Manuscript or how to be a ponce*

When Kylie Fitzpatrick ( 'The Ninth Stone' inter alia) agreed to edit my m/s and mentor me I found myself referring to her - in polite conversation - as 'my editor' - like the ponce, always on the phone to his editor, in the film of  'Educating Rita'. Similarly when entering the half-sleeve t-shirt-clad emporium that is The Apple Shop I found myself talking to a young chap called Ed, they're all named Ed aren't they? and telling him I needed a MacBook Air to write my novel. He looked at me as if he'd misheard and seemed unable to cope with phrases which didn't contain terms like e-mails, downloads, netflix, speed, apps and megabytes (or is it bites?). He seemed somewhat bored when he showed me Pages. Not enough challenge for him. Then again maybe he too thought I was a ponce.

The day my website went live I showed a friend how part of it was dedicated to my tutoring. She glanced at the site and my business card and muttered 'Writer and teacher?' 'Well I do write' I said, aware that she defintely thought I sounded like a ponce.
After a struggle against the events in my late mother's life, from April 2014 onwards, I do finally have a full manuscript ready to deliver to my editor. ( Well almost.)Doesn't that phrase sound like I really am a writer? In fact, this time around, I'm pleased with the copy. My editing has worked, the suggestions Kylie and other readers have made have been truly helpful and all I need do now is take out about 50,000 words - it's far too long!

I don't believe I'm too precious about my writing and even I hate long novels but I really do have to slim it down, keep the pace and lose repetitive, humdrum minutiae. I'm roughly half way through this major cutting back and I seem to be adding to the word count rather than cutting it down.
I'm hoping that by the time I get to the last third of the novel the task will become more evident and easier. The last third is only just in its second draft whereas most of the whole is in its fourth or fifth draft and is a tighter read.

It so happens I'm taking heed and doing as two GPs have advised - resting. This gives me the headspace, excuse and time I need to revise the novel. It's naturally very time-consuming but even I, an only ever once-published debut author, can see, to misquote 'Educating Rita', my manuscript could get into a pile of 'to be published' writings. This is the first time I've felt that level of confidence about my work as a writer. It's also the first time since April 2014 that I've had chance to read the whole and simply concentrate on the m/s. But the more I read the more I see how all writers have their weaknesses and my errors may well be getting fewer in number. I sense I'm crossing the rubikon from student writer to something resembling an author. I may just be getting ahead of myself, of course. Or perhaps I am just being a ponce. Either way I truly do sense that I've progressed. Reading, reading, reading that's the key. And when reading it's good to set your own work of fiction against published novels. Maybe, one day, my work truly will be seen by a wider audience. ( If that doesn't sound too much like being a ponce.) I'm already making notes for the sequel - I appear to be in for the long haul! Ponce!

* wannabe

Memorial

When I last wrote I was designing the order of service for mum's funeral. It was with some luck that she had told me her favourite hymns, tunes, songs for the choir and organ and best readings, long before she became ill. Her vicar, Rev Dave Wills, knew her well and we had a choir for mum's funeral service.The personal tributes to mum were warm and the service was, if not happy, very personal and meaningful.

The tributes we received ran to many sides of A4 and the cards, donations and support were received with heartfelt thanks. My oldest schoolfriend was an absolute brick. We had to travel to the Midlands several times before and after the funeral and we are going again this weekend for the memorial service. My friend has been so supportive throughout.

It's been a shock to me, therefore, that some so-called friends have absolutely no idea how I'm feeling, my schoolfriend does, but I have received some very self-centred comments from a couple of people I know, but now don't wish to know from hereon in. Aswell as dealing with funeral directors, family's thoughts and wishes, order of service, eulogy, flowers, donations, caterers and the funeral party I succumbed to an infection which needed three doses of antibiotics. I hardly slept for about seven weeks. My GP told me it was the shock of mum's death that had weakened my immune system. I have done as they advised - stayed in, stayed warm and hydrated, got a great deal of rest and built up my immunity by eating nutritious foods. I don't have a bad diet and during all of this illness and bereavement I was told my blood sugar, blood pressure and pulse were good.

 I explained I

wasn't exercising much as I was supposed to be resting. I take paracetamol when I need to and stay off caffeine, spicy and acidic foods.

