led to a slightly less steep path, was too high for him. I was wearing my trusty 'fit flops', which, whilst adding height and improving posture, are remarkably slippery, and my attempts to go down the slope far enough to reach the wretched creature had to be aborted because I was sliding down in an out of control manner.

'He's got a bad heart, and I'm terribly afraid he'll get too distressed.'
I worried it might be her about to have a heart attack.

'Hang on,' I said, 'I'll fetch Dave. He'll be able to help.'

Dave had been peeling potatoes all morning and was quite pleased to leave his post, followed by Mel, who wanted to see what all the fuss was about. We ran up and I removed my shoes. Dave held my hand, Mel held his belt, and I got far enough down the slope to grab the dogs collar and hoik him up, rather unceremoniously.

He seemed none the worse for his adventure, and the turban lady was so grateful I felt a brief flutter of heroism wafting over me. It made up for the fact my leg had been stung by vicious stinging nettles, which seem to be strongest at the start of their season.

Still, it earned us a decent tip and her eternal gratitude.

I can now add 'dog rescuing' to my long list of unofficial job descriptions, which include: taxi driving, counselling, babysitting, dogsitting, clearing up sick and dog shit... you get the idea.

Still, it's good to help and the warm feeling didn't leave me for the rest of my shift.

The pub - 28 April 2011

For the three years I've been working in the pub, everyone has tried to get me to write about the day to day shenanigans that go on there. So far, I have resisted, not wishing to upset anyone in the village where I live, knowing that anyone who reads this and also goes to the pub, will recognise themselves or others. But today I decided to change my mind and risk the ire of some locals. The place is often funnily farcical, being run by a landlord who is beyond eccentric! Often, we, the workforce, put up with the most ridiculous working conditions because of our loyalty to him, and to the reputation of the pub itself.

Today, we had a visit from the man who was going to sort out the dishwashers. Both of them (glass one in bar, and dishwasher in kitchen) have been in need of attention for some considerable time. The bar one had actively died on our most busy weekend (Easter bank holiday), and the one in the kitchen was making alarming noises, or at least, not making the noises it should be making, but pleading for help in a pathetic manner. As well as the breakdown of various 'mod' cons, we also ran out of oil. This means we have to rummage in the 'dog shed' (barn) for the WW2 Burka massive kettle thing, boil water, and wash up (very slowly)filling up bucket after bucket with the trickle that the burka plug allows out.

There was much intaking of breath as the kitchen dishwasher was examined. Some pink 'bacteria' at the top was pointed out, the stuff that drips on our heads when we have to clean right up inside it! I almost felt sorry for it, especially when the dishwasher doctor said, 'With proper care, this one should last forever, poor little thing', with a touching tenderness for an inanimate object (also just slightly alarming). He asked when we'd last had it serviced. Silly question. He recommended an annual check up. Yeah right. Richard hovered behind, making sarcastic comments, clearly worried about the expense which would almost certainly be incurred to fix the various broken and dying pieces of equipment. Not only the two dishwashers, but the oven, which had exploded into various people's faces ('I lost my eyebrows on it the other day,' Richard remarked, almost proudly, as if this was some sort of ancient badge of honour) when trying to light it first thing in the morning.

'Where are your vents?' The enthusiastic doctor man enquired, looking around.

'Uhhh, we don't have any, we've got that,' pointing to the extractor fan which we're not allowed to turn on all winter because it causes the fires in the pub to smoke. The dining area is often so hazy one can't see the other side. But it's lovely and warm.

Dr Dish was clearly unimpressed, and started quoting all sorts of health and safety information about why vents were necessary. Richard clearly didn't want to hear. I wouldnt' have been surprised had he covered his ears like a recalcitrant child in attempts to block out the awful truth. For a start, it is actually illegal not to have a vent (this delighted Richard, who loves nothing more than breaking the law whenever possible).
'Well, I've had them for nine years, and no one has said anything before.'
The man pointed to some black patches on the ceiling above the rebellious cooker. 'See those, carbon monoxide smoke stains.'