Throughout the ten weeks since mum died I found the strain something I could endure, like anyone else in a similar position, and I managed. Until, that is, I received these remarks from people who seemed hell-bent on ignoring my needs (simply ignoring me would have been good.) I cannot understand why someone recently bereaved and on medication needs to receive unkind texts. It has made me feel really quite dismissive of them. If people can't be at least understanding they should remain quiet  -  and they are not worthy of being thought of as friends. It's quite easy to defriend someone on facebook but less easy in the real world.

Since these comments two other people I know have been bereaved and I've not noticed they have  complaints about receiving nasty remarks from people they know.

My true friends have been kind and understanding. They have advised me to keep my distance from those who are clearly so unhappy they can't even support me at a time of bereavement. I've had lunch out three times this week with good people. When my father died - back in 1993 - one of the churchwardens said to mum that she should spend time with people who make her feel good. This was excellent advice. I certainly don't intend to spend my time with self-centred miseries. I was quite upset at their unhelpful remarks but now I see it as a liberation. I don't need to spend any time on them and life is too short.

Be with people who make you feel good - that is the best advice. 2017 is a new year. Time to cut the cord. It's mum's memorial service on Sunday and ten weeks since she died. She would never have been so unkind as to make unpleasant comments after someone had been bereaved. That's a fitting memorial to her.  I've learned a lot about people since her death.

My next post will be much lighter as the full manuscript for my novel is being delivered to my editor. 

Hard work has its own reward. 

Happy new year - if it isn't a tad late in January for such sentiments! 

For mum

In my last post I wrote we were seeing mum in her nursing home, following her massive stroke in 2014, every three to four weeks. Suddenly that packing, unpacking, repacking is no more. Quite unexpectedly, at 8 pm, on Friday 4th November,  mum suffered a fatal stroke, became unconscious and died, within the space of an hour. She wouldn't have known a thing, my aunt, a retired nurse said. She had taken mum's pulse just before 8 pm and just after. By 8.10 pm the strong beat had stopped. Her long life had ended. I wasn't there but had been quite concerned about her, exactly a month before, and had been anticipating my brother's phone call. He had been talking to mum at 6.15pm that Friday evening. She'd had her evening meal then had a little sleep as he said goodbye. By the time he got into his house the nursing home were ringing. Mum's breathing was abnormally laboured; he had to go back to see her. When he got there she was already unconscious. Even if I had been there her passing was so sudden she wouldn't have known I was there.

When I last saw mum on October 4th she was more frail than I had ever seen her. Speech was an effort, as was eating. I knew, instinctively, life could not be sustained much longer. As a consultant had said, almost two year's previously, mum's body had done its work. I took comfort from those few simple words. Elegantly, practically and succinctly put.

On hearing the news from my somewhat shaken brother, my words to my husband, midst the inevitable tears, were that she was such a nice person. All the tributes we've received have used phrases like 'kind', 'gentle', 'a good Christian woman', 'wise' and 'independent.' My short letter to mum, written later that night - what I wanted her to know - reflected everyone's feelings. My brother and I have been lucky with our parents.

Dear mum,

You were a lovely mother. A mother who wanted her children and always put us first. You lived without fanfare but enjoyed the good things. You appreciated classical music, impressionist paintings, concerts, the theatre, plays by Rattingan, the anarchic humour of Peter Cook, a sherry and good conversation. You were a wit. You liked being taken out to restaurants, on holidays and day trips. And you always enjoyed all these things without moaning nor talking incessantly about yourself.

Rev Dave Wills described you as a good Christian woman. You cared about others but you were wise. Some sob story wouldn't have passed muster with you - but genuine suffering always got your sympathy. And you showed you cared by thought, word and deed, for many years working with severely handicapped young people. 

It's been a hard two and a half years since your stroke, hasn't it mum?  You were never quite as bright again. I thank God you were rarely in pain and could still enjoy your meals. I hope God is taking care of you now. 

God bless and thanks for all your kindness. Ian and I have been very lucky children.

Goodnight mum. Goodnight xxxxx

2010 - Life Begins

It struck me, now many of my friends are retired or semi-retired, how different our lives have become. Mine, especially, I feel. Since 2010 I have, instinctively, it seems, carved out a new life without needing direction nor too much guidance from elsewhere. I remember a friend saying to me, within hours of leaving my place of paid work for the final time, 'So I bet you feel wonderful.' I knew I should have felt wonderful but I didn't, not straight away. I felt the same as I always had. It hadn't sunk in. The pattern of my life was still ... get up before 7am, take painkillers for the inevitable headache brought on by, I now see, chronic over tiredness, hit the road about 7.15am, sit in traffic and hopefully enter the prison ... ahem... the school gates, about 8am. Then the day would truly begin. I felt I'd already been at work for two hours by the time official tasks took over. And even now, six years later, I still have to go to bed at 10pm. I'm making up for all those years of sleep deprivation. I certainly don't leave the house at 7:15am anymore and I don't have a perpetual headache, but I find I tire relatively easily. In other words I like lots of rest.