My ears pricked up at this. All pub employees seem to have 'shit for brains', as Dani so eloquently puts it, and spend hours wandering vacantly from place to place, unable to remember what we are about to do or fetch. We're like a load of zombies. In my case, too much alcohol could be blamed, but surely Henry, who's only seventeen, can't use that as a reason. It's worrying. Now, all of a sudden, we had a reason. We're all being slowly poisoned, our brain cells being picked off one by one.

Even Richard appeared alarmed, though he hid it well behind various jokes and bravado. Later, when the man had left and he complained that hearing a load of bullocks old health and safety statements repeated parrot fashion to him had cost him some £160 (jus think how many bets you could place with that!) he started telling us that he was considering putting a vent in one of the windows.

Hallelujah!

Loud motorbikes

I watched a young boy on a beautiful sunny day, when the birds should have been cheeping and life should have been full of joy, bombing around a field on his motorbike (I'm afraid I'm not enough of an officianado on bikes to identify it). Clearly, he was having the time of his life. He did the same circuit, over and over and over, which involved revving up the hill at top speed, thundering down it, hitting a jump, turning a sharp corner, and starting all over again. I wondered if a hamster going round its wheel gets the same pleasure.

The only problem with this scenario was the noise produced by said bike. It sounded like the largest swarm of bees, with their volume turned to top speed and then further - a real 'scratch your fingernails down the board' sound, that gets into your gut and wrenches it. So, such placid activities as a spot of gardening, a pleasant Pimms on the lawn or a group get together round the barbie, become impossible, all for this one lad's gratification.

Without wishing to sound like a foul middle aged kill joy, it does seem unfair that one person's pleasure can destroy the pleasure of everyone else living in the village!

The solution? I dont know really, we could moan to him, or wear ear plugs, or suggest he go to the local motocross field, which is isolated from humanity, or saboutage his bike. I've considered all of the above. Or, even worse, snitch on him to the local council, citing 'noise pollution' or some such other health and safety issue. But I hate people that do that!

There's always a positive to every negative. It has given me fuel for my moaning, which has gone a bit quiet of late.

Jeremy Vine

The other day on the JEremy Vine show (Radio 2) there was a scintillating debate about quicksand. A question similar to this: 'Why should one be scared of quicksand?' was asked and people encouraged to phone up with their stories.

It seems pretty obvious to me. Because it sucks you under the ground and you die???

The question should be 'Why SHOULDN'T one be scared of quicksand?'

Sometimes I just don't get it.

Weddings

I watched a programme last night where a lovely young woman went around the country talking to people about why and how they wanted to get married. She was planning her own wedding, and questioning her reasons for getting married (she already had a baby and was in a long term relationship) and was interested in other people's motives for tying the knot.

As well as finding out the why of marriage, she covered such things as the cost, the statistics of success for various age groups, wedding accessories..

Her first visit was to a girl of 16, who was engaged to a boy of 15. The boy's mother was very keen on the idea and didn't seem to think there was anything strange about committing yourself to someone for life at the age of 15/16. She'd been married at 18, she declared proudly, though 'it didn't work out', but this didn't dampen her enthusiasm one bit. SHe liked weddings, thought it was lovely and sweet. The girl's mother (who wasn't interviewed) was obviously more reticent and had persuaded them to wait until she was eighteen. Sensible woman. However, they'd already bought the dress.

I have to say, the girl was not the most articulate, but the boy was even less so. Also, as he chatted (if it can be called that) to the interviewer about what he found attractive in his bride to be, he was busy pinching her nipple. Cringe inducing stuff - we actually had to turn away. The girl seemed relieved that she wouldn't have to sleep with anyone else, she'd 'been around' she declared, not altogether proudly, but 'not as much as her fiance, you can't beat his score.' It turned out he'd had about twenty partners. For a fifteen year old, that is fairly shocking. Call me an old fashioned middle aged bigot, but.... To give her credit, the interviewer took everything they said in her stride and tried not to judge, though couldn't resist pointing out that the boy was much more 'under confident' (a code for moronic) than she'd expected.

Her visit to the fiance of a footballer was shocking in a different way. Her dress alone was going to cost something like £8000.00. Her ring would weigh down any hand, and she unashamedly said that if he'd got her a smaller one, she would have refused to marry him. So, a lot of love going on there. Her father seemed pleased to 'get rid of her', claiming she was very demanding. Really? I hadn't noticed!

Probably the most touching was the Indian lady who had resisted years of potential arranged marriages and waited till she was thirty to choose her partner. But she was still traumatised about leaving her parents' home and there was a touching scene of her brother, this huge, robed young man, weeping as they drove off in their marital car, having kissed goodbye to their family.

And the born again Christian couple who were saving themselves for their wedding night, who talked candidly (and quite hilariously) about how they controlled their obvious ardour. The woman confessed she couldn't wait to get her hands on him. I hope their honeymoon lived up to expectations!

I concluded from the various stories covered that for most people, marriage is a combination of social expectation, a chance to spend some money and have a big day devoted to themselves, and love, which did come into it, thank God.

Crazes

I was going through my junk recently, 'de-cluttering', and realised how many different crazes I go through which involve buying large quantities of equipment, most of which gets used for about two weeks and then stored, somewhere, for when I'm re-inspired with that particular thing.

I've always been a seeker of something I can be good at or a group I can be a part of.

My mother bought me:

- brownie outfit (though I inherited the 'sash' - I was a US brownie - from my sister, complete with all the sewn badges, which I then claimed as my own. Not a good start for the moralistic brownie pack);
- a guitar, (on which I learnt three chords, enough to play 'Blowin in the WInd' over and over again. I did have classical guitar lessons, but they were a disaster.
- a melodica, (I didnt' have lessons on this, but picked up a few paltry little tunes)
- a rock polishing machine (I am probably personally responsible for the increase of the ozone layer. That thing took months to polish rocks, which I hadn't chosen with any care, just picked up randomly around the city. Needless to say, the end result was a bitter disappointment).
- Endless small animals.

In adult life:

- I have enough wool to insulate our entire house. One day, I'll just accept that my knitting/crocheting days our over - I have done neither since I gave up smoking (Ironically, perhaps).
- Paints. Sacks of them. Watercolour paints, oil paints, acrylic paints. You name it, I've got it. For my 'art' and my paper mache craze, when I sat at the kitchen table constructing useless objects which were usually unidentifiable. Most of them rotted (my husband was so grateful) because I used the old fashioned paste, ie flour and water.
- Bits of broken crockery. For the mosaic I will create one day.
- Single earrings. See above.
- Keys. When I was teaching, these were good for stimulating children's imaginations. Teaching makes one a terrible hoarder, because having props is very comforting.
- Material. I do sew, on occasion, usually curtains or putting the odd dart in a too large garment. I have made my own clothes, but tents aren't very flattering on a slightly overweight fifty year old, so I've stopped. My latest acquisition of material was ear marked for the making of some bunting. It cost a fortune and now sits in a bag, waiting for the long winter months when I have nothing to do. Yeah, right, that's really going to happen!
- A cowbell, shakers and various other bits of samba drumming acoustic instruments.
- Another guitar. I learnt three more chords before I put it away.
- Endless bits of small gym equipment ie. weights, a large elastic band thing, something with handles you stretch, a huge ball.

Do I ever use them? Of course not.
But, the point is, I just might.

Moans

To my one fan/follower (thanks Jan) I hope you haven't felt abandoned. I have my moaning blog up and running on www.sstopford.blogspot.com But since no one reads it, I'll start including them on this.

So, my moan of the day is to do with the Inland Revenue. I expect lots of people have their complaints about this revered organisation, but mine goes as follows.

In January I got a huge tax bill which I couldn't pay all at once, so arranged a direct debit.... so far so good.

After a month, I got a letter saying I hadn't paid my outstanding tax and I must do so immediately. I phoned up straight away and was told to ignore this letter, they went out automatically until the full amount was paid.

I did wonder why they couldn't give you a code or something which told the computer that you had arranged an alternative form of payment to save these letters going out, but, satisfied with what they'd told me, I ignored it. The following month, I simply threw it away without even opening it. Big mistake.