But in 2016, my daily routine is far less prescribed, yet I feel constantly busy. We have been on five holidays this year plus trips up to see mum in her nursing home every three to four weeks, so there's been a lot of packing. Beyond that it seems unbelievable that I managed 32 years of, as I say, I now see was, chronic over tiredness. Something I guess anyone working in the NHS will recognise. These days I get up before 9 am, but open the curtains earlier, so it appears we are up by 8 o'clock! Thank goodness for sleep-masks, those things you put over your eyes to block out the light. Why do I open the curtains? Well-there are many reasons. 1)We have so many deliveries it seems sensible to appear to be up in case there's a banging at the front door. 2)We have had builders, plumbers, window cleaners, fence repairers here more or less every week since the summer and they tend to arrive around 8am so it seems polite to appear to be ready for them. 3) Richard works very early one morning a week. So we are both awake. May as well open the curtains...

On Saturdays and Sundays I generally leave the curtains closed a little longer but I like to listen to Rev Richard Coles and Paddy O'Connell at 9am, on Saturday and Sunday respectively, over breakfast. Yet for all this getting up later than I did prior to July 2010, when I got an 'early retirement/ voluntary redundancy' package, I'm often in bed by 10 pm, sometimes even 9pm. Sounds crazy but I do read, reasonably rapidly, once there. I'm trying to wean myself off watching catch-up tv on the ipad as the backlighting does keep me awake. But these activities are new to me. A luxury I can afford now my life isn't reserved for going out to work.

In more sweeping ways my life is so changed I would hardly recognise myself, I feel, from the worker I was for all those years. When I first 'retired' I made myself a timetable. Can you tell I was a teacher? Did I stick to it? Did I heck? Yet I felt the need to put structure on my new-found freedom. I worked at our local Cancer Research shop as a volunterr, I did some tutoring at Kip McGrath and went away. Not on the round-the-world-cruise one is supposed to take in 'retirement' but off to Spain.
We did many private views, bought fine art from semi-famous artists and prints from more famous ones.For about two years I cleared the house and sold my wares at car-boot sales. And we had the builders in. By builders I mean: double glazing chaps, (to replace the 125 year old sash windows which rattled and steamed up by turns), electricians - a father and son who provided us with central chandeliers in our main living room, new side lights in our bedroom and my workroom, new kitchen ceiling and bathroom ceiling lights and sockets for a new electric cooker and various plug-ins in what was called 'the breakfast room'. We had new garden fences, and,very recently, new water pipe installations which required the temporary destruction of our many steps to the front door and much of the patio. One of the works I enjoyed most was turning our downstairs wetroom into exactly that-rather than the lumber room it had become. Our breakfast room is now almost a kitchen - with new work surfaces, space for a food processor, a fast-acting plug-in hob and excellent fridge-freezer. I want a new sink in there too-if we can find a plumber to do it. But enough of these building tasks. I haven't spent six years doing the house up. (Well I have and I'd still like better internal doors out to the revamped kitchen - but that may have to be put on hold. Can't get the staff.)


I was very pleased when 'my editor' said she was really engaged in my last 50,000 words. My novel seems to be doing what it should be: involving the reader. So that's a huge change for me. Am I turning into a writer at long last? I certainly read more and take note of the perfectly formed sentence. That's a huge change from my years as a paid worker. All I could manage was a Ruth Rendell murder.  I was very poorly read. In the early days of  retirement I went to the cinema more often than I had imagined and out for cappuccino at our favourite riverside hostelry as often as we could ( almost every day at one point). And I went swimming. But then, as now, not often enough. And now I'm making endless felt and ribbon-swathed Christmas decorations to sell at market stalls. I arrange most of Richard's art sales too. So, yes, I'm constantly busy but am doing what I choose, rather than what has to be done. I don't yet feel the need for a cruise. I'm enjoying pottering, writing, creating, cooking - yes, cooking, and, best of all, time to be me. I'm lucky I managed to leave work while still relatively young and fit. There's nothing like the freedom. I embrace it. So much to do and enjoy. My life began in 2010. Carpe diem!

Follow the crowd?