The next month, I got another letter, which I opened. This threatened me with all sorts of horribleness if I did not pay up IMMEDIATELY. It also warned me that the bailiffs would turn up within days and this might 'cause embarrassment', not to mention distress!

I phoned up again, quite distraught and furious, but as their systems were down, they could not access my account. They didn't really know what to say when I asked them what I should do if the bailiffs appeared at my door that day.

Enraged, I wrote a letter to them, asking why on earth they didn't sort out their computer system so that these letters did not come automatically, as well as having a diatribe about how distressed such letters could make people, especially elderly or vulnerable people. Apart from all that, it's a total waste of money - how many people get these letters month after month?

I got a very apologetic reply, explaining that whoever had set up the original direct debit had basically cocked up and they should have told the computer to leave me alone. I wondered why, after two phone calls, they hadn't rectified the original cock up, but couldn't be bothered to write and ask them that.

The irony was that, accompanying the sorry letter, was another letter extolling the virtues of paying ones tax by direct debit. Yeah, right.

Pantos

I was recently involved in a panto. I was coerced into it initially, with great reluctance, knowing the appallingness of my acting skills. 'Wooden' summed them up, plus a lack of memory so profound I was having difficulty learning my lines. All 3 of them.

However, as the weeks got closer to the actual performance (and we got our costumes), I began to feel a certain swell of excitement. Plus, the acting ability in our village was phenomenal. I can't believe how much talent there is when you scratch the surface of such a small community.

In the end, it was a triumph, and from behind the stage all we could hear were endless guffaws of laughter. Everyone said it was what a village panto should be; full of references to local things, quietly mocking local personalities and generally making total tits of ourselves and everyone else.

By the final performance, even I, who initially had stood like a zombie delivering my words read from a script, was beginning to improvise. I doubt I'll have any Hollywood agents knocking at my door, but I am definitely a convert and ready and waiting for the next one. Though everyone in the world now wants to be involved. We might have to audition!

Funnily enough, an American friend who saw my facebook status after it had all finished:
'No panto, no life',
asked me what a panto actually was.

I explained and discussed with a fellow English/American why she thought they don't have pantos in the States.

I agree with her analysis. 'British men love dressing up as women; American men don't'.

Steve

Has anyone else with AOL noticed, on the home page, a guy called Steve, sitting, on a stannah stairlift, waving at you? I've inspected him carefully and he scares me. He's an engineer for the company, but he has an alarming twitch in his left leg and a smile that catapults across his face and then disappears, before it has a chance to properly work as a smile. It looks like he's a prisoner in the chair, a piece of tape runs either side across his lap. Does he need rescuing? I'm sure he's way too young and fit to actually need a stannah stairlift.

I'm wondering whether AOL, in some voodoo mystical way, knows that Rob is now 60 and may, in the future, be a prime candidate for a stair lift? Spooky.

More lane rage

I've just resumed my swimming regime, after a break of over a month. Not a day went by when I didn't feel guilty about abandonning my ritual, but my excuse was I had a cough and cold. In reality, it was the warmth of my bed which lured me to stay in it. All its fault! Naughty bed.

Anyway, I had pushed the dreadful memories of lane rage deep into the innermost caverns of my psyche, only to have them dredged up again the minute I stepped into the pool (or at least, 5 lengths after I did).

I was feeling pretty damn smug. It was Sunday morning and I actually had to wait for the attendants to open the ladies changing room to let me out. I was that keen.

The pool was entirely empty. All mine. You can't believe how good that feels. I chose the lane nearest the steps and plunged in and immediately set about my routine, which is fairly dull, breast stroke up and down, obsessively counting lengths. I was slightly put out when a group of men emerged from their changing room, spilling out like so many caged animals, but they very politely left me alone and chose other lanes to occupy.

So, I was lulled into a sense of false security, and even felt quite content, until I saw 'the enemy' approaching. A small, large lady, donning goggles, stood by the bar at the shallow end, RIGHT IN MY PATH. I was outraged, couldn't believe it. Surely she would move before I trawled right into her.....?

But no, she stood her ground, not an eyelash was batted, which meant I had to swerve to avoid her. Surely these are not the rules? To make matters worse, she then claimed my lane as her own, and proceeded to plod along, at a very leisurely pace, which meant that I had to veer to avoid her. At one point, just as I pushed myself off from the side to turn into length number 28 (where she was having yet another little rest) she started to follow me, but, of course, I didn't realise, because she was behind me.

Though it was not intentional, but simply because the stupid woman was following me too closely, I was quite pleased when I managed to kick her in the head. Hard. It felt good, and of course I could rest assured it had been an accident. I longed to manufacture a few more of such 'accidents', just to make my point. Or poke her goggled eyes out. I had to make do with mentally forming her into a voodoo doll and stick a great deal of pins in her.

I haven't heard of a drowning at the local pool, but I didn't see her when I went again today. But the big fat man made up for her. He did exactly the same thing. What is it with people? I'm beginning to feel persecuted.

Slavery

I was waitressing the other day at the pub, at a table with two young boys, who had ordered a seafood platter, which I thought was very sophisticated of them. As I removed their plates and wiped the debris of crab, prawns and mussel detritus, one of them looked up at me and asked in a very serious voice: 'Are you a slave?'

That was quite a hard question to answer. It did make me chuckle.

I wish I'd said yes.

New Year again

What goes around comes around, so they say, and here I am again, pondering resolutions. I reread what I wrote last year and basically have the same resolution, which I never achieved, so don't know exactly why I'm bothering to try again. This time it's 'drink only four times a week and limit my drinking to 3 glasses of wine.' I know what Zoe will say. 'YEah, right Mum'. Such faith she has. But I actually believe I can do it, and now that I'm 50 I need to start conserving as many brain cells as possible.

Anyway, I am in contemplative mood, thinking about Josh sitting on some paradise beach in Goa, but also experiencing the English form of paradise in a crisp, sunny winter's morning with frost underfoot and everyone in the world walking their dogs and looking jolly.

So, life is good and I have a surprisingly optimistic feeling about 2010, which is most unlike me, because normally I live my life in fear and trepidation.

This is what I want from the coming year:

I would like my book to be published, or at least on the way to being published.
I would like Zoe to achieve her ambition to pass her course with a merit and find herself an interesting/challenging job.
I would like Yes Sir Boss to find a manager and be given the recognition they deserve.
I would like Ben to get back to Antigua and learn more Spanish and fulfil his dream to own a salsa bar so we can go and see him.
I would like someone to start buying Rob's photographs to give him the confidence to continue.
I would like peace in the world, the end to poverty and deprivation, the end of global warming... and a very small pay rise.

I'm not asking much, I know.

I just hope I'm not tempting fate.

Creativity

Strangely, I have been silent on this blog since my 4 wonderful days on an Arvon course, in the wilds of Shropshire. I think all 16 of us would agree, that creativity is incredibly exhausting, though also exhilirating, exciting and frustrating.



What I learnt....!



That there are a lot of unbelievably (scarily) talented writers who are not writing for money, but for pleasure. It seems a shame they can't share their skill with the world, but then, I mustn't assume that, just because that's what I want to do, it means everyone else does too.



Our tutors, one of whom had left three very young children at a busy time of year, the other who had chronic insomnia the entire time, were supremely talented people, who 'held' us, coaxed us and bullied us into doing things we didn't necessarily want to do (or even contemplated we COULD do). There was a lot of soul searching, tears and revelations. I felt this a compliment to them, that we would allow ourselves to show some of our inner feelings, perhaps repressed for years, because we felt safe in their hands, and in the hands of the group. I was pleased when they said we were one of the most together groups, that egos were left at the front door and we gelled well.



Since then, I have been writing like a demon, cracking on with my second book and now knowing what to do with my first to make it more publishable. So, not only was it rewarding as a writing experience, but I got some really practical help.



Christmas has inevitably got in the way of this gush of creativity, but I now feel far more optimistic that 2010 might just be my year (whatever that means).



Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to anyone who reads this. And thanks for putting up with my rants and often drivel for this last year.