There's a line in 'Passage to India' by EM Forster - I paraphrase -
                        '... and it will work its way to its end...'
Elderly Mrs Moore, the voice of reason, tolerance and experience, speaks these words. During her visit to India she is horrified at the effects of The Raj; petty officials and their rudeness towards native Indians. In her visit to the fictitious Chandrapore she cannot believe how her son - the magistrate - seems so ingratiating towards the English 'rulers'. She believes he and they are treating Indians badly. Her words '... it will work its way...' refers to her son's fiancee's accusation of rape against an Indian doctor. Mrs Moore believes the 'machine' ie 'the Brits' will take the rape case '... to its end...' British justice will see the Indian punished.

In fact the young woman sees, before it's too late, that she has been buoyed up by the British establishment in bringing a charge of rape. But it won't stick. In court, under oath, she retracts her accusation.British women call her a bitch. She is alone. But the Indian is free '... without a mark on his character...'

Run with the hare or hunt with the hounds - or go your own way? Accuse folks who are 'not like us'?  Is this what is happening to England and Wales as we hurtle towards Brexit? Are some folks on a kind of band wagon which suggests life outside Europe, without immigrant workers, will bring back a nation we love and feel pride in?

I don't personally understand a lack of enthusiasm for migrant workers. If people do a good job and speak English, since I speak nothing but English, pay their taxes, are law-abiding and help get things done, where is the problem? But then I was lucky. I had educated, compassionate parents who taught me not everyone had our (few) advantages.

 I was brought up reading 'Spotty' and 'Ferdinand the Bull'. My father got me reading these stories when I was pre-school age. The tales celebrate difference. I couldn't have analysed the stories as such  aged three or four but I felt for the 'spotty' rabbit who was different from the rest of his family. I liked Ferdinand who preferred to smell the flowers rather than go into the bullring. Spotty and Ferdinand were different. But one didn't dislike them.

When I was nine or so I befriended a girl who was 'poor'. She had no mother and was friendless. It cost me nothing to speak to her and I never cared whether I lost friends as a result. Perhaps I should have cared whether I would lose friends but I never felt allegiance to people who were unkind to others or talked about them behind their backs. I doubt whether it's because I'm a goody-goody. I never felt the need to follow the crowd. And I was brought up to value difference.

While it seems, in some quarters,  migration has to be tackled - although I think there is a sickness, a fever surrounding this issue in Little Britain - it's a passing fad. It will 'work its way to its end' (I hope) and be seen as a hollow tirade. Britain cannot cope without migrant workers.

Nor can Britain cope with poor housing, a run-down social services, an over-stretched NHS nor underfunded schools. While the Tories battle on who will stop them running down a welfare state put in place to help those in need? Who will stop them underfunding services? Where is Labour?

The rhetoric about migrant or foreign workers, nastiness towards 'others' who live here, Amber Rudd, Brexit, Theresa May and infighting in both Ukip and Labour make me feel shame for our nation. Never before this year have I felt so unrepresented by those who are elected to represent us. We are the fifth largest economy in the world. Can we really not build more affordable housing or pay for our services? Migrant workers are not people we should be blaming. An unequal society is - I guess - at the root of the problem. If we are such a rich nation why are so many feeling so aggrieved? ( I know why. I want to know how it happened.)

We are living in unsettling times. The prevailing political atmosphere will work its way to its end.
Let's hope for a truly inspirational political leader some time soon. As a nation we are running on empty.

Young Faces of Britain

Doesn't it give everyone, sportif or non-sportif, a boost to see young Olympians, the soon-to-be married, Laura Trott and Jason Kenny, winning and speaking on the TV? Not only do they work hard, not only are they highly successful, not only are they energetic, full of vitality and health, they are modest, positive thinkers and a joy to listen to. It gives me hope for the future that such wonderful young people can influence others to take up sport or succeed in other ways - rather as Beckham did - without cynicism or triumphalism. They are good to listen to simply because they don't boast or pull rank. They almost don't realise how stunning they are. And isn't it so much better for all of us to be open to such optimism than listening to the ramblings and weary infighting some of our politicians are indulging in?

This evening, having washed my hands of the Labour party leadership contest, I believed I may as well stand for the post as Owen Smith feels terrorists should be part of talks in the middle East. I understand he helped bring the former IRA to a negotiating table during N. Ireland's peace talks. Surely his latest gaffe is simply nuts? If the Labour party can't come up with better candidates I fear they are sunk. I shall not be voting in this latest leadership contest. My vote last year was for Andy Burnham, but he isn't re-standing and is likely to be Mayor of Manchester. Where have Hilary Benn, Chukka Umunna and Yvette Cooper gone? And why did Angela Eagle fold so quickly - hardly before her leadership election campaign had started? I have never voted Tory but the Labour party is currently shambolic and letting themselves down, imho. I expect historians will show us the party went through similar 'Labour pains' in the days of the defection of Shirley Williams, Bill Rogers, David Owen et al to their newly-formed SDP. I just can't understand why strong leadership seems to be evading Labour. Where are the Labour party heavy-weights? ( Yes, I know it's the summer recess but this leadership contest is like asking which of two five year-olds should be appointed Head of an Infants School. I don't need to state that I am most unimpressed - but there we are - I've just said it.)
If Jeremy Corbyn continues as leader the back benchers will be, at best, unsupportive. If Owen Smith wins - heaven help us. He was an unknown until he threw his hat into the ring. Why can't Labour MPs who have experience in cabinet stand for the leadership party? Are they busily making plans to become a centrist Lib-Lab party so are more interested in splitting?

I find it wearying and life's too short for such Labour party games. On a good day I find myself feeling bored, unengaged, unenergised and more interested in what Theresa May thinks, which is a very dangerous position to take as a lifelong Labour supporter. I'm not bored, am interested and feel inspired by our TeamGB, and I've never been athletic.
Kenny and Trott, Murray, Grainger and so many more are great ambassadors for our great country. They are the face of a Britain I understand and feel hopeful for. Infighting politics makes me tired.

Rio 2016

Back in 2012, watching the opening celebrations of the London Olympic Games, after months, nay, years, of commentators complaining about spiralling costs, legacy and sustainability, my husband exclaimed, ‘He’s done it! Danny Boyle’s pulled it off.’ He was referring to the opening spectacle. A cast of thousands depicting pre- and post-industrialised Britain, intermingled with ‘happy’ children at Great Ormond Street hospital, the great institution that is our NHS, Mary Poppins, our multi-million pound export - ‘pop music’, David Beckham and, let’s not forget, the Queen parachuting into the Olympic arena. A strange mix but it did make us Brits feel we have something to be proud about. Perhaps we take our achievements, as a nation, for granted. Maybe our concerns as individuals, day-day living costs, poor returns on savings, if we are lucky enough to have any investments, too much traffic, not enough parking spaces… make us forget about the good things our country has created. We still enjoy free health care and schools for all, opportunities and wealth, for many, if not everyone. We can expect electric lighting, clean water and sewers to ensure our lives are safe and disease-free.

This year, watching the opening night in Rio, I was conscious, again, of the grumbles about the costs of staging the Olympics. Having read about the lack of sanitation in the favelas, the ensuing pollution in the waters where aquatic sports were to be held, one wonders why nations feel they have to spend so much on stadiums when other priorities – like actually paying essential workers – are left ignored. One can only hope that Tokyo uses the sports arenas they had in 1964, when a tuneful ‘Good Morning Tokyo’ rang out across our black-and-white TV screens. Am I the only one who feels a lump in the throat when nations put on fantastic displays for us to enjoy? We know that Rio residents are, in many cases, suffering and are angry about the money being used for such entertainments rather than for an essential infrastructure. The opening spectacles seem to leave me in two minds. Glad for the sense of theatre and celebration but sad that people still live in slums. Fireworks last but a few moments.

In the athletes’ march past I again felt relieved I live in a country which has freedom of speech and an Olympic team which has opportunities for training so they reach their potential. It was, as in 2012, sobering to see countries such as Sierra Leone offering a much smaller team of athletes than our own. The difficulties people in SL have had to overcome beggar belief. To be able to create a team at all is astonishing, given the tribulations suffered by that African nation. In the march past one cannot ignore the fact so many athletes represent countries where there are repressive regimes, corruption, poverty, war or lack of opportunity. Again, as in 2012, I felt proud to be British. I felt lucky to have been born in a country where so many advantages are enjoyed by most of its citizens. The team of refugees on parade, looking happy and full of life, brought more than a lump to my throat. Not only do these athletes not have a country, they may well have had an horrendous journey in their escape from persecution, they may have had to scrimp and save to afford sports coaches, a gym, a swimming pool or similar. Who knows what sacrifices they have made or what horrors they have escaped from? One can only wish them well and realise that the Olympics opening night is an education. It’s not just about sport.

Count your blessings